Mount Drinkmore™

Will the Hall Call or Was LaRussa a Juice-a?

2011-10-31T12:55:00.012-05:00

Just 17 home runs shy of 600—still the rarefied realm of only Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, and Willie Mays in 2001—and owed $30 million on a contract extension, Mark McGwire received plaudits for limping away from baseball on his own terms. Hindered by bad knees, he still smashed 29 round-trippers in his swansong season, remaining a productive and popular player. Little did we know that McGwire’s exit was a less-than-virtuous getaway from the steroid scandal about to break—a lie that he lived for a decade, until finally confessing last year.

Now Tony LaRussa, still shaking confetti from his tawdry hair, stuns the baseball world by retiring days after his St. Louis Cardinals capture the World Series. A mere 35 managerial wins shy of the legendary John McGraw, LaRussa has carte rouge to rack up as many more victories in Cardinals red as he desires. On the cusp of cementing certified greatness, LaRussa’s retirement smacks of another quick getaway.

So far, no one has asked the question: Did LaRussa juice while managing? Let the numbers decide:

Third all-time in wins, with a whopping 2728, LaRussa piloted 5093 regular-season games over 33 seasons (each of the latter figures second most in baseball annals). In addition to three World Series titles, he won Manager of the Year four times, including the first award, in 1983, and most recently in 2002. That 19-year span of dominance in a major category is equaled only by Roger Clemens’ 18-year bookends between Cy Young Awards—and we all know how Clemens achieved his. Pacing dugouts for 5214 games (including playoffs) means, conservatively, that LaRussa paced for almost 47,000 innings. A younger man might manage such mileage, but half of LaRussa’s managerial career occurred after age fifty. As the oft-recited baseball maxim states: the first thing to go is the legs—so is anyone buying that LaRussa logged so many innings on his feet without artificial help?

Like McGwire and Barry Bonds, whose bodies ballooned during the steroid era, LaRussa began tipping the scales (albeit less dramatically). His 1981 Fleer baseball card, issued three years into his managerial career, listed LaRussa at 185 lb; however, Baseball Almanac currently denotes him at 190 lb. Sure, this shocking transformation of his body could result from weightlifting—as asserted the unrepentant Bonds—but let’s not kid ourselves.

And is not batting the pitcher eighth—an occasional LaRussa strategy—the reasoning of a mind muddled by performance-enhancing chemicals?

On the numbers, LaRussa was a good manager for a long time and deserves Hall of Fame election. But like McGwire and other juicers, should he—if guilty—be made to wait a decade or more? LaRussa's mediocre record as skipper of the Chicago White Sox, which predates the steroid era, is decidedly not Hall of Fame caliber. Only when LaRussa moved to Oakland—where he teamed with McGwire and Jose Canseco, two players at the core of the steroid maelstrom—did he begin amassing the numbers that led LaRussa near the top of career lists and seemingly warrant his induction.

One is left to wonder...

Thus far, no evidence has come to light—and maybe there is none to find. But Mark McGwire once, too, was pure.

Why Wait for the Shake?

2011-08-23T16:16:00.042-05:00

One never knows how one will react in moments of great stress or risk. The meek might summon unanticipated strength, and the strong may cower like a frightened dog. Either way, character is often defined at such flashpoints.

Just such an experience found me today when the 5.8 Virginia earthquake that shook much of the East Coast rumbled through the Philadelphia area—the first true earthquake I, and most in this neck of America, have ever endured.

I was sitting at my desk when the temblor struck. Truth be told, I was looking at porn on the computer and in the midst of self-satisfaction when the ground began shaking. Feeling the floor move and seeing the walls sway, I realized almost instantly that an earthquake was taking place. It felt a lot like when I suffered vertigo ten years ago, my sense of balance once again awry and my body momentarily helpless. Hardly in a state to rush out of my apartment building—what with my manhood exposed—I felt no such compulsion anyway. Rather than overcome by fear, I remained completely calm, as the curious novelty of the moment suppressed any trace of panic. Frankly, all I could think about once the shuddering ceased was finishing what I started. Why should plate tectonics rob me of an orgasm? Besides, if my death is imminent, I can't think of a better way to go out of this world than blowing my top to high-resolution pics of a nude and glistening Ariana Jollee spread-eagle at pool-side. Would it really make a hell of a difference that my lifeless body will be uncovered from the rubble with my pants open and my dust-covered pride hanging out? That I got right back to business instead of checking for damage, turning on the news, or escaping a potentially crumbling structure probably doesn't speak to my legacy, but I was operating on primal urge—and I remain steadfast that I did the right thing!

So much so that, like taking shelter in a basement during a tornado, perhaps I have proven that masturbation is the safest course of action during an earthquake.

Frankly, I found that the shaking so added to the pleasure—perhaps in a fashion similar to how autoerotic asphyxiation reputedly heightens orgasm—that I'm now wondering if it might pay to move to a more earthquake-prone country, such as Indonesia or Turkey, to enjoy this newfound enhancement more regularly.

Hate Baiting in Fishtown

2011-08-12T22:52:00.042-05:00

Forget the Hulk—this is one angry banner...

The building upon which this vitriolic banner flies (this photo has not been doctored in any way) is located on the 1100 block of Earl Street, in Philadelphia's Fishtown section. The Bank of America to which this certainly refers is located around the corner, on Girard Avenue.

Now, I'm just wondering what Bank of America could have done to elicit such hatred that someone went to the time-consuming, costly, and probably perilous trouble of making this banner and affixing it to his or her home (notice there are no windows from which to easily hang it).

Did Bank of America turn down this resident's loan application for a start-up banner company? Has Bank of America slashed its business hours to 9:00–9:10 AM, Mondays only? Are Bank of America's tellers laughing at this customer's balance every time (s)he comes in to make a transaction?

Banks can be very intimidating entities with which to deal. A bank most likely has more money than you, which can make you feel inferior and disadvantaged. So this could merely be a case of fiscal jealousy; however, such rage would be misplaced, because the guitar shop, the burger place, and the realty office a few doors down from the Girard Ave. Bank of America surely also have more money than this resident—so (s)he may well just be venting at the most readily recognizable symbol of financial superiority.

But even in these economically frustrating times, in which tempers toward the well-to-do are boiling over with increasing regularity, such ire as drapes this building must certainly result from a particular action.

So I'm betting that Bank of America slept with this resident's wife...

Two About Killebrew

2011-05-17T18:11:00.047-05:00

This morning, Minnesota Twins great and Hall of Famer Harmon Killebrew succumbed to a six-month battle with esophageal cancer after choosing to end unresponsive treatment and die at home. I never saw him play (or if I did, I have no recollection, owing to young age and the fact that he was long past his prime and bore no resemblance to an all-time great whom I would remember), so a platitude-filled eulogy would be misplaced.*

*Sadly, as an employee for a sports-memorabilia company in 1989, I met many great baseball players but did not work the day that Killebrew came into the office to sign items—a missed opportunity that I've long regretted because he has always been known as a gracious and classy gentleman, as was confirmed by my then-coworkers.

However, two aspects of Killebrew's great career bear mentioning:

» Signed as a "bonus baby" in June 1954 by the Washington Senators, had the Sens given Killebrew a regular spot in the lineup earlier instead of allowing him a mere 254 at-bats during the first five years of his career, he may well have taken a run at Babe Ruth's mark of 714 home runs. Instead, Senators brass wasted Killebrew's first two years on the bench—for awful second-division teams going nowhere—and then sent him to the minors (under "bonus baby" rules, Killebrew had to stay with the parent club for two seasons before he could go to the minors). After three seasons climbing his way up the minor-league ladder (during which the Senators failed to play even .400 ball and clearly had nothing to lose by giving Killebrew more playing time), Harmon came up for good in 1959...and promptly smashed a league-leading 42 home runs (earning the first of six home-run crowns). That he did this while playing his home games in Griffith Stadium, one of the most unforgiving pitcher's parks in Major League history, is a testament to his brute strength—and Washington management's five-year short-sightedness. The Senators soon moved to the Twin Cities—and Killebrew would quickly lead the Twins to the World Series—but had foolishly deprived Harmon of at least several years in his early twenties when, with a full season to swing the bat, he could easily have hit at least 100 home runs before what eventually became his breakout year (based on the 11 HR he hit in those 254 AB, over five 650-AB seasons). Without question, Killebrew would have reached a minimum of 600 career home runs (he retired with 573)—placing him in "baseball immortal" territory...possibly ahead of Willie Mays—and within reach of Ruth, of whom he fell 141 homers shy...an amount for which he was almost exactly on pace during those first five years that the Senators squandered his talent. In any event, Killebrew would have retired a household name rather than a "second-tier" great.

» It has long been rumored that the official Major League Baseball logo designed in 1969 was based on Harmon Killebrew's batting stance (and perhaps it was no coincidence that Killebrew was in the midst of his greatest season in '69, eventually winning the AL MVP...so who better to "represent" baseball in tumultuous 1969 than the quiet, ever-respectable Killebrew?). This rumor was finally quashed by the logo's creator, Jerry Dior, in a 2008 Wall Street Journal story...but did it even need to be? That ball is coming right at the hitter—a hit-by-pitch for sure. Baseball, always staunchly conservative, obviously viewed the hit-by-pitch as a symbol of self-sacrifice in the overindulgent, anti-war '60s. Yet Harmon Killebrew was hit by a pitch only 48 times during his career, which ties him for 429th on the all-time hit-by-pitch list—hardly the emblem of the hit-by-pitch. And what pitcher would want to? Killebrew, although only 5-foot-11, was regarded as one of the most powerful men in baseball because of his many tape-measure blasts. No pitcher in his right mind would throw at Killebrew, even in that rebellious, anything-goes decade. Sure, Harmon led the AL in hit-by-pitches in 1964, but that was a season during which a lot of young and disillusioned American League pitchers were still shaken and angry over the Kennedy assassination (1964 was, in fact, the AL's highest year in hit-by-pitches since 1915—like John F. Kennedy, the season after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, which surely affected many politically aware pitching staffs).

No, he didn't get to 600 home runs and beyond. No, he didn't serve as the model for Major League Baseball's official logo. But the humble Harmon Killebrew lived, and died, with dignity and grace.

(MLB logo is a registered trademark of Major League Baseball.)

Interstate Love Sign

2011-05-05T15:36:00.017-05:00

At the entrance ramp of Exit 1D on I-76 West in Gloucester City, New Jersey, stands one of those oft-seen, blue “Sponsor a Highway” signs. (There are actually two types of these signs: the “Sponsor a Highway Program,” in which the Adopt A Highway Maintenance Corporation performs the actual litter removal, and the “Adopt A Highway Program,” in which the interested party leasing the sign “adopts” its mile of road and physically maintains it, in much the same way as did Cosmo Kramer—although widening the lanes is frowned upon). These signs are rented by local establishments such as Cracker Barrel or institutional corporations such as Blue Cross for high-profile advertising in heavily trafficked areas. However, the particular sign of which I speak was leased to Club Risqué, a gentlemen’s club in nearby Philadelphia.

I don’t have a problem with this. I've frequented Club Risqué on a number of occasions and found it to be a pleasant and enriching experience. With what I do have a problem is that Club Risqué opted for the “Sponsor a Highway” program rather than “adopting” its mile. When I’m stuck bumper-to-bumper on an interstate and feeling angry and frustrated, what could better ease tension than watching the Club Risqué dancers cleaning up their mile of median and roadside? Club Risqué’s mile also contains numerous light poles upon which its employees could be performing their mesmerizing art. Instead, the frankly unattractive and hirsute Adopt A Highway Maintenance Corporation is out doing the job.

Club Risqué missed a great opportunity both for product demonstration and for helping out beleaguered commuters. As a motorist, I find this distressing.

You Can Take That to the Bank...But You're Better Off Using Your Mattress

2011-01-04T14:55:00.041-05:00

TD Bank's registered logo is "America's Most Convenient Bank." You've surely seen one of its numerous television ads featuring Regis Philbin and Kelly Ripa. But I've been banking with TD Bank since it took over Commerce Bank, and I contend that TD Bank is perhaps America's least convenient bank. For instance:

On Monday, I queued up in one of my local branch's four drive-thru lanes to deposit a check. After stuffing the check and deposit slip into the container and sending it to the teller, I sat and waited for more than ten minutes as five customers who had entered their lane and began their transaction after me received service and drove away while I continued to wait.

Inconvenient.

The very next day, I drove to the same branch to obtain some temporary checks because I was still awaiting the arrival of my new ones. The customer-service representative informed me that they did not have any temporary checks and that I would have to go to another branch to get them.

Inconvenient!

These are inconveniences occurring just this week. There's also the $4.00 "maintenance fee" that TD Bank charged when my savings-account balance fell below $250.00. I didn't even know this fee existed...and they charged me for it four consecutive months. I accrued 75 measly cents in interest on my savings in 2010...yet TD Bank took $16 for "maintaining" my account! What did that maintenance require? Leaning over to shift cheeks while sitting on their fat asses staring at the sun and waiting for 5:00 so they could run to Prospector's and down a martini with my money? Okay, so I have Web access to my account, which could have alerted me earlier to this hidden fee—but I rarely used my savings account in 2010 and seldom had need to check it. Bottom line:

In...con...ven...ient.

And if I had a nickel for every time a TD Bank ATM was out of service when I needed to use it, I'd have just enough money to open another TD Bank savings account and lose $4 a month in maintenance fees...

Quite inconvenient.

Further making its customers' lives more difficult, TD Bank used to allot to account holders two money orders a year without charge. A TD Bank money order now costs an account holder $4.

Extremely inconvenient!

TD Bank's advertising campaign further boasts about its "legendary service" (as seen in small print in the ad above). I would very much like Regis and/or Kelly to explain what's so "legendary" about it. Banking, in one form or another, has existed since antiquity. Certainly, the banking families of Renaissance Italy introduced practices that are still in use today, and Alexander Hamilton proved to be one of the greatest banking minds in modern history, organizing the first bank of our fledgling nation. But TD Bank as an operating unit only dates back to October 2008—hardly a history with which to achieve "legendary" service. Now, had TD Bank lent substantial sums to Charles V so he could finance his wars against the Valois kings of France, or perhaps had it provided coin-counting machines and safety-deposit boxes to the Pilgrims, then a claim of "legendary service" might be justified. But TD Bank reviving the tradition of offering free lollipops at its counter doesn't cut it. Finance a crusade or two... Provide home-equity loans in gold ducats... Offer a 700-year CD so you'll have a viable past by the time it matures... At least give out free quill & inkwells instead of those cheap pens... Something to legitimize your claim...

Most convenient?

Perhaps TD Bank should drop Regis and Kelly in favor of the Church Lady so as to make more obvious that its claim is a goof.

Besides, Dana Carvey needs the work...

Postscript

The checks I ordered more than three weeks ago still have not arrived.

Ludicrously inconvenient!

(TD Bank ad copyright TD Bank; Church Lady photo copyright NBC.)

Keep Your Eye on the Ballgame

2010-12-20T08:22:00.048-05:00

Call it the "Miracle at the New Meadowlands." Or, if you're a New York Giants fan, call it "The Nightmare Before Christmas." I'll just call it the worst mistake of my football-viewing career.

Disgusted by the Philadelphia Eagles' heartless play in the most important game of the season, I switched channels in resignation to the Colts-Jaguars game after the Giants had upped the score to 31-10. With 8:17 to go in the game, Philadelphia was surely defeated. Sadly, I sat down at my computer as the Colts and Jaguars slugged it out in their contest, the television over my shoulder. Listening more to the game than watching it, my occasional glances at the action weren't enough to alert me to the monumental comeback slowly progressing on the update ticker at the bottom of the screen. Not until many precious and historic moments had passed did I notice that the Eagles had somehow risen from the dead and tied the Giants, 31-31. Disbelieving, I leaped from my chair and grabbed the remote, furiously pressing the "Last" button as a spate of expletives escaped my lips. A near-eternity elapsed as the screen changed from the Colts-Jaguars game to black to the Eagles game...but there was DeSean Jackson racing across midfield and on his way to a stunning, game-ending, punt-return touchdown—a freshly minted spectacular moment in NFL history.

It was right about this time that my body took on a quick series of animated forms.*

*An incidental ascending vibraphone note may have accompanied each transformation—details are difficult to recall after such a life-altering moment.

I learned my lesson the hard way: Never change the channel. Never break away from a highly anticipated and critical sports contest no matter how lopsided the score. Not even if it's 62-3. With twelve seconds to go. And the starting quarterback has bilateral Joe Theismann leg fractures. And Ron Jaworski and John Gruden are over-enunciating so much that smoke is billowing from the television. And Charlie Batch is squatting in the bush, getting stronger while I get weaker and the walls move in a little tighter.

Never change the channel. Absolutely goddamn right.

(Photo of DeSean Jackson copyright Associated Press; animated photos copyright Warner Brothers.)

The Blow Must Go On

2010-12-01T14:29:00.032-05:00

As was reported in The Smoking Gun on November 29, a South Carolina couple were involved in a domestic disturbance on Thanksgiving day when the woman, while performing oral sex on her boyfriend, stopped in mid-act to answer her cell phone. As can be seen in the official sheriff's report below, she lied to her boyfriend that the caller was a woman, later admitting that the caller was a man, which infuriated her boyfriend—as if halting her blowjob to take a phone call from her girlfriend wasn't infuriating enough. The boyfriend then allegedly slapped her, at which point she called 911. The investigating police officer examined the woman's face but found no evidence of physical harm. After refusing to give the officer a statement, the woman left the scene, and no further action was taken.

As you may be aware, South Carolina is home to many kooky laws. And as still extant in the South Carolina Code of Laws as of the end of the state legislature's 2009 session, under Title 16: Crimes and Offenses:

SECTION 16-15-120. Buggery.

Whoever shall commit the abominable crime of buggery, whether with mankind or with beast, shall, on conviction, be guilty of felony and shall be imprisoned in the Penitentiary for five years or shall pay a fine of not less than five hundred dollars, or both, at the discretion of the court.

"Buggery," of course, is the archaic term for what we commonly refer to as "sodomy," which, in legal matters, encompasses a range of sexual acts, including oral sex.

Now it's lunacy to still have a puritanical law such as this on the books, even if virtually never enforced. But it's beyond lunacy not to have a law on the books criminalizing the halting of a blowjob for any purpose other than to cause ejaculation via a different manner. Let us be plain: once a person is involved in administering the act of oral sex, the recipient cannot be left hanging. Let the phone ring. Let dinner burn. Disregard the doorbell. Ignore the fire. South Carolina legislators must realize that—regardless of whether oral sex is outlawed in their state—once "head" is underway, the mission must be completed. Even under the aegis of such prudish laws, failing to complete a blowjob is far more heinous a crime than engaging in the act altogether.

Perhaps this man did slap his girlfriend—which, of course, would be criminal under any circumstances. But police found no evidence of such, and the accuser refused to file a statement, which not only makes her allegation dubious, but renders the matter moot. It is she who is guilty in this case—guilty of stopping a blowjob to answer a phone. Sadly, there is no weight with which the law can come down on this unconscionable monster...save for perhaps banning her from South Carolina Gamecocks events. Shame on this woman.

Therefore, I propose that the following amendment be added to the South Carolina Code of Laws—and, indeed, to the Code of Laws of each state:

SECTION 16-15-120a. Fellatus Interruptus.

Whoever shall commit the abominable crime of fellatus interruptus, whether to tend to another matter or to cease for reason other than to change position or stimulatory method, shall, on conviction, be guilty of felony and shall be imprisoned in the Penitentiary for five years or shall pay a fine of not less than five hundred dollars, or both, at the discretion of the court. The offender shall further be required to wear a scarlet "CT" at all times that the offender be known publicly as a cocktease. So do the right thing and finish what you started.

Postscript

It is my hope that this incident—as have many other actual criminal occurrences—becomes the basis for a future Law & Order episode. Sure, fellatus interruptus probably would constitute only a Class E felony in more liberal-minded New York City, but any chance to see Assistant DA Connie Rubirosa reenacting the crime in court for the benefit of the jury is sure to be a ratings-grabber!

In fact, I think I'm gonna write the episode myself.

Maybe even story-board it, too...

(Photo of Law & Order copyright NBC.)

The Young Victoria's Secret: Michael Palin Trumps Emily Blunt

2010-11-07T16:26:00.033-05:00

So we watched The Young Victoria last night, the underwhelming 2009 period piece starring Emily Blunt as the United Kingdom's iconic 19th-century queen. Sure, she made a beautiful Victoria—far more attractive than the real Victoria—but for my money, Blunt cannot hold the proverbial candle to Michael Palin in portraying England's longest-reigning monarch.

In Monty Python's Flying Circus Episode 41, "Michael Ellis," Michael Palin portrays a spirited, if culturally confused, Queen Victoria (seen here with her late husband, Albert, the Prince Consort). In fairness to Emily Blunt, Palin's Victoria is certainly not the Queen of The Young Victoria's youth, yet it is a more honest, realistic, and geopolitically consequential version. Palin plays her with the masculine verve that so defined the stuffy, sexless age we call Victorian. More importantly, Palin bravely infuses his queen with Germanic tendencies that epitomize the tangled cultural lineage surrounding Victoria, lest we forget that Victoria sprang from the Teutonic House of Hanover and herself became progenitor to many future European rulers, including Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany. When Palin's Victoria slips seamlessly from English into German, we are confronted with the hard truth that England and Germany—destined to rival for control of Europe—are deeply tied by blood, which will, over the coming years, muddle sympathies and affect both the course of poetry and politics. None of this can be gleaned from Blunt's pristinely Anglican Victoria. Frankly, one can hardly envision Blunt's Victoria curdling her nose at the recent soiling of the Victorian Poetry Reading Hall carpet and uttering Was ist das schreckliche Gepong? Es schmecke wie ein Scheisshaus! with any conviction.

Like all of the Pythons, Palin thrived playing female characters. His Victoria is Prussian and assertive without sacrificing English matronly compassion. When Palin's Victoria declares ant-themed poetry verboten, it is to be replaced with the more feminine themes of "skylarks, daffodils, nightingales, and light brigades." I'd be hard-pressed to believe Blunt's Victoria had she delivered such a royal decree!

Perhaps this is not a fair comparison. Sure, Emily Blunt is a Golden Globe–winning actress—but Michael Palin and the Pythons rank among the finest actors in the annals of television and film. It is no wonder that I also prefer Graham Chapman's "Erizabeth" (Monty Python Episode 29) to even the supremely talented Cate Blanchett's virgin queen. Blanchett portrays Elizabeth with a near-perfect balance of virginal sex appeal and icy integrity, yet it is Chapman who transcends the role, maintaining remarkable dignity whilst Erizabeth's closest advisors sit atop motorized bicycles and everyone, including Her Majesty, speaks Japanese pidgin English. This is not an Elizabeth whose reign is predictably defined by the Armada, but who defines herself by changing with the anachronous times and embracing the premature industrialization of her kingdom.

Yes, Emily Blunt and Cate Blanchett are gifted and gorgeous jewels in Hollywood's realm, but I'll take Michael Palin and the late Graham Chapman as England's on-screen queens—for without a Python in drag...we are not amused. God bless you alles!

Some Particulars About the General

2010-10-07T12:45:00.059-05:00

Perhaps he's not as ubiquitous as the Geigo gecko or cavemen, but "the General" from General Auto Insurance is beginning to show up all over the television dial. With his promise of quick quotes, low rates, and a low monthly payment, the General is aiming to take command of the auto-insurance battlefield.

But the General has several telltale flaws that betray him as unfit for command and keep me from volunteering for his outfit:

» A five-star general, such as the general in question, is a General of the Army. Only Dwight Eisenhower, George C. Marshall, Omar Bradley, Hap Arnold, and Douglas MacArthur attained this rarefied rank as active soldiers. A General of the Army wouldn't be casually referred to as "the General," which fails to delineate him from even a measly brigadier.

» More significantly, the General's rank insignia on his helmet is incorrect. A five-star general's rank is denoted not by five stars in a row, but by a "pentagon" of five stars, as can be seen here and on the shoulder of Eisenhower, Bradley, and Marshall below...which leads me to believe that the General is, at most, a four-star general who stuck a fifth star on his helmet without the approval of Congress—congressional approval being the only way a fifth star can be conferred.

» And the General's drooping biker moustache is an egregious breach of military regulation. Sure, a high-ranking officer gets leeway in the realm of facial hair, but this moustache won't pass muster even for a General of the Army, and the Commander-in-Chief should bust this Hells Angels wannabe down to three stars for its flagrancy. One cannot lead by example if one is not setting the example...even in peacetime auto insurance.

I'll support our troops all day long...but I can't support this trooper.

Now, there is an admiral for The Admiral Insurance Group, based in Wales, but I don't know enough about 18th-century Royal Navy dress to put my trust in this guy. And isn't the parrot really an indication of piracy?
For more on potential violation of military regulations,, see the Mount Drinkmore entry of January 4, 2007, "A Promoter Without a Promotion" via the blog archive or keyword military.

(Photo of the General copyright General Auto Insurance; photo of the admiral copyright The Admiral Group.)

When the Cosmo Aligns...Giddy-up!

2010-10-05T21:21:00.083-05:00

Like many of you, I harbor deep regrets: Ruined romantic opportunities. Misguided career decisions. Short-sighted moments of inaction. Some of these have steered the course of my life for the worse, or at least left lasting scars that I’ll carry for the rest of my days.

If I were to compile a list of my regrets, one that remains fresh bears getting off my chest:

Spring 2004: I’m walking north on 19th Street, about a block and a half from my then-residence just off Rittenhouse Square. Roaring toward me comes a hook & ladder, siren blaring as it responds to a call on the other side of the square. I saw the fire engine coming, and my immediate instinct was perfectly natural for a Seinfeld connoisseur: yell "Hey, Kramer!" to the hook & ladder's rear driver, just as in Episode 117, "The Secret Code." Maybe he'd respond as did Kramer—with a wave and a yell. Maybe not. Either way, I'd be fulfilling every Seinfeld fan's dream: to play out in reality a classic moment from the show. I had several seconds to react, but a completely irrational inhibition of drawing attention to myself on a public street cropped up and, unbelievably, kept me from seizing the Kramerian moment...as the opportunity tragically passed forever. I think about that moment a lot—perhaps not as much as foolishly opting to transfer out of what was a pretty good party school after my freshman year or failing to take Miss So-and-So to bed—but enough that the pain flares every time I see that Seinfeld episode in reruns or hear a fire engine's horn racing down the block.

Other regrets:

• Never went to a Gordon Lightfoot concert on acid
• Spent three years earning a PhD in Morse code on a hunch that e-mail was a passing fad and the telegraph would make a comeback
• Chose to see Avatar in 1-D
• Have never visited 332 Kellett St., Deloraine, Manitoba
• Got out of bed most days
• Approaching my 43rd birthday, yet still don't know what the difference is—if any—between a sweet potato and a yam
• Convicted of a Class B misdemeanor for castling in a checkers game
• Took a stunning 19-year-old, 5-foot-six, 110-pound, 38-DD, redheaded vegan to an all-you-can-eat rib joint on a first date because I was in the mood for ribs

(Images copyright NBC.)

Grand Old Blanda Makes Final Pass

2010-09-29T06:55:00.011-05:00

I collected primarily baseball cards as an adolescent. They were, in some respect, my closest friends during those unsure and impressionable years. But a pack of football cards regularly found its way into my shoeboxes. Along with my bubble gum–scented diamond heroes, I equally cherished gridiron icons such as Bob Griese, my pitiful pre-Vermeil Eagles, and, heretically for a Philadelphia-area boy, my favorite player, Roger Staubach—most of them holding ridiculous poses for the lazy and unimaginative photographer. But one player in my football-card collection filled me with wonder: George Blanda. He sat in profile, head somberly in hands, a river delta of creases flanking his eye, and, most curiously, more silver in his hair than on his vaunted Oakland Raiders jersey. How could a man that old still be playing professional football? I had probably seen him kick field goals or extra points during a televised playoff game, but his helmet obscured that aged coif, so Blanda never achieved memorability on screen as he did from my football card.

In those days before the Internet, and even easily accessible sports encyclopedias, I gleaned virtually all of my sports knowledge from the reverse side of trading cards, where the statistics were listed and proved each player’s greatness or mediocrity. George Blanda’s fascinated me. His statistics went all the way back to 1949! How was that possible? Wasn’t that, like, right around World War II? I’d never seen so many rows on the back of a trading card. There was no room for the player’s standard capsule description. So many rows, in fact, that Topps didn’t even have space for his biographical information. This Blanda had no equal—not even the Kansas City Royals Lindy McDaniel, whose reduced-sized print went all the way back to a medieval 1955. But the Forties! Ancient Blanda surely must have played against Red Grange, the only black-and-white football legend of whom I was aware.

But wait—the front of Blanda’s card surreally denoted that he was not only Oakland’s kicker, but its quarterback as well! I knew he wasn’t the Raiders’ starter, because I counted my fellow southpaw, Ken Stabler, among my favorite players, but this silver-haired geezer played quarterback and kicked? Blanda was some kind of superman, even if I couldn’t ascertain his passing statistics from the back of his card, which only displayed his ungodly kicking totals. In actuality, not a superman—Blanda had merely been “elected King of the World” by Raiders radio voice, Bill King, a few seasons earlier, after a remarkable five-week run of second-string heroics achieved with both arm and leg. Several years elapsed before I realized that the multi-positional Blanda was the last of a dying breed—even spending part of his early career as a linebacker. It took a few more years until I learned the history of the AFL and that Blanda had led the Houston Oilers to its first two championships in the upstart league.

Despite his success in the AFL and his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, Blanda never won a Super Bowl, set the all-time record for interceptions thrown, and was quickly being pushed down prestigious career lists by beneficiaries of an increasingly pass-oriented NFL. Yet, for me, the silver-haired man with his head in his hands and stats that almost ran off the bottom of his football card retains a powerful aura as a player of unique toughness and resiliency.

The Dub Didn't Sound Like the Hub...and There's the Rub

2010-09-25T22:32:00.049-05:00

Earlier today, I stumbled across Los Infiltrados (The Departed) on my local Spanish channel. Virtually any film is going to lose punch when it's dubbed in a different language, even this high-octane Martin Scorsese nail-biter. Unavoidably out-of-sync dialogue is distracting, and, more importantly, the dubbers are merely reading words off a page, which sterilizes the characters' emotional nuances.

But these are inevitable drawbacks in bringing programming to those who can't speak English.

What really irked me about Los Infiltrados was that the dubbers made absolutely no attempt to record their Spanish dialogue in a Southie accent. The essence of the film lay in its working-class South Boston setting and overtones—Irish cops versus the Irish mafia, both of whom came out of the hardscrabble section of town. Yet all of that is lost for Spanish-speaking viewers who can only understand the Los Infiltrados version.

For example: when Costigan defends himself to Costello in the pub: "Frank, look at me. Look at me. I am not the fuckin' rat. Okay? I am not the fuckin' rat..." all you hear is the dubber's Spanish-accented Frank, mirada en mí. Míreme. No soy el fuckin' rata. ¿Autorización? No soy el fuckin' rata...

Had the dubber understood the craft of dubbing, he would have read Costigan's line as Frahnk, mirahdah ahn mí. Mírahme. No soy ahl fuckin' ratah. ¿Autahizaciahn? No soy ahl fuckin' ratah.

That would have captured the flavor of a Southie cop. Instead Costigan sounds like Zorro arguing over the check...

Admittedly, I watched very little of the Spanish channel's version of The Departed, but they did a such a poor job of capturing it's all-important Southie sentiment that I can only assume its non–English-speaking viewers thought the film was a Weekend at Bernie's–type resort flick set in Cancún. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if the film's main musical theme, the Dropkick Murphys' "I'm Shipping Up to Boston," had been re-cut by a mariachi band.

I can only shudder at the thought of how the film came off over Norwegian television...

Eagles Golden Anniversary Missed Golden Opportunity

2010-09-15T20:05:00.018-05:00

Honoring the 1960 Eagles during halftime of the season opener against the Green Bay Packers—the very franchise it defeated a half-century ago for the NFL championship—was a classy tribute to the last Philadelphia squad to win an NFL title. For many older Eagles fans, saluting the surviving members of the only team to vanquish Vince Lombardi’s juggernaut of the 1960s likely eased the frustration of fifty years that have seen more agony than ecstasy. And to cheer such storied legends as Tommy McDonald, Pete Retzlaff, Norm van Brocklin, and Chuck Bednarik afforded an awed thrill for those too young to have enjoyed an Eagles championship first-hand. Yet although the fiftieth-anniversary celebration oozed style right down to the 1960 old-timers’ kelly-green blazers, it was missing something: Like the Philadelphia Phillies had the late Tug McGraw and Mike Schmidt re-play their victorious leap of 1980, why didn’t Eagles management bring out Chuck Bednarik and ex–New York Giant Frank Gifford to midfield at halftime and reenact the infamous hit that became the iconic image of that championship season? That moment encapsulated the toughness and mettle of the 1960 Birds, and Bednarik fist-pumping over a concussed Gifford is what everyone remembers. Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie couldn’t cough up some wallet-sized kelly green to coax Frank Gifford down the New Jersey Turnpike and take one more clothesline from an 85-year-old Concrete Charlie? What better way to recall the glory of 1960?

(Photo of current Eagles at midfield copyright Philadelphia Eagles.)

SEPTA Buses Monk's Tables...and Walls and Windows and Doors...

2010-08-24T14:43:00.055-05:00

On Tuesday, August 10, Philadelphia's version of the Hindenburg disaster occurred when a SEPTA bus, trying to avoid a police vehicle responding to a call, lost control and barreled into the entrance of Monk's Café. For those of you not aware, Monk's Café is one of the finest pubs in the city, featuring a dizzying array of Belgian ales, as well as other high-quality, hard-to-find brews. The back bar, which further features some of Philadelphia's best air-conditioning, was mercifully not harmed, but, as you can see, the establishment suffered heavy damage and required extensive repair.

I immediately rushed to the scene and kept constant vigil while repairs ensued. And as I held a candle in the wee hours, mournfully praying for Monk's speedy recovery, perhaps it was my sense of history mixing with my grief that caused me to realize how commonplace was this scene a millennium ago: the smashing of monks' walls, where beer was first concocted...inhabitants of the premises at the mercy of the intruder...the SEPTA bus a modern-day counterpart of the Viking longship...

Sure, no one was wantonly slaughtered that Tuesday night, and few were wearing hairshirts, but the moment echoed a calamity played out countless times during the Dark Ages, as evidenced by the ruins at Clonmacnoise in County Offaly, Ireland.

Look at the catastrophic damage suffered by that small church at right, where, presumably, a longship full of crazed Vikings, hopped up on hallucinogenic mushrooms and seething in a blood frenzy, rowed right up onto land and crashed into it, after which the fearsome marauders swarmed the helpless settlement and drank all the beer without paying for it.

Of course, Monk's Café will be rebuilt—not fall into ruin like so many targets of Viking plunder. And, thankfully, its waitstaff were not carried off into slavery by the bus riders. But the damage to Monk's reminds us that, even a millennium after the Viking Age, we remain in dangerous times...times in which death and mayhem can strike at any moment and ruin a delicious imported ale, just as our monkish predecessors learned. So the next time I'm enjoying a pint at Monk's Café, or indeed anywhere, I'm going to savor every sip, because one never knows when some mode of public or barbarian transportation might come bursting through the walls and send me into Odin's arms for final judgment. Skål!

(Top photo of Monk's Café copyright The Philadelphia Inquirer; second photo copyright NBC 10 Philadelphia.)

Too Bad There Aren't More Like Brind'Amour

2010-07-01T09:58:00.051-05:00

Unless in reference to the likes of a world-shaking superstar, I would rarely comment on the retirement of a professional athlete—it happens too often. But Rod Brind'Amour deserves recognition for an outstanding 20-year career in which he proved himself one of the most dependable, valuable, and admirable players in NHL history. A first-round draft pick of the St. Louis Blues, Brind'Amour learned well under head coach Brian Sutter, one of the hardest-working players ever to skate. He logged a first-team All-Rookie Team season in 1989-90, racking up 61 points and, even more impressively, a +23 rating. A workaholic, Brind'Amour left a strong impression on me when the Philadelphia Flyers clashed with the Blues during his first two seasons, and I recall wishing that this hustling youngster wore the orange and black.

General Manager Russ Farwell had the same wish and soon traded captain Ron Sutter and promising defenseman Murray Baron for Brind'Amour and Dan Quinn. The deal turned turned into a steal, even with Quinn lasting only 67 games in Philadelphia. Born to be a Flyer, Brind'Amour never took a lazy shift and quickly became a Spectrum favorite, even on a team in the midst of a ghastly five-year playoff drought. Not just an offensive-minded center, Brind'Amour, like Bobby Clarke, Bill Barber, and Brian Propp before him, was entrusted by his coaches with every situation. He worked the power play, killed penalties tirelessly, and developed into one of the best faceoff men of his time. Brind'Amour quickly became a star in the shadow of Eric Lindros and the Legion of Doom. Never as flashy as Lindros, John LeClair, Mikael Renberg, or Mark Recchi, Brind'Amour seldom received ink or screen time equal to Flyers with round numbers, but he was always there, scoring nearly a point per game for more than eight seasons—a franchise-record 484 of those games consecutively, thanks to his fanatical conditioning regimen. Brind'Amour never registered 100 points in a season, or even 40 goals, but no Flyer throughout the '90s was more reliable.

In 1996-97—a subpar 59-point season for Brind'Amour (the only full season in which he would score fewer than 77 points for Philadelphia)—he made amends by erupting for a team-high 13 goals during the Flyers' run to the Stanley Cup finals. But a pair of first-round exits over the next two seasons—even though Brind'Amour rebounded with consecutive 74-point seasons and led the team in playoff scoring both years—coupled with allegations of locker-room friction between he and Lindros fostered a deal with the Carolina Hurricanes for Keith Primeau. It was a controversial and risky trade—Brind'Amour the epitome of diligence, still in his prime, and beloved of Flyers faithful in exchange for the bigger and swifter, but perennially underachieving, Primeau, who had netted a measly 6 goals in 70 playoff games.

In Philadelphia, Primeau had one good season, two strong playoff runs, and the epic five-overtime game-winner, but it was a trade that never should have been made. Brind'Amour was only halfway through his career, playing nine and a half seasons in North Carolina, becoming the Hurricanes' all-time leader in assists and points, helping them to the finals in 2002, and captaining Carolina to its first Cup victory in 2006. Along the way, Brind'Amour finally reaped the rewards of his devotion to complete play, earning back-to-back Selke Trophies. Arguably, he grew even more popular in Raleigh than Philadelphia.

Twenty seasons after first skating onto NHL ice, Rod Brind'Amour should stand in reach of Hall of Fame induction. Some may chortle, but his numbers and accomplishments outweigh Hall of Famers such as Cam Neely and leave in the corners others believed worthy, such as Eric Lindros. Only fifteen players have participated in more games in NHL history. Brind'Amour's 1184 points ranks 46th, ahead of several contemporary Hall of Famers, including Bernie Federko, Glenn Anderson, and Joe Mullen. His 44th-most assists puts him in similarly esteemed territory. And he's got one more Cup than five players elected to the Hall of Fame in the last decade combined.

In an era of high-priced prima donnas who whine about signed contracts, clamor for media attention, skip games because of hurt feelings, and have run-ins with the law, Rod Brind'Amour hustled his tail off, displayed exemplary character, and prospered without complaint.

Thanks for twenty great years, Rod.

When Game Day Is the Same Day As the Wedding: "I Don't"

2010-05-28T21:41:00.020-05:00

In October 1993, I attended the wedding of a close friend. The night of the wedding coincided with Game 6 of the World Series between the Philadelphia Phillies and Toronto Blue Jays. Forced to miss much of the game during the ceremony, virtually all of the males—myself included—repeatedly shuffled between the reception and a room that had a television to watch the fate of the Phils. This Sunday evening, I must attend another wedding (ironically, of the younger sister of this close friend). Thankfully, this night falls between Games 1 and 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals, so I won’t be deprived of watching my hometown team battle for a long-awaited championship, as in 1993. But that’s just dumb luck, and circumstance easily could have contrived another catastrophe for me and fellow Philadelphia Flyers fans.

I need not even go into the pain of a Sunday-afternoon wedding in November 2003 that obliterated for us invitees a key Philadelphia Eagles conference matchup.

I understand the personal need for marriage—and I suppose matrimony still holds some societal relevance—but I believe I speak for all sports fans in stating that scheduling weddings during sports seasons has got to stop. Let’s face it: sports are undeniably more important to the American psyche than a wedding—if they were not, then Say Yes to the Dress would have the multi-billion-dollar television contract instead of the NFL, NBA, and Major League Baseball. The hard truth is that sports—like the gladiatorial games of ancient Rome—are the glue that bonds society together. America shrugs off divorce, annulment, and infidelity, but it could never survive without the emotional decompression and financial gains of its major sports. Does anybody truly prefer wearing a stuffy outfit for three hours in an overheated hall, quietly bored out of their mind, when they could be rooting for their favorite team with beer in hand and t-shirt on shoulders? Of course not.

Therefore, I propose—in the most non-matrimonial sense of the word—blackout dates in which weddings can no longer be held, thus enabling the viewing of sporting events to go unencumbered. Considering that hockey and basketball seasons essentially overlap, October through June are out, which also safeguards the World Series. Also blacked out should be September, to include the first month of football season. That leaves July and August, which are, of course, the core of baseball season. By August, the pennant races are quite serious, so forget reserving the chapel during that month. Which leaves July. Nobody really wants to attend a wedding during the Dog Days of July, but the pennant races are still up for grabs, so missing a game won’t kill you.

This idea may ruffle the feathers of the betrothed, but we’ve all wished it from time to time—including the groom. Weddings that could only occur in this one designated month would make everyone’s life so much easier: we wouldn’t have to unexpectedly interrupt our lives, there would be no traveling in winter, and everyone would be happier not having to sacrifice a game for mediocre chicken marsala and line dancing. As Spock said in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Or the couple.

(Third photo copyright The Daily Collegian.)

Comcast: It's Bombastic!

2010-05-26T15:11:00.098-05:00

Nobody I know has ever had a good word to say about Comcast. And why should they? Frequently interrupted service. Expensive rates. Problematic, often combative, customer relations. Programming grids that list "To Be Announced" for hours after a power loss or, when working, are sometimes flatly inaccurate. Their sanctimonious ads boast of high-quality, inexpensive, attentive service, but I'd drop Comcast in a minute if Verizon FiOS were available in my area. Hell, I might even drop it in favor of a 1959 rabbit-eared Philco that shows only snow and has no vertical hold.

Another Comcast attribute I resent is its film synopses. The worse-rated the film, the more glowing its review—because, of course, self-righteous Comcast couldn't actually offer bad films, could it? For example, Juwanna Mann gets 1 star (the universal rating for "poor") yet is described as a "slam-dunk comedy." Another 1-star comedy, Miss March, somehow is an "uproarious road romp." I don't know if Comcast writes its own reviews or obtains them from a third party, but virtually every 1-star film is, according to Comcast, a must-see winner:

Bride Wars—"Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway are a scream..."
The Box—a "hypnotic thriller"
All About Steve—an "endearing comedy"
Bigger Than the Sky—a "charming romantic comedy"
Fired Up!—a "peppy and uproarious teen romp"
12 Rounds—an "exciting thriller"
Extract—"big laughs"
Hush—a "gripping thriller"
Bad Company—an "action-packed espionage comedy"
Year One—a "hilarious Stone Age comedy"
Jennifer's Body—"big laughs"
Did You Hear About the Morgans?—a "wacky comedy"
I Love You, Beth Cooper—a "laugh-a-minute teen comedy"
Dragonball: Evolution—an "exhilarating martial-arts fantasy film"
Old Dogs—"Get ready for big laughs"
Post Grad—a "lovable comedy"

Need more examples?

The Women—a "polished and incisive remake"
Joe Dirt—a "raucous comedy"
Step Up—includes "a wonderful wealth of dancing and romancing"
Town & Country—"Warren Beatty and Garry Shandling score as..."
The Whole Ten Yards—a "hilarious sequel"
WarGames: The Dead Code—a "thrilling sequel"
Disaster Movie—a "riotous and outlandish spoof"
When in Rome—a "lovable romance"
Taxi—"high-octane action and rollicking humor"
Max Payne—"Mark Wahlberg gives a dynamic performance..."
Planet 51—"big laughs"
Who's Your Caddy?—a "top-flight Caddyshack homage"
Because I Said So—"a charming romantic comedy"
Deck the Halls—an "uproarious holiday farce"

Such self-serving reviews make one wonder if Hollywood has ever cranked out subpar celluloid. In fact, of the very few remotely critical reviews of a film I've seen on Comcast's programming grid, the sternest is that for Johnny Dangerously (1 star): a "puerile sendup of gangster flicks."

Now, I don't know what kind of confused buffoons compile these reviews, but how does Comcast slap Beverly Hills Ninja—perhaps the greatest "Great White Hope" epic ever made...certainly funnier than its counterparts Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai, and Avatar—with a single star yet opine that "Chris Farley is in fine comedic form in this quick-chopping comedy..."? Comcast's rating system fully discredits its review, and vice versa. Such deceptive policy is not worthy of Comcast's exorbitant monthly cost. Worse, it denigrates the film that taught us that the morbidly obese can achieve martial-arts mastery, the film that inspires those of us who desperately wish to be ninjas yet don't possess the monastic resolve to devote our lives to its practice or to eliminate Twinkies and bacon from our diet.

In contrast, Comcast gives the bland 2008 comedy, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, 2 stars. Another tired talking-animal flick, a lost chihuahua must make her way back from Tijuana to Beverly Hills, with the always-hilarious Drew Barrymore providing the dog voice. Sounds great, doesn't it? Problem is: there's no self-abusive sword work, no overturning of urns and mixing of cremated ashes, no assaulting airport metal detectors, no culinary acrobatics at a tempura grill, no communicating across the Plane of Enlightenment and resultant crash landings. A 2-star comedy should make one laugh twice as much as a 1-star comedy, yet I defy anyone with an IQ above ten—dogs included—to find Beverly Hills Chihuahua funnier than Beverly Hills Ninja.

Clearly, Comcast has no idea what it's doing.

Or, as Haru of the Takagura dojo would say: "Holy shinto!"

In Praise of the Tase

2010-05-04T15:18:00.018-05:00

Last night, Steve Consalvi, a 17-year-old from Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania, ran onto the field as the Philadelphia Phillies hosted the St. Louis Cardinals. After evading the grounds crew, Consalvi was finally subdued when a security guard Tased him. Now that Tasers have been drawn at Citizens Bank Park, why stop at a 17-year-old punk who didn't get enough attention from Daddy? Start Tasing the fans who yell practically in your ear all game long. Tase those who knock you down to get a worthless foul ball. Tase those who don't sit in their assigned seat, and Tase those who use abusive language regardless of the presence of children.

But don't stop there. Equip movie ushers with Tasers so they can shoot-to-shock the boors who talk during a film. Tase those who don't use turn signals. Tase those who hold up traffic by taking their time crossing the street, and Tase those who leave empty bottles on the sidewalk even though a garbage can stands ten feet away.

Tase the jerk who plays his music loud late at night. And Tase the dope who pays for an 89-cent candy bar with a debit card. Tase those who don't park between the lines, and Tase those who take up two spots on the street. Tase those who text while driving, and Tase those who root for the New York Rangers.

Tase 'em all and let the judge sort 'em out.

(Photos copyright Associated Press.)

Valleys of Neptune Not in Tune With the Times

2010-03-18T13:04:00.062-05:00

Released last week, Valleys of Neptune contains twelve previously unreleased tracks by Jimi Hendrix. This is just another example of popular music promoting bad science. Regardless of the fact that the album title is taken from the song of the same name, Legacy Records should know better: Neptune is an "ice giant" and thus has no valleys because it is composed of gases thousands of miles thick, with no solid surface. Hendrix, who wrote the song in 1969—twenty years before the Voyager 2 fly-by—probably possessed little knowledge of Neptune's internal structure. But by the album's release last week, the planet's composition had long been commonly known, and one would think that Legacy Records should have an astrophysicist on staff to prevent such egregious errors. Unfortunately, a new generation now being introduced to Jimi Hendrix's music is liable to believe that Neptune is a terrestrial body, misleading countless young minds. Such a cavalier attitude toward scientific fact might have been "rock & roll" in 1969...but it's no more "hip" now than patchouli oil and moon landings.

Such scientific liberties have long posed a problem in the music world. For instance: Bonnie Tyler's 1983 hit, "Total Eclipse of the Heart"—the heart never undergoes and eclipse because nothing revolves around it. Alright, for the sake of argument, let's postulate that a cholesterol blob is circulating around the pericardial sac. This blob would be so small compared to the heart that it would constitute not an eclipse, but rather a transit, such as when Mercury transits the sun or one of the Galilean moons transits Jupiter (seen above). Ms. Tyler scored her biggest hit with the song, but "Total Eclipse of the Heart" was an affront to the field of astronomy.

Likewise for Peter Frampton's "I Wanna Go to the Sun." Sure, Peter, you do that. But I sure hope I don't feel like you do as you're being fatally irradiated long before you approach the sun, your last words agonizingly whimpered with a voice that now sounds the same as through that talk box that once made you famous.

And the same goes for Pink Floyd's "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun." Which one's Pink? They'll all be pink—and juicy—before they even get inside Mercury's orbit, let alone anywhere near the sun.

In more empirical terms, don't think The Who are any more reliable. Roger Daltrey sings that he "can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..." Given that each miles represents a minimum of two miles to justify its plural form, multiplied by the 5 miles sung in the aforementioned line, Daltrey's claiming to see for at least 10 miles.

However, the accepted limit of human visibility, as determined in nautical miles—because, of course, the ocean will afford an unobscured horizon, unlike London and New York, where the song was recorded—is calculated (according to multiple nautical sources) as:

Visible distance (in nmi) = 1.17 × the square root of the eye's height (in feet)

Thus, [the square root of Roger Daltrey's height (5'7", or 5.583 feet) = 2.363] × 1.17 = 2.765 miles.

So Roger Daltrey actually can only see 2.765 miles, or just over one "lyrical" mile. This hardly even constitutes the song's title, let alone "I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..."*

*Even if we base the calculations on the 6'0" Pete Townshend, who wrote the song, this still only comes out to a paltry 2.866 miles.

For anyone in The Who to have seen for "miles and miles and miles and miles and miles," he would have had to been recording the song at a height of at least 73 feet—something not even the loony Keith Moon would have attempted.

Frankly, I think Daltrey was probably just high on beans...

* * *

For an example of popular music that promotes good science, see the Mount Drinkmore entry, "They're Special, So Special, Alright..." of July 23, 2009, via the blog archive or keyword science.

(Transit of Io courtesy of NASA/JPL/University of Arizona.)

Jeff Bridges the Gap Between the Big and Little Screens

2010-03-04T09:02:00.034-05:00

This coming Sunday, the 82nd Academy Awards will be presented. Jeff Bridges is the sentimental favorite for Best Actor, for his role as has-been country singer "Bad Blake" in Crazy Heart. Hollywood scuttlebutt indicates that Bridges is finally going to take home Oscar (Bridges has been nominated for an Academy Award four times previously but has always come up empty). Perhaps Bridges is the most deserving nominee—I don't know; I haven't yet seen the film—or perhaps he'll win because his impressive and unrewarded body of work will push him over the top.

But even if Jeff Bridges walks away empty once again, as he did for The Last Picture Show, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, Starman, and The Contender, Bridges should receive a Special Oscar for Best Celebrity Spokesperson. In recent years, he's become the ubiquitous television voice for Hyundai, Duracell, Ameriquest Mortgage Company, and Baptist Memorial Hospitals in Memphis, among other corporations. His rich, friendly, easily identifiable tone soothes the viewer while evoking images of "The Dude," Preston Tucker, and the befuddled Starman...and soon, the viewer finds himself daydreaming of sipping White Russians, driving some super-car of the future, and making out with Karen Allen. By then, the viewer is ready to buy whatever Bridges is hawking—which makes him the perfect pitch man.

Perhaps no other film actor has parlayed his or her film resumé into such a successful voiceover career...unless you count Jenna Jameson's work in Family Guy and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City.

And if that's not enough to send Jeff Bridges home with a golden statuette, then the Academy should toss him one for playing a character named "Jack" no less than eight times in his career:

• Jack McKee (Rancho Deluxe)
• Jack Prescott (King Kong)
• Jack Forrester (Jagged Edge)
• Jack Baker (The Fabulous Baker Boys)
• Jack Lucas (The Fisher King)
• Jack Kelson (American Heart)
• Jack Warrick (The Muse)
• President Jackson Evans (The Contender)

...certainly a cinematic achievement never to be equaled, unless Dustin Hoffman quickly makes a Rocky-esque franchise out of Little Big Man...

The Scourge of Rock

2010-01-21T17:01:00.053-05:00

Unless you're a hardcore Billy Joel fan, you might not know that before he began his career as a highly successful solo artist, Joel was one half of the heavy-metal outfit, Attila. This forgotten band put out its only album in 1970, the cover featuring Joel and partner Jonathan Small as unconvincing Huns amid racks of freshly butchered meat. Joel has described the album as "psychedelic bullshit." Although I've never heard the album, I find it difficult to believe the author of such great rock/pop classics as "Piano Man," "New York State of Mind," "Just the Way You Are," and "Honesty" capable of creating an album's worth of "bullshit." I mean, as you can see below, the two-part "Amplifier Fire" seems to chronicle not only Attila's ferocious campaign through Gaul in 451, but cleverly juxtaposes the Hunnic marauder against perhaps his closest 20th-century counterpart, Godzilla, who sacked much of Japan before being stopped by the Pope and the Japanese army at the Battle of Tokyo Bay. The "Godzilla" segment of "Amplifier Fire" both predates Blue Oyster Cult's "Godzilla" by seven years and made Joel the first rock songwriter to liken a late-antiquity historical figure to a Japanese science-fiction monster—an accomplishment curiously unmentioned by Rolling Stone, Billboard, or any major music medium. Godzilla and Attila even met similar deaths: the giant reptile at the hands of the "oxygen destroyer" that suffocated him and Attila from a severe nasal hemorrhage that caused asphyxiation, and each while asleep.

Furthermore, considering Billy Joel's penchant for realistic, blue-collar vignettes of everyday life, "Tear This Castle Down," likely serves as a poignant first-person account by one of Attila's countless victims during the Huns' rampage along the Rhine, rather than merely as a half-assed, sophomoric dirge about high school girls. I'd wager that the protagonist, about to meet his fate at the hand of the "Scourge of God," sardonically bewails Attila's barbarity as Joel wistfully interplays Hammond organ runs.

And the album's finale, "Brain Invasion," surely must be a cerebral critique of Attila's ill-fated invasion of Italy in 452—Italy still the nerve center of western Europe at the time.

After the album flopped, Attila split and Small formed Alaric. They did a tour of southern Spain but were eventually overrun and slaughtered by members of The Moors, a North African Doors tribute band.

Now Attila is a Hun and a friend of mine
He gets me my spears for free
And he’s quick with a sword or a barbarian horde
But there's someplace that he’d rather be

He says, Bill, I believe I should be killing people
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could conquer Constantinople
If I could just get past Thrace

Sing us a song, you're a ruthless barbarian
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for rivers of blood
And you've got us kneelin' at your sight

La la la, di da dah...

Russell's Muscle Could Provide Miracle on Broad Street

2009-12-17T14:27:00.053-05:00

The inevitable happened in South Philadelphia last Friday as Flyers head coach John Stevens got the axe. At 13-11-1, the Chris Pronger–led Flyers—expected to make a serious run at the Stanley Cup this season—had plummeted through the Eastern Division standings, losing eight of their last nine games before Stevens' firing. Replacing him is former Carolina Hurricanes coach Peter Laviolette, who led the Canes to a Cup victory in 2006. But the maddeningly inconsistent and perenially underachieving Flyers promptly got blown out in their first game under Laviolette, surrendering eight goals at home to a Washington Capitals squad playing without Alexander Ovechkin. Now a bewildering 2-5 since the coaching change, the wheels have completely come off this Flyers team, and it needs nothing short of a miracle to turn its fortunes around.

So I can't understand why Flyers brass didn't just replace John Stevens with Kurt Russell instead of Laviolette. Yes, Laviolette has solid credentials, but the Flyers clearly aren't responding to his direction and have proved themselves overmatched in nearly every game over the last month. Kurt Russell, however, worked a genuine hockey miracle in getting a down-and-out, listless long-shot to win Olympic gold. Who cares that he did it in a movie and likely knows nothing about actual hockey strategy? The Flyers would probably skate their butts off for a Hollywood celebrity—certainly more than they're currently doing for a legitimate head coach. Kurt Russell not only brings both star power and the inspirational aura of the late Herb Brooks to the Philadelphia bench—he also brings the survivability of R.J. MacReady, the machismo of Snake Plissken, the ruthlessness of Todd 3465, the courage of Bull McCaffrey, the persuasiveness of Rudy Russo, and the leadership of Captain Ron.

Once a proud and feared franchise, the Flyers, both this season and over this decade, have become an object of derision and predictable failure. But Kurt Russell could reverse all that by utilizing his rugged on-screen personas to lead this reeling squad to a surprise Stanley Cup victory. Not to mention—considering the long line of unimpressive, and sometimes absent, coiffures of such former Flyers coaches as Mike Keenan, Bob McCammon, Wayne Cashman, and Craig Ramsay—Kurt Russell would provide the franchise with, unquestionably, the greatest head of hair ever seen behind its bench, especially if he grows it back to Escape From New York length. Sure, Peter Laviolette possesses an admirable hairdo, but we're talking about the most lustrous mane in Hollywood. Let's face it: a coach with great hair is going to inspire confidence in his players—and the rudderless Flyers are playing right now like they're led by Colonel Kurtz.

And, as Hollywood's foremost eye-patch actor—he's worn an eye patch for two separate roles in three different films—Russell with one eye behind black vinyl would be the most intimidating head coach in hockey. No Flyer would dare take a lazy shift with a maniacal-looking coach prowling the bench as if it were the deck of a man-of-war, and all other coaches throughout the league would shudder impotently in his presence.

For good measure, Russell could even hire long-time squeeze Goldie Hawn as assistant coach. Not just nepotism—Hawn proved herself able coaching material in Wildcats and knows how to reach testosterone-laden jocks.

All a wild-haired, eye-patched Kurt Russell need do to lead the Philadelphia Flyers to the Cup is to look good, act mean, and reprise his words as Big Trouble in Little China's Jack Burton: "[I] feel pretty good. I'm not...uh...I'm not scared at all. I just feel kind of...feel kind of invincible," and they'd follow him through the depths of hell.

It ain't Fred Shero's "Win now and we walk together forever"...but the Flyers need a miracle-worker.

(Photo of Kurt Russell in Miracle copyright Buena Vista Pictures.)

Come and Knock on Their Door—And Bring the SWAT Team!

2009-11-16T11:41:00.069-05:00

Last night, The Discovery Channel aired a fascinating program called Jack the Ripper in America, in which a former police detective and "cold case" expert proferred strong evidence that the infamous serial killer continued his grisly spree in New York and other American cities in the 1890s. The program made a convincing argument that Jack the Ripper was, in fact, James Kelly, one of the original suspects in the case, whom the London police lost track of after the Ripper's last confirmed victim. Kelly, who had escaped Broadmoor Insane Asylum shortly prior to the first Ripper killing—incarcerated there for stabbing his wife to death in the neck—strangely showed up at the asylum forty years later and offered a detailed account of his whereabouts during the previous four decades. His travels took him to many cities and locales throughout America where various prostitutes had been horribly mutilated during the same time frames that Kelly documented. Additional forensic evidence makes for a strong case that James Kelly was indeed Jack the Ripper.

However, Ripper "experts" have never asked for my theory of Jack's true identity. And I believe I know whose it is.

Are you ready, Scotland Yard?

The real Jack the Ripper must be none other than...

People's Exhibit A: Jack Tripper → Jack Tripper → Jack T. Ripper → Jack the Ripper.

People's Exhibit B: Many of the females with whom Jack Tripper consorted vanished without a trace:

» Roommate Chrissy Snow
» Roommate Cindy Snow (Chrissy's cousin)
» Lana Shields, his flirtatious middle-aged neighbor
» Linda Page, Jack's one-time girlfriend
» Helen (and Stanley) Roper, his original landlords

People's Exhibit C: Jack Tripper achieved a degree in the culinary arts. As a chef, Jack Tripper was an expert with knives and had unlimited access to them.

People's Exhibit D: Posing for years as a gay man, Jack Tripper would not have been perceived by women as a misogynistic threat, some of his eventual victims possibly even befriending and confiding in him. Such an elaborate ruse would, in the eyes of many, remove Jack Tripper from the realm of suspects.

People's Exhibit E: Jack Tripper had a criminal record and spent an unknown amount of time in jail. Even though those bars look as flimsy as a garden lattice, the fact that Jack Tripper was previously incarcerated lends support to a tendency toward violence and a complete disregard for civil behavior. His argyle jumper further suggests that Jack Tripper may have visited Great Britain—and possibly even the Whitechapel district of London, where the murders occurred.

People's Exhibit F: Like the Ripper's fifth victim, Mary Kelly, roommate Chrissy Snow's face was horribly mutilated...albeit with pie ingredients, which caused no permanent injury or disfigurement.

People's Exhibit G: Jack Tripper frequented the Regal Beagle. The modern beagle is an English breed and was highly prized as a hunting dog in 19th-century England—note Darwin's HMS Beagle as an example of the breed's status. As a quintessentially English pub, the Regal Beagle surely was a hangout for expatriated Brits in Santa Monica, a gathering place where English gentlemen could enjoy a pint of bitters while discussing the latest cricket match or ghastly murder. That Jack Tripper spent much time at the Regal Beagle lends strong credence to his possible English heritage.

Now I'm not saying that I've made an airtight case and that the file on Jack the Ripper should once and for all be closed...but I am saying that Vanessa just walked by my office in a thigh-high skirt and black leather boots, so I'm going to have to end this entry to make low, groaning noises...

They Also Served: Another Dirty Dozen

2009-11-11T19:33:00.074-05:00

Today is Veterans Day—the day we recognize those who have served our country. And among the multitude who have proudly worn the uniform of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, or Coast Guard over the last two and a quarter centuries, I want to thank several veterans in particular who stood in defense of this nation.

Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger brought chic to wartime as no one since Helen of Troy and toted a rifle in skirt and pumps like a 1950s Annie Oakley. Cpl. Klinger played a key role in the American war effort by deceiving the enemy into thinking him a female civilian with no military training whatsoever. This underestimation of American ground strength enabled the Allies to recover from the "Pusan Perimeter" in the early months of the Korean War and push back past the 38th Parallel, deep into North Korea. Promoted to sergeant before war's end, Klinger accessorized better than Bess Truman and filled out an evening gown as elegantly as Mamie Eisenhower.

Sergeant Oddball (on left), a tank commander who led three Shermans on a mission to destroy the German war machine economically by stealing $16 million in gold bars. An unorthodox leader, Oddball got the most out of his men by using a hippie philosophy twenty years ahead of its time. His long hair and beard, use of Turkish music, dog imitations, and intolerance for negative waves gave his men an "edge." Although some have criticized Oddball's tactical decision to drink wine, eat cheese, and catch some rays during the height of battle, his victorious end justified the means.

A veteran of the same mission as Oddball, SSgt. Crapgame organized materiel and kept his superiors apprised of fluctuating figures in accounts receivable. His pesky New York personality maintained an agitated mood among the unit, keeping them in a state of combat readiness. Not a hardened combat soldier himself, Crapgame's business savvy during a stalemate at the Clermont town square enabled his unit to recover the majority of Nazi gold, ultimately securing the mission's success.

The "Rabbit of Tomorrow," Super-Rabbit gave up his cushy stateside life, turned in his cape for Marine Corps dress blues, and headed to Berlin, Tokyo, and points East. Considering he had superpowers and free reign in the Texas desert in which to utilize them, perhaps no one sacrificed more in going to war for his nation than Super-Rabbit. An exemplary leader of men and rabbits, Super-Rabbit made Master Sergeant by the end of the war and became legendary for leading his troops into battle with the war cry, "BRICKA BRACKA FIRECRACKER SIS BOOM BAH! BUGS BUNNY, BUGS BUNNY, RAH, RAH, RAH!"

Privates Moe, Larry, and Curly played an invaluable role in World War II. Their incessantly violent antics amongst each other demonstrated to their company the finer points of hand-to-hand combat. Who knows how many American soldiers out of ammunition were saved by slapping, pulling the hair, and poking the eyes of the enemy? Moe and Curly were also dead ringers for Hitler and Mussolini, respectively, which provided the army with valuable intelligence as to how to insult the Axis leaders should they be captured.

Not merely the greatest baseball player who ever lived, Pvt. Babe Ruth served in the 104th Field Artillery of the New York National Guard. He was renowned for "calling his shot" during maneuvers by pointing where the howitzer shells would land, although several members of his unit claimed that he was merely indicating how many shells he had left to fire.

Because records from the revolutionary era are spotty, we're not sure whether Pat Patriot was a member of the Continental Army or merely local militia. But he tackled lots of Redcoats, so he gets the benefit of the doubt. While the British fought in proper line formation, the colonists often engaged in guerilla tactics—including corner blitzes—and Pat Patriot became legendary for his tackling maneuvers as the Redcoats reloaded their muskets. In the words of Gen. Horatio Gates, this "allowed our gallant army to triumph at the Battle of Concord, 37-3."

Popeye the Sailor, who always seemed to have an inordinate amount of shore leave, kept America's wharves safe for democracy between the wars. Even with his spinach-fueled strength, he lost an eye in the line of duty, quelling a Moro uprising with one punch during his service in the Philippines in the 1920s.*

*Although Popeye never received a Purple Heart, he was bestowed an unofficial commendation in the form of a corncob pipe, presented to him by General MacArthur.

Sgt. York. Audie Murphy. Dewey Oxberger. "Ox," as he was known to his platoon, single-handedly fought off a coordinated attack of six bikini-clad mud-wrestlers, preserving the honor of his unit—while en route to the bingo parlor at the YMCA. Although the United States was not technically at war with these savage mud-wrestlers, Pvt. Oxberger's actions on that evening in 1981 boosted the morale of a nation still smarting from the Iranian Hostage Crisis.

Maj. Gen. Colt personally rode at the head of his division to exploit the breakthrough created by Oddball, Crapgame, and their unit. Displaying uncommon courage for a high-ranking officer by racing into an unsecured area thirty miles behind enemy lines, Maj. Gen. Colt received a liberator's welcome from the people of Clermont. Dedicated to his men, the intrepid Colt promised to decorate every man involved in the breakthrough and brought a box of medals in the jeep for them. Viva les Americans!

In the days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, Capt. Wild Bill Kelso fearlessly patrolled the skies over southern California, which was ripe for invasion. He destroyed a gas station that could well have been captured by the Japanese and made to serve as a refueling point for enemy tanks and planes. Kelso later became the first pilot of the war to shoot down an aircraft over the mainland United States. True, it was an American plane he'd downed, but no one can deny his skill or fortitude. Wild Bill was last seen trying to single-handedly capture a Japanese submarine off the Los Angeles coast. No one knows what became of him, although the host of the post-war show Samurai Delicatessen shockingly resembled Kelso, spurring rumors of capture and brainwashing...

And as for Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore—any man brave enough to have his men surf a hot LZ can drink from my canteen any day.

(Popeye copyright King Features.)

Death From Above: No Laughing Matter

2009-11-02T10:45:00.014-05:00

This month marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of Dr. Peter Barss’ landmark paper, “Injuries due to Falling Coconuts,” published in Journal of Trauma 1984;24(11):990–991. Although this paper received an “Ig Nobel Award” from the Annals of Improbable Research in 2001, its “ignominy” should not overshadow the fact that it stands as possibly the most recent literature to deal with this isolated, yet dangerous, phenomenon. Sadly, the very antiquity of Dr. Barss’ article reflects the medical discipline’s unfortunate neglect of such tragic injuries.

As Dr. Barss noted, considering the Cocos nucifera’s normal height (24–35 m) and its fruit’s weight (1–4 kg unhusked), a coconut falling at 32 ft/s² can exert a crushing force exceeding 1 metric ton.¹ With an annual yield of anywhere from 50 to 80 nuts per tree,² it is evident that to stand in the general proximity of a coconut tree is to stand in a death zone. Personally, I wouldn’t get within half a mile of a coconut grove without donning a steel army helmet and the very latest in foam-insulated crash pads. It is a wonder that Pacific Islanders have managed to survive for millennia under such potentially lethal bombardment. Indeed, anecdotal evidence from combat soldiers at Bougainville states that the devastating effect of coconuts plunging on the enemy had as much to do with taking the island as did armored infantry. (“It was like the Japanese were sitting in an upside-down minefield,” recalled one GI. “They never had a chance.”³)

My concern is that the potential increase in coconut-related injuries and fatalities since Dr. Barss’ paper has yet to be addressed. The present population of Papua New Guinea—a segment of which on whom Dr. Barss based his data and case studies—is now 5.67 million inhabitants.⁴ Furthermore, the current total population of Oceania is approximately 31 million.⁵ Dr. Barss’ 2.5% rate of hospital admissions in Papua New Guinea for coconut-related injuries2 may seem trivial at first glance, but when extrapolated across the whole of Oceania, a region thick with coconut palms, the numbers of potential dead and injured become alarming—even pandemic.

This is not a hazard indigenous only to a far-flung corner of the world. The southern and western United States, of course, is rife with coconut trees, as is much of the Western Hemisphere in general. Transplanted coconut palms have even become abundant in such unlikely locales as Ireland, continental Europe, and Canada. Untold millions now live in close proximity to the coconut palm’s murderous canopy.

We stand at a critical juncture in the treatment and prevention of coconut-related head trauma. Perhaps for the first time in the history of medicine, we not only possess the understanding of such a natural threat to human existence, but also hold at our disposal the armamentarium to effectively strike at the root of this threat.

But to do so, we need more research into the mechanics of free-falling coconuts and their high-speed impaction into the human body. We need more awareness so that government offices will fund these studies, and so that they will educate the public as to the dangers of the apparently tranquil coconut. We need warning signs adequately lining coconut groves and, at bare minimum, first-aid stations close enough to treat unfortunate victims.

We can render nil a lethal threat in our lifetime—a medical rarity for any era. We can save untold lives and preserve life for those few who still fall prey to coconut-inflicted tragedy. But we cannot do so if we allow twenty-five years to elapse between studies and permit such threats to fade into the background until wide-scale calamity illustrates our ignorance. Let ours be the generation that stamps out once and for all the carnage of the coconut.

REFERENCES
1. Barss P. Injuries due to falling coconuts. J Trauma. 1984;24:990–991.
2. Chan E, Elevitch CR. Specific profiles for Pacific Island agroforestry: Cocos nucifera (coconut). April 2006, v.2.1. Available at: http://www.agroforestry.net/tti/Cocos-coconut.pdf. Accessed November 2, 2009.
3. Franks M. Personal communication, June 2009.
4. WorldAtlas.Com facts and figures. Available at: http://www.graphicmaps.com/webimage/countrys/oceania/pg.htm. Accessed November 2, 2009.
5. Caldwell J, Missingham B, Marck J. The population of Oceania in the second millennium. Paper from the Australian National University, Canberra. Canberra, Australia, September 26, 2001; p 1. Available at: http://htc.anu.edu.au/pdfs/Oceania%20manuscript.pdf. Accessed November 2, 2009.

(Article cover page copyright The Williams & Wilkins Co.)

You Say Po-tay-to...I Say Not-Hot-o

2009-10-27T11:19:00.025-05:00

I watch a lot of Man v. Food, Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern, and similar shows featured on The Travel Channel. The hosts of these shows journey across the United States and to all corners of the world to consume unique delicacies that whet the appetite of some and make others dry-heave in disgust.

Well, I stumbled on my own unique delicacy this morning: Having purchased too much for dinner last night at my local Wawa, I refrigerated the surplus, which included a medium "loaded potato" soup. As you can imagine, a thick, cream-based soup congeals quite a bit after sitting all night in cold air. Refrigeration highlighted the flavors, with each seasoning tasting nearly as strong as the potatoes themselves. The smokey bacon flavor wasn't gamey at all, and the fire-roasted onion provided enough early morning bite to really wake me up. Aside from the succulent chunks of potato, the soup itself had a texture more grainy than Icelandic skyr, yet smoother and less chalky than nutria gumbo. I quite liked its pasty consistency and wished I'd had a bagel on which to spread it. Soup on a bagel? It might sound gross to some, but it would be heaven to me. The soup's color remained an off-white, dotted with specks of black pepper...not unlike stewed tuna eyes and lemon ants over pickled lamprey, so prized by the hardy residents of St. Petersburg, Russia. As you'd expect, the soup's aroma possessed that earthy, potatoey scent common to a tuber, but I also detected hints of coriander, which may or may not have been mold. All in all, my refrigerated, semi-solid soup was a delicious surprise and speaks to the power of cold leftovers.

Officially known in their native tongue as Waw'a ("Children of perpetual convenience"), the people of Wawa possess a zest for life that's reflected in the culture of their surroundings and the foods they prepare. Just because you don't have to travel thousands of miles to get to one doesn't mean that their cuisine is run-of-the-mill. My loaded potato soup, so good fresh out of the crock pot, was even better the next morning. If you love food, you really need to visit Wawa, take home some of their culinary masterpieces, and put them in the fridge. Great food, friendly inhabitants, and an ATM that doesn't require a service charge. Is it any wonder I hope to return to Wawa again and again? So remember: If it looks good enough to eat...refrigerate it!

(Photo of Andrew Zimmern copyright The Travel Channel; photo of soup copyright Wawa, Inc.)

Caught With Their Pants Down

2009-10-08T23:53:00.048-05:00

It has become disgustingly fashionable for Major Leaguers to wear their baseball pants as low as possible on their legs, often with pants that are one size too big to begin with. I don't know which diamond genius first thought this chic, but it's caught on like wildfire and transformed the game for the worse. Not showing any stirrups—one of the classic elements of the baseball uniform—is bad enough; some players take even this horrible look to the extreme: pulling the pants leg past the top of the cleat, nearly to the heel, completely covering the ankle and the back half of the cleat itself. Not only does it not look baseball-ish...it looks retarded. Whereas baseball pants hiked just below the knee, exposing plenty of stirrup, looked so good on old-timers, current players such as David Oritz, Manny Ramirez, Ryan Howard, C.C. Sabathia, Josh Beckett, and—perhaps the worst offender—Prince Fielder look like fat kids wearing footed pajamas.

See how Fielder used to wear his pants—traditional, classic, stylish. But since he began covering up his stirrups and cleats, Fielder looks like he belongs in a sack race, not the batter's box. Sure, it's more important to play well than to look good—and these players do—but it's more important to look good than to look asinine—and these players don't. They simply don't look like athletes.

In fact, the frumpy full-pants look makes the already-rotund Sabathia resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Why has baseball turned its pants on such a vintage and unique feature of its apparel?

Observe how much Brendan Ryan (left) and Juan Pierre (right) look like ballplayers. Sleek. Classy. Graceful. Had Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle worn their pants in the aesthetically laughable manner of Prince Fielder or David Ortiz, they never would have become everlasting icons—because they would have looked too ridiculous to fit the part of their legendary achievements. The stirrup is akin to the hockey sock, another definitive uniform component—and remember how bad the Philadelphia Flyers and Hartford Whalers looked in long pants in the early 1980s. Long pants were an affront to the sport, and the NHL wisely outlawed them. Well, this cleat-covering movement is as big an embarrassment to baseball as the steroids scandal—it just hasn't left its mark in the record book.* I almost prefer the 1976 White Sox' short pants, which remains baseball's darkest hour—but not by much. If Commissioner Bud Selig wishes to salvage any shred of his legacy during his scandal-stained administration, he needs to outlaw this preposterous practice of pants-to-the-heels.

*I encourage the Elias Sports Bureau to henceforth denote in the Official Record Book the annual statistics of any player who collected said statistics while wearing his pants legs at his cleats, so that his achievements—however lofty—will be tempered by the fact that he looked stupid while attaining them.

Say what you will about The Babe. Sure, in later years, he was, like Sabathia and Fielder, a blob from the waist up—but at least he still looked like half a ballplayer.

(Photo of Babe Ruth copyright NY Daily News.)

They Have Finally Begun to Fight!

2009-10-08T09:19:00.023-05:00

Somali pirates attacked the French navy's refueling ship La Somme yesterday after mistaking it for a commercial vessel. The 3,800-ton La Somme easily repelled the attack, capturing one of the two marauding skiffs and its crew of five pirates. This marks the first time in history that the French military did not immediately surrender to an attacker. Speaking through a translator, a spokesman for the French Minister of Defence called the captain's decision not to surrender "courage on par with Admiral Spruance, in this, France's Battle of Midway." He concluded that a massive tickertape parade down the Champs-Élysées is being planned to celebrate this "great victory for the people of France" and warned, "Let no one ever again call the Arc de Triomphe an empty boast!"

The spokesman later surrendered to the translator.

(Photo of warship copyright Associated Press; photo of captured pirates copyright ECPAD.)

No Naming Below the Belt

2009-09-27T11:02:00.027-05:00

Vitali Klitschko (left) retained his WBC Heavyweight title last night with a 10th-round TKO of Chris "Nightmare" Arreola in Los Angeles.

Klitschko.

Arreola.

Professional boxing—especially the heavyweight division—is at a low ebb, thanks to the ascent of mixed martial arts and a dearth of charismatic fighters capable of rekindling interest after the pathetic end to the Mike Tyson era. But has the sport sunk so low that it now relies on cheap sexual references to garner popularity? Boxing is the manliest of sports...and one in which sex should not be involved. It's about anger and violence—not innuendo and titillation. Boxing doesn't need Klitschko and Arreola turning its heavyweight bouts into episodes of Real Housewives of Orange County, lest the glorious memories of Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, Rocky Marciano, and Jack Dempsey be usurped by such inevitable contenders as Esteban de la Labia, Sugar Walls Wellington, Tommy St. Taint, and Joe "The Chicago Cameltoe" Wyzniewsky.

Let's leave the Klitschkos and Arreolas to the ring card girls...

(Photo of Klitschko-Arreola bout copyright Associated Press.)

We'll Always Have Parisian Bob

2009-09-19T21:53:00.060-05:00

Pedro Martinez lost his first game as a Philadelphia Phillie tonight, dropping his record to 5-1. Tonight's loss also marks the 100th defeat of his career—a dubious milestone remarkably long in coming, considering that Martinez entered a regular rotation in 1993 and has started 475 games in his amazing career. He has reached double figures in losses only twice—each time with the minimum of 10—which, against 219 wins, makes his career winning percentage a dizzying .687.

With his loss tonight, Martinez falls out of very select company. Since registering his 200th win during the 2006 season, Martinez had accompanied long-forgotten 19th-century great Bob Caruthers as the only pitchers in Major League Baseball history with at least 200 wins and fewer than 100 losses. Now Caruthers once again stands alone in that club.*

*Albert Spalding, the man who co-founded the famous sporting-goods company and the great-great-grandfather of the obnoxious twerp from Caddyshack, registered an off-the-scale career pitching record of 253-65; however, the vast majority of his hurling occurred in the National Association, an embryonic 1870s league recognized neither by Major League Baseball nor the Baseball Hall of Fame as a true major league because of the primitive state of play and rules (e.g., players often played in overalls and workboots, a strikeout was a triple, base-stealing frequently resulted in a hanging, etc). Ironically, Spalding was inducted into the Hall of Fame as an executive/pioneer, both for his paramount role in organizing and promoting baseball to new heights of popularity, as well as inventing the position of first-base coach, which provided slews of washed-up ballplayers with high-paying jobs that required no effort beyond standing.

"Parisian Bob," as Caruthers was known (ostensibly because he once conducted contract negotiations via telegram from Paris, but more likely because of his collection of rare French medals of bravery—so rare, in fact, that he never actually found any), racked up a 218-99 career record in which he twice won 40 games in a season and led the American Association three times in winning percentage. Although he possesses the fourth-highest official winning percentage in history (.688), Caruthers is not a member of the Hall of Fame; this may result from confusion over the current rule that, to be eligible, a player must play at least parts of 10 seasons—Caruthers only pitched for nine, from 1884 to 1892; however, he did play 14 games as an outfielder in 1893, which makes him an eligible candidate. Even so, some Veterans Committee members refuse to vote for Caruthers because they believe that he's been snubbing Major League Baseball since his death in 1911 ("The guy doesn't respect the game!" one Veterans Committee member huffed in 2005 after a letter to Caruthers' last known address went unanswered).

As dominant a hurler as was Caruthers, he actually played more games as a position player. Caruthers twice hit well over .300, and he led the American Association in on-base percentage and OPS in 1886, a year in which he propelled his St. Louis Browns to the "world" championship.† Browns owner Chris von der Ahe called Caruthers "my club's best player...and the only one of those stockinged reprobates who pronounces my name correctly!"

†Interestingly, "Parisian Bob" received his nickname the same year that France gifted the Statue of Liberty to the United States, and many St. Louisans, jealous of haughty New York and giddy from their Browns' recent championship victory over the Chicago White Stockings, proclaimed the popular Parisian Bob as their gift from France, forcing Caruthers to stand on the banks of the Mississippi, holding a torch, on the very day that the Statue of Liberty was being dedicated in New York Harbor. A mere 5-foot-seven, the diminutive Caruthers could offer a better life to no one, as not even the tired, the poor, or anyone part of a huddle mass wanted the refuge offered by a pipsqueak, and after four hours with no takers, Caruthers threw off his robe and crown in disgust. When he was sold a year later to the Brooklyn Bridegrooms, Caruthers visited the real Statue of Liberty and kicked it.

After four successful years in Brooklyn, Caruthers returned to the Browns. Sadly, not only was his arm gone, but so was his wallet, which Caruthers had left at a Coney Island hot-dog stand and was, at that very moment, being picked clean by local hoodlums who were about to stuff their bellies on his dime with more frankfurters than Joey Chestnut would 120 years later. Caruthers hung on in the minors for several years, before becoming an umpire in the early days of the American League.‡ He died at age 47, never having replaced his wallet.

‡Notably, Caruthers was the first umpire to toss himself out of a game, when an extra-inning contest between the Chicago Cubs and Boston Beaneaters threatened to make him late for the very first Ford Model A 0.01% APR factory-incentive blowout.

The Sleek Shall Inherit the Turf

2009-09-13T22:07:00.078-05:00

Football head coaches are strict disciplinarians. It’s their task to ready 50-plus players to smash the opponent each weekend, and they do it by getting their players to adhere to their rules, conduct, and strategies. Head coaches often look upon themselves as father figures, trying to instill their boys with the desire and discipline needed for success.

Yet how many of football’s head coaches are undisciplined messes? Sidelines throughout the country are prowled very slowly by head coaches who clearly have no self-discipline when it comes to food. What kind of example is being set by such butterballs as Andy Reid, Rex Ryan, Tom Cable, Eric Mangini, Notre Dame’s Charlie Weis, and Kansas University's Mark Mangino?

Wade Phillips may be a nice guy, but his Dallas Cowboys haven’t won a playoff game under his chunky command and have instead acquired the reputation as an undisciplined bunch that crumbles like cornbread at crunch time. Well, it’s Wade Phillips’ crunch time that’s the problem. Hearing him wolf down a rack of babybacks in his office can’t be imbuing his players with respect for him. I wouldn’t be listening too closely to a guy with a Michelin Man midsection who’s yelling at me about dedication and discipline. The fact is that, in seven years as a head coach, none of Phillips’ teams have ever won a playoff game.

Contrast the fortunes of "America's Team" under trim Tom Landry: The spartan Landry and his 195-lb frame earned the respect of every one of his players by putting his money, rather than food, where his mouth is. In not being mistaken for the blimp sent to cover every game, Landry led by example and guided the Cowboys to five Super Bowls, winning two of them.

Sure, portly head coaches occasionally steer their teams to the championship: turducken connoisseur John Madden won a Super Bowl, as did roly-poly Hank Stram. Even the great Vince Lombardi won NFL titles between meals. But as the chart below clearly demonstrates, the scales of success tip strongly in favor of the lighter-weighted. Paul Brown—slim, slender, and seven (AAFC and NFL) championships. Fit even into old age, Curly Lambeau won six NFL titles. Guy Chamberlin, 6-foot-two and 196 lb, collected four NFL crowns. Trim Bill Walsh took the 49ers to a trio of Super Bowl titles, and his successor, the even leaner George Seifert, followed with a pair. Rock-solid Chuck Noll—four Super Bowl trophies. And the all-time leader in coaching victories, svelte Don Shula—a record six trips to the Super Bowl, winning two, before he grew doughier with age and the Dolphins fell out of regular contention.

“What about the pudgy Bill Belichick,” you say? “He’s the greatest head coach of his generation, forging a dynasty in the era of the salary cap while pacing the gridiron with a jelly belly.” Yes, but Belichick is smart enough to wear loose-fitting sweatshirts and track pants. He knows better than to let his players see the spare tire he’s gained from clam chowdah, lest they lose respect and tune him out. Forget X’s and O’s—baggy clothing may be the secret of Belichick’s genius.

But most football coaches don't possess such smarts. Really, what Notre Dame player is going to be inspired by Charlie Weis? His utter lack of physical discipline can't help but negatively influence his players. It was under Weis's corpulent helm that the Fighting Irish suffered its worst season in school history—the first of two consecutive unranked seasons during Weis's tenure. Previously, Notre Dame had lost consective Fiesta and Sugar Bowl appearances under the blubbery head coach. (Sure, Weis led Notre Dame to victory in the 2008 Hawai’i Bowl...but that's really the Pity Bowl and nothing for the Fighting Irish to hang its buckled hat on.)

Former Green Bay Packers and Seattle Seahawks head coach Mike Holmgren provides the perfect empirical model: He began his head-coaching career with the Packers in excellent shape. Green Bay won the Super Bowl in 1996. He put on enough weight over the ensuing off-season that the Packers couldn’t repeat, and then grew to full rotundity as head coach of the Seahawks, who were unable to win a championship during his ten hefty seasons in Seattle.

While the Jerry Glanvilles and Rich Kotites wheeze and gasp their way to mediocrity, championships are seized by head coaches whose hunger for victory runs deeper than their hunger for Big Macs and cookie dough. Joe Gibbs, Mike Shanahan, Tom Flores, Tony Dungy, Bill Cowher, Mike Tomlin, Dick Vermeil, Brian Billick, Tom Coughlin, Jon Gruden—all well within their recommended weight range. All respected for practicing what they preach. All Super Bowl winners.

For the Stick, It Should've Been Automatic

2009-09-07T20:36:00.071-05:00

We ate dinner last night at a Red Lobster in Long Branch, NJ. I had parked the car in the only available space in the main lot: at the end of a row, where stood some large bushes on the adjacent curb. Several of the bushes' branches protruded to within about a foot of the car. Upon returning to the car after our meal, I discovered a four-inch-long stick insect perched motionless on the driver's-side window.

Over aeons, stick insects have, of course, evolved as masters of camouflage. Most species' primary defense is to look so much like a twig that hungry predators never detect them. Obviously, it's worked well for millions of years.

Needless to say, I was surprised to find a stick insect on the car window—a surface that offers no visual protection and fully exposes such a large insect to both predator and perturbed human. Now, I have respect for life and gently shooed the creature off the window. But many people—especially after the adrenalin rush of cracking open a crustacean—would have reacted harshly and swatted, slammed, or squashed the stick insect to death. Frankly, the stick insect's behavior belied its reputation for cleverness, and it was lucky to have survived such a stupid decision.

In all fairness, a stick insect possesses a brain of, maybe, half a nanogram—but such foolish behavior should be an instinctual no-no. Like opening an umbrella stand in the middle of the Sahara...it's something you just don't do. So even though they have carved out a highly successful ecological niche across the ages, it's no wonder that stick insects have failed to evolve beyond their twiggy exoskeleton: they're simply not that bright. According to fossil records, stick insects have been around for at least 23 million years, so you'd figure that, following the normal pattern of evolution, they would have made something of themselves and, by now, at least resemble trees...or have even progressed toward something of higher intelligence—I daresay, perhaps even a bipedal form. I'm no genetic entomologist, but a simple change of diet from leaves to meat would have—as in early humans—enlarged their microscopic brain and put stick insects on a much more rewarding evolutionary course. Even noshing on a katydid once in a while could have made all the difference. Is biophysiological improvement so unpalatable? Instead of being stuck as the pansies of the bug world—playing dead or remaining perfectly still whenever a predator enters the neighborhood—stick insects perhaps could now be our evolutionary counterpart:Although this theory* has met with criticism ranging from "That's impossible" to "Stop calling, you idiot!" we've all seen what a switch to a protein-rich meat diet did for Robert DeNiro in Raging Bull. You don't get the Oscar for Best Actor by eating privet leaves.

*For a detailed analysis of this theory, see Why the Steak at Red Lobster Is Pretty Good and Other Thoughts: A Text Message to the Corporate Office (personal communication; September 6, 2009).

But that's not all for the animal kingdom.

I further posit that the llama—long believed South American in origin—in fact migrated to South America from Wales. My proof? Did you ever look at a map of Wales? The double-l—so characteristic of the llama—is found all over the Welsh nation: Llandrindod Wells, Llangollen, Llandovery, Llangefni, and at least 267 other towns and villages. True, the digraph ll as the first two letters of a word or place-name is also charateristic of Spanish and several of Spain's regional dialects, and a multitude of villages beginning with Ll are found throughout South America, but Spanish and related dialects have only been spoken in South America since the arrival of the Conquistadors, whereas the llama has been roaming South America for several million years.

So how did the llama migrate from Wales to South America? Similar to Beringia, a land bridge between Wales and the east coast of South America may have existed during ice ages, when sea levels dropped dramatically. Admittedly, my calculations show that for the extreme distance between Wales and South America to have been exposed, the Atlantic Ocean would have had to dissipate to the volume of a half-gallon container of Deer Park, but I may just be remembering the tables of measures incorrectly.

Further supporting this claim is the not-insignificant fact that Episode 9 of Monty Python's Flying Circus begins with "The Llama Sketch," in which John Cleese sings (in Spanish) about the virtues of the llama, backed by Eric Idle and Terry Jones. Terry Jones (on right) is from Colwyn Bay, Wales. That the three Pythons are singing in Spanish about the llama may be irony far over the heads of anyone not in the know.

And if that weren't enough evidence, the final twenty seconds of the opening credits of Monty Python and the Holy Grail (which were completed in an entirely different style at great expense and at the last minute) are replete with llama references. The Holy Grail was directed by the Welshman Terry Jones, and since he had final say in the content of those llama-laden credits, I can only surmise that Jones has a strong affinity for the animal that is ostensibly native to his land.

In phase II of these studies, empirical data will be collected from my couch with the aid of a six of Buckleys Best Bitter.

Future anthropological topics on Mount Drinkmore may include the cantaloupe's evolution to the antelope as well as a review of back pain in invertebrates.

(Second photo of stick insect copyright National Geographic Society; photo of llama copyright National Picture Library; photo of "The Llama Sketch" copyright Python (Monty) Pictures.)

I'm Not Gonna Let Bruntlett Take the Brunt of Anti-fans' Wrath

2009-09-03T14:17:00.027-05:00

On August 23, Philadelphia Phillies reserve 2nd-baseman Eric Bruntlett executed an unassisted triple play. The fifteenth unassisted triple play in Major League history, this was only the second such defensive lightning bolt to end a game (the other instance occurring in 1927). With the Phils leading the New York Mets 9-6 in the bottom of the 9th, Angel Pagan and Luis Castillo both reached base on errors (including one by Bruntlett, himself, whose miscue cut Philadelphia's lead to 9-7). Then an infield single by Daniel Murphy put runners on 1st and 2nd with no outs. With the winning run at the plate, Jeff Francouer ripped a line drive up the middle. But with both runners going on the pitch, Bruntlett, who was dashing to cover 2nd base, found himself in perfect position to snare the sure hit. He quickly stepped on 2nd to double off Castillo, then lunged at the backpedaling Murphy to end the game, leaving a raucous New York crowd in stunned silence.

Two days ago, Mount Drinkmore's Pat directed me to an "Eric Bruntlett Sucks" anti-fan forum that he stumbled upon (http://www.talk-sports.net/mlb/sucks.aspx/Eric_Bruntlett). Although all of the posts predate Bruntlett's unassisted triple play, some are particularly cruel and leave no doubt as to how low these anti-fans regard him.

Sure, in seven seasons as a utility player, Bruntlett has hit a paltry .231. Sure, his fielding percentages at the middle-infield positions are below league norms. Sure, he's barely cracked .200 in two seasons as a Phillie, and fans—rabid for another World Series run—have no tolerance for a player who literally can't hit his weight this year.

Yet the fact remains, Eric Bruntlett anti-fans: Eric Bruntlett is now only one unassisted triple play away from becoming the all-time leader in unassisted triple plays.

Don't you think he's earned a name-change to the "Eric Bruntlett Doesn't Suck That Much" forum?

(Photo of triple play copyright Associated Press.)

Morning Redwood

2009-09-03T10:39:00.014-05:00

This photograph was recently e-mailed to me. Not only is it a fine example of reproductive phenology, but it proves the common myth about sequoias.

I've been trying to determine where this photo was taken. I figure either Sequoia National Park...or on the set of the porn film, Lord of the Cock Rings, since this shapely lass appears to have been a fluff girl for the Ents.

Thou Shalt Not McCovet Thy Neighbor's First Baseman

2009-08-31T09:39:00.072-05:00

Willie McCovey was the most fearsome left-handed power hitter of his generation, smashing 521 home runs, which, at the time of his retirement, was the National League record for lefties. He achieved this despite playing much of his career in cold and windy Candlestick Park, as well as during the 1960s, when pitchers usurped the balance of power and batting averages plummeted. "Stretch"—as the 6-foot-four, rail-thin McCovey was known—was a classy and gentle giant who won the 1959 Rookie of the Year Award though he played in only 52 games, commencing a career that saw him collect three home-run titles, twice lead the Senior Circuit in RBI, and earn the National League MVP in 1969.

A San Francisco mainstay for fifteen years, McCovey was traded to the San Diego Padres after the 1973 season. He hit well in southern California for two years, but after a miserable, injury-plagued summer of 1976, McCovey was purchased by the Oakland Athletics on August 30. He played 11 games for the A's during the remainder of that abortive season.

Or so say official records.

As a long-time baseball aficionado, historian, and collector, I know my stuff when it comes to the history of the sport. I can recite every World Series participant since 1903, I have a disturbing penchant for statistics, and I'm familiar with players of whom the casual baseball fan has never heard. But in all my years of watching, reading about, and collecting all things baseball, I have never once seen a photograph of Willie McCovey as a member of the Oakland Athletics. Their dynasty of the early 70s crumbling, the 1976 A's, sans Reggie, Catfish, and Ken Holtzman, still had enough left to nearly win the AL West. One would think that a team in the pennant race right up to the last week of the season might garner a little more attention from shutterbugs, especially for a newly acquired star who had belted 465 home runs, which, at that time, ranked second only to Hank Aaron among active players. But I've searched high and low, Googled until my fingers turned blue, and leafed through page after page—there seems to be no proof beyond statistical entries that McCovey ever donned an Oakland uniform. Sure, after the season, he rejoined the Giants as a free agent, so, if indeed McCovey had been in Oakland at the end of the 1976 campaign, he need only have walked over the Bay Bridge to neighboring San Francisco. But I question whether McCovey ever was an Oakland Athletic. What do 24 measly at-bats in the record book really prove? It's baseball hearsay. I need tangible evidence.

As in the case of Dave Kingman. Perhaps the most one-dimensional—and most jettisonable—player in baseball history, Kingman experienced a season unique in the annals of the Major Leagues: In 1977, Kingman played for no fewer than four teams. The New York Mets traded him in mid-June to San Diego, yet the Padres put Kingman on waivers in September, upon which the California Angels claimed him. But Kingman hit a putrid .194 in Anaheim, and the Halos traded him nine days later to the Yankees, where he finished out the regular season (never appearing in New York's World Series run). Kingman's stopovers with the Angels and Yankees were even briefer than McCovey's alleged cup of coffee in Oakland, but there's plenty of proof he suited up for them, as you can see.

Even Norm Cash, who was traded from the Chicago White Sox to the Cleveland Indians after the 1959 season and then traded by Cleveland to the Detroit Tigers before he could even get into a regular-season game for the Tribe, bears proof of his brief encounter in the Forest City.

So where is the incontrovertible proof that Willie McCovey wore kelly green and Finley gold? His plaque in Cooperstown denotes his stay in Oakland, but why did McCovey make no mention of those 11 games in his Hall of Fame induction speech—not even the three walks he supposedly coaxed out of opposing hurlers? The record book shows that second-place Oakland parlayed McCovey's five RBI-less singles in those 24 at-bats into picking up 5½ games on Kansas City, only to fall 2½ games short at the wire. Why do middle-aged A's fans never lament that McCovey wasn't acquired a week earlier, since another week of .200 hitting could have provided the wins needed to eventually overtake the Royals? And why is there no "McCovey Cove" equivalent in Oakland Coliseum?

I've a hunch the McCovey acquisition was the concoction of A's owner, Charlie Finley. Even as Oakland was winning three consecutive World Series from 1972-74, the team never drew well. Oakland's highest finish in attendance during its dynastic run was only fifth in the league, and, pathetically, during its championship 1974 season, only the thoroughly mediocre Minnesota Twins fared worse at the American League gate. It's no secret that Finley was desperate for attendance—and who could blame him? Fielding a juggernaut that few came to see certainly hit him in his wallet and his pride. And with free agency about to turn baseball upside-down—ultimately forcing Charlie O. to break up his dynasty—the temptation to heighten appeal for his club must have been irresistable. So why not pretend to have acquired a superstar for your franchise, one who could bring in paying customers with his tape-measure blasts? After all, by 1976, the A's had sent their own superstars packing—Reggie traded to the Baltimore Orioles, and free-agent bucks reeling Catfish into New York. A fan favorite for 15 years in neighboring San Francisco, Willie McCovey possessed built-in star power that could get people into the seats. Clever enough—but the shrewd Finley may well have taken it a step further: Oakland announces it has purchased McCovey's contract from San Diego...fans flock to see the great slugger...but it never actually happens, allowing Finley to reap the proceeds while not having to pay McCovey, or pay for him.*

*Not to mention that same 1976 Athletics team that supposedly purchased McCovey also allegedly enjoyed six plate appearances from burnt-out Padres slugger Nate Colbert—again, no photographic evidence exists.

This is not unprecedented in Oakland. The official record book shows that, in 1972, the A's acquired fading slugger Orlando Cepeda from the Atlanta Braves. Cepeda—another popular, long-time San Francisco Giant who would be instantly welcome in Oakland—supposedly played three games for the A's that season. Yet, as with McCovey, I have never seen, nor can I locate, a single photograph of Cepeda in green and gold. Furthermore, Cepeda was traded to Oakland even-up for Denny McLain...yet, even though McLain had been washed up longer than Cepeda, Topps produced a baseball card of McLain's transaction without printing a counterpart card for Cepeda—further evidence that Cepeda, a big-time player as late as 1970, came to Oakland only in the twisted mental machinations of Charlie Finley.

After all, this was the mind that installed Harvey the mechanical rabbit, which popped up from a hole behind home plate and delivered fresh baseballs to the umpire.

Not to mention the mind that proposed orange baseballs...

So until someone produces visual proof of Willie McCovey in an Oakland Athletics uniform, I ain't buyin' that he ever played for them.

(Baseball cards copyright Topps Inc.)

Yo! Pedro! Philly's What Your Plaque Should Show

2009-08-13T08:11:00.036-05:00

With three Cy Young Awards, five ERA titles, and the highest winning percentage of any 200-game winner of the modern era, Pedro Martinez is a mortal lock for the Hall of Fame. He dominated batters in a Koufaxian run from 1997 to 2003 with a combination of power and finesse that decimated opponents' batting averages. And after a decade of mediocrity, the Boston Red Sox finally began their ascendancy when they acquired Pedro in 1998, culminating in the 2004 World Series championship, the franchise's first in 86 years.

Sure, Martinez's greatest years were spent in Beantown, where he tossed more than half of his career victories and won a bewildering 76% of his decisions. A Red Sox cap is the logical choice for Pedro's Hall of Fame plaque. And yes, Pedro initially achieved superstardom in Montreal, where he snared his first Cy Young Award, set numerous franchise records, and pitched a perfect game for nine innings before surrendering a hit in the 10th. Hence, perhaps a sentimental case can be made for immortalizing him as an Expo. So, although the Baseball Hall of Fame selects the induction plaque's logo "based on where that player makes his most indelible mark," I urge Martinez to choose—and the Hall of Fame to permit—Pedro's plaque to feature a Philadelphia Phillies cap.

After all, for a pitcher whose lowest career winning percentage with a franchise is .582, Martinez now sports a perfect 1.000 for the Fightin' Phils. But more than mere statistics, Martinez should go into the Hall of Fame as a Phillie—even if he never wins another game—because baseball needs to ensure the continuation of scandal and controversy. Our national pastime has seen plenty of ignominy in the last few decades—from the Pete Rose imbroglio to the cancellation of the 1994 World Series to the continuing steroid fiasco. Major League baseball has taken a bigger black eye than Tony Conigliaro thanks to the sordid doings of Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Raphael Palmeiro, Sammy Sosa, Roger Clemens, Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez, Miguel Tejada, Jason Giambi, Jose Canseco, Kirk Radomski, Brian McNamee, Bud Selig, and many others.

But these disgraces won't last forever. Baseball has taken steps that have virtually rid the sport of current steroid use, and although steroids has irrevocably distorted the record book, fans seem to have forgiven and forgotten. Baseball needs scandal and controversy—each successive generation thrives on its layer of sludge that sullies baseball's history: the Black Sox, Steve Bartman and Jeffrey Maier, Hall of Fame cronyism, cocaine and amphetamines, the designated hitter, the spitter, interleague play, the 1951 Giants' sign-stealing, 1992's The Babe, and on and on...

What would we fans do without scandal? Take scandal out of baseball and what have you got? A bunch of guys running after a ball hit with a stick—an act dangerously close to that borefest known as golf. So if Pedro Martinez's plaque is mounted in the Hall of Fame Gallery displaying a Phillies cap, a juicy brouhaha is guaranteed circa 2016. And it won't come a moment too soon, sandwiched between the inevitable uproar over robot pinch-runners and the discovery that 600-HR slugger Manny Ramirez had been corking his dreadlocks.

I further suggest that the official language of Pedro's plaque read:

PEDRO JAIME MARTINEZ
Los Angeles, N.L., 1992-1993
Montreal, N.L., 1994-1997
Boston, A.L., 1998-2004
New York, N.L., 2005-2008
Philadelphia, N.L., 2009

A promising pitcher who reached peak late in career, winning a seven-run blowout in Phillies debut. Debut victory for Philadelphia saw him achieve ERA 0.07 less than 46-year-old teammate he replaced. Garnered several major awards and a World Series title earlier in career, but most of the opposing batters had stayed out late the night before or had flu. Brilliant tenure with Phils vaulted team from 1st place to 1st place and made him one of the most beloved figures in Phillies history to wear No. 45. Made as many hits in first game with Philadelphia as he had in seven years with Boston. Debut victory gave Philadelphia 63rd win of season, enabling team to later achieve 64th—a feat impossible without his victory.

(Graphics wizardry courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

The Sultan of Spectacles

2009-07-29T10:25:00.016-05:00

On July 17, a 38-year-old Illinois man named Jerry Lowery allegedly robbed a suburban Milwaukee optical store at gunpoint. After leading police on a high-speed chase through local neighborhoods, Lowery escaped, but later turned himself in to authorities. He is also charged with the armed theft of two other optical stores since April.

Lowery has admitted to a bizarre eyeglasses fetish in which he "really likes to be around glasses." Lowery told police that this fetish has plagued him for the last fifteen years, saying that he likes to put on the glasses, pose in front of a mirror, and then dispose of them. In the burglary of July 17, Lowery stole 575 pairs of eyewear.

This is a fetish so weird that it doesn't even have a Web site yet.

Yet what fascinates Mount Drinkmore is not the heretofore unheard-of eyeglasses obsession that deserves an entire DSM-IV of its own, but rather the unsettling resemblance of Lowery to Hall of Famer Hank Aaron.

Even more disturbingly, these thefts occurred in and around Milwaukee—where Hank Aaron spent two thirds of his Major League career.

You might say that Jerry Lowery is the Hank Aaron of armed-glasses theft.

After all, he did steal 575 pairs of glasses on this caper...and while that's still far short of Hank's 755 home runs, it puts the 38-year-old Lowery on pace to pass Aaron in a few years. (Remember that Hammerin' Hank aged like fine wine and swatted 116 homers after his 38th birthday.)

Lowery, who was on parole at the time of his arrest and owns a laundry list of armed-robbery convictions, faces a maximum of 123 years in jail. But if he can cut his sentence down to, say, two years with good behavior and a switch to contact lenses, Very Bad Jerry will still be young enough to catch Bad Henry upon his release from prison.

So let's keep a close watch on this guy, because, one day, we all might be saying, "There's a new eyeglasses thief of all time...and it's Jerry Lowery!"
(Mugshot photo courtesy Fox Point Police. Hank Aaron baseball card copyright Topps, Inc.)

They're Special, So Special, Alright...

2009-07-23T08:09:00.023-05:00

The following concert information was cut and pasted from today's Ticketmaster site. Chrissie Hynde et al have finally mastered complementarity and can now appear in two places at once. The European Organization for Nuclear Research spent more than €3 billion constructing the Large Hadron Collider...and The Pretenders beat them to it with a pair of Stratocasters and a stack of Marshall amps.

The Pretenders Tower Theatre Upper Darby, PA Thu, 08/13/09 07:30 PM Find Tickets

The Pretenders The Electric Factory Philadelphia, PA Thu, 08/13/09 07:30 PM Find Tickets

The Pretenders have always ranked among rock's most scientifically progressive bands. Over their long and distinguished career, they have dabbled in alchemy ("Brass in Pocket"), general chronology ("Time the Avenger"), and radio astronomy ("Tattooed Love Boys"). Chrissie's uncompromising commitment to melding a post-punk aesthetic with empirical research has yielded some of the most melodic eggheadism since Enrico Fermi's classic Gone Fission LP.

Now, The Pretenders have truly revolutionized both rock music and quantum physics. By performing in two places at once—no easy feat, especially considering the endless parade of stoplights in West Philly—Chrissie and the boys double their ticket sales, not to mention cut their touring in half. What practical application this will have on the larger world remains to be seen, but it certainly means good news for aficionados of Martin Chambers' sideburns.

For further reading on the two-places-at-once phenomenon, see the Mount Drinkmore post of January 7, 2007 ("E = AFC²"), which goes well with a Beaujolais and some Cheetos.

Home Despot?

2009-07-10T08:31:00.008-05:00

So, I recently bought a home and entered the ranks of suburban, lawn-mowing life. The house had very few glaring problems, so I figured the amount of repair time initially would be minimal. Not so. Every project becomes an endless string of trips to Home Depot, sometimes several a day. One afternoon, I made three trips.

Now for some reason—I do not know if it is some subconscious brilliance or just hallucinations brought on by exhaustion—but every time I approach the building, I read the sign as Home Despot. Is this some philosophical statement being made by my subconscious to illustrate how my new home and this store are controlling my life? I never see Office Despot when I go to Office Depot...

When Superheroes Eat Too Many Heroes

2009-05-22T08:55:00.006-05:00

Fat Spiderman, Fat Spiderman
Eats Spaghettios can after can
Crammed into a suit, triple-X size,
Can't get out 'cause he ate three pies
Look out!
Here comes Fat Spiderman

Is he fat?
Listen, bud
He's got the bod of an Idaho spud
Can he swing from a thread?
Not unless it's made of lead
Hey, there
There goes Fat Spiderman

In the chill of night
At the scene of a meal
Like a streak of gravy
He devours anything congealed

Fat Spiderman, Fat Spiderman
Friendly corpulent Spiderman
Diet and exercise
He's ignored
Inaction is his reward

To him, life is a great big bag of chips
Wherever there's onion dip
You'll find Fat Spiderman

Breaking Doors Breaks Me Up

2009-04-09T09:48:00.011-05:00

So my dad’s up for a few days. He loves The Beverly Hillbillies. I loathe it, but there’s only one television here, so I’m forced to watch. I find nothing funny about The Beverly Hillbillies. Bad jokes, canned laughter, inane plots, asinine characters, a complete lack of nostalgic value. So yesterday, there was an episode in which Granny becomes a wrestler. A really good wrestler (Episode 191; "The Great Tag-Team Match"). She's windmilling her opponents over the ropes and out of the ring. Granny retires the champion and refuses to wrestle anymore. The promoter tries to trick her into wrestling again—he's received lots of fan mail requesting her to wrestle again, and he smells big bucks. The promoter, the “Boston Strong Girl” (who Granny previously defeated), and her father (also a wrestler) go to the Clampett mansion to challenge Granny to a rematch. Granny refuses, so the Strong Girl's father picks Granny up and throws her through the front door. We see Granny crash through the door in fast-motion and land on the pavement outside.

I let out a hearty guffaw.

Later, my dad’s watching another episode (Episode 197; "From Rags to Riches"). Mr. Drysdale is trying to coax his surly wife into a replica of the Clampett’s backwoods shack. He finally does, and the Clampetts, figuring that the Drysdales are gonna be doing some loving, begin to leave. There’s a wide-angle shot as they’re walking away, and suddenly, Mr. Drysdale goes crashing through the front door of the shack in fast-motion and lands a full 10 to 12 feet outside.

Another big laugh from me.

I get it.

The Beverly Hillbillies is funny when someone's being thrown through a door!!!

Iceland Poor? Follow Thor!

2009-01-27T11:42:00.019-05:00

With the collapse of Iceland's coalition government and her economy in ruin, angry Icelanders are left with only one viable option for survival: do what their forebears did in times of political and economic turmoil, take to the sea, and maraud. Icelanders are descended from fearsome Vikings, some of history's greatest go-getters. When sputtering economy or domestic upheaval forced their hand, the Vikings sailed their longships to distant lands and pillaged the countryside, looting as much gold and silver as they could carry and slaughtering the locals at every turn. Okay, mass slaughter may have fallen out of favor in today's politically correct climate, but as we see currently in the Indian Ocean, piracy and plundering are back in fashion. And who is better equipped to raid foreign shores and restore their fortunes than the sons and daughters of the Norsemen? The necessary shipbuilding and blacksmithing skill resides in Icelanders' veins; it need only be awakened from its thousand-year slumber. No proprietor of boardwalk gift shop or manager of seaside B&B will refuse to hand over everything in the register when faced with a horde of irate, flaxen-haired warriors out of their minds on hallucinogenic mushrooms and brandishing battle axes.

Sure, Icelanders could pull an old Viking trick out of their helmets and try to fool investors into immigrating to their depressed island by renaming it something hospitable...say, Niceland. But that scheme didn't do much for Greenland, and it sure as hel didn't work for Vinland. Any benefit from such a cartographic ruse would take decades to reflect anyway...by which time, everyone would have starved to death.

So go berserk, Icelanders. Make sail again for the opulent coasts of the British Isles, Normandy, North America, and the Mediterranean. Ravage the countryside. Grab all that you can and write eddas about your conquests. Even found an obscure kingdom or two. Because, as the great Viking chieftain Eric the Red said a millennium ago, Ven thou ainst got nalthing, thou ainst got nalthing to lose.

Aretha Sang the Wrong Song

2009-01-20T12:30:00.016-05:00

Sure, the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States marks a shining moment in our nation's history, both as a gleaming reaffirmation of American democracy and as the end of the deplorable Bush Administration. But as proud, pleased, and hopeful as I could be in viewing President Obama's inauguration ceremony, I found myself disappointed that Aretha Franklin sang such a predictable and stuffy ballad as "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Patriotic though it be, the tune has no groove, nothing worthy of the Queen of Soul.

I would have been much more impressed had Ms. Franklin sung her 1968 hit, "Think," which she recreated so brilliantly in The Blues Brothers. Imagine the inspiration and respect America would regain had Aretha belted out "You better think (think, think) what you're tryin' to do to me" while President-Elect Obama and Vice President-Elect Biden danced and clapped à la Jake and Elwood and First Lady Michelle and her two daughters provided backing vocals. Sure, space was tight on the rostrum, but the Secret Service could have cleared out the Bushes and the Cheneys a few minutes early. And with former president Bill Clinton providing Blue Lou Marini's saxophone solo from the facade above the stage, America would again be the hippest nation on Earth.

Especially at song's end, as Aretha angrily gestures the President-Elect to take the oath with, "Well, go ahead, dammit!"

Oh freedom (freedom)...freedom (freedom)...freedom (freedom)...yeah, freedom...

By the way, I was also disappointed that Jerky Boy Johnny Brennan wasn't chosen to administer the Presidential Oath of Office...

The Press Do Not Impress

2009-01-19T09:57:00.037-05:00

Now that the combatants for Super Bowl XLIII have been set, two weeks of media superhype ensue. Coaches and players will be paraded in front of cameras to face a seemingly unending barrage of redundant questions as journalists search desperately for fresh angles on a game that often is rendered anticlimactic. Microanalyzing everything from game strategy to team meals to manufactured drama surrounding players' families, overzealous reporters inevitably run out of sensible queries and reel off such inanities as "Do you ever read in the shower?" and "What was the last movie you saw in Sensurround?"

Surprisingly, one question that is never posed to the visiting head coach, however, is whether he will choose heads or tails in the opening coin toss. It's a significant question—the coin toss gives one team the opportunity to jump out to the lead and can ultimately affect the outcome of the game. And imagine if the Super Bowl reaches overtime. Amazingly, none of the forty-two previous contests have ever necessitated overtime...but what if? This ain't the NCAA—the winner of the overtime coin toss could win the Super Bowl without the other team ever getting to touch the ball, as often happens in the regular season.

And don't forget the thousands of gambling addicts across the nation who will be wagering their rent on which side of the coin faces up. You can bet they'll be climbing the walls wanting to know what Pittsburgh Steelers head coach Mike Tomlin is planning.

Tomlin is a shrewd gridiron commander, leading Pittsburgh to a 24-11 record in his two seasons at the helm. A workaholic and master strategist, Tomlin will undoubtedly spend the next two weeks working 18-hour days with his assistant coaches, likely studying game films of past Super Bowl coin flips, taking a crash course in probability theory, and gauging the musculo-dynamic tendencies of honorary coin-flipper Roger Craig's thumb,* before deciding whether he'll order captain Ben Roethlisberger to call heads or tails.

*Roger Craig reportedly has predicted heads, but the fact that he's been practicing with a Triscuit renders his forecast suspect.

So it remains curious that reporters starved for insightful commentary on the year's most prestigious sporting event always fail to inquire about the visiting head coach's first strategic move of the game.

Arizona Cardinals head coach Ken Whisenhunt, a former Steelers offensive coordinator, is all too familiar with the Pittsburgh franchise's coin-flipping philosophy. He may well know what Tomlin is thinking, although Whisenhunt has remained silent on what his counterpart may do, opting only to comment, "May the best team win the coin toss."

Or as Super Bowl XXXVIII honorary coin-tosser Y.A. Tittle put it: "God, I hate my surname."

Take Me Out to the Cold Rain

2008-10-28T12:38:00.049-05:00

Mother Nature spoiled Game 5 of the World Series last night with a chilly downpour from an early nor'easter. Commissioner Bud Selig suspended the game after 5½ innings—marking the first time a World Series contest has ever been suspended. Heavy snow fell in parts of the Philadelphia metropolitan area this morning, and tonight's continuation of Game 5 has already been rescheduled for tomorrow evening.

Whereas Commissioner Selig has seen fit to preserve what little is left of Major League Baseball's integrity—as well as make Philadelphians wait agonizingly for their first major-sports championship in a quarter-century—by not permitting adverse weather to influence a World Series game's outcome, we should remind ourselves that baseball used to be played and administrated by real men. Just look at the photo above: Opening Day, 1911, in Detroit. Blizzard conditions. The White Sox catcher eschews a squat, lest he be buried in drifting snow. Leadoff man Davy Jones' hands are stuck to the bat.* And the umpire needed two days stuffed inside a hot dog cart to be thawed out. Yet the wintry assault couldn't keep Ty Cobb from going 3-for-4 and spiking a vociferous spectator with a flying drop-kick in near-whiteout conditions.

*This is not the Davy Jones of The Monkees—although this Davy Jones did live long enough to hear "Daydream Believer" and subsequently drive himself to the morgue.

Sure, last night's inclement weather caused atrocious playing conditions and perhaps even posed a minor health hazard to thousands of fans stuck in steady, cold rain. I'll admit—I felt awful for the Phillie Phanatic, its fur soaked and matted (and as seen here, too weak to move). As far as I know, the Phanatic is cold-blooded. It may not have survived the rain delay. Has anyone looked into that?

Still, harsh April and October weather was far more common in the old days, before global warming shortened winter's grasp, and the Fall Classic has been no stranger to adverse conditions—such as in the inaugural World Series of 1903, when a snowbound Cy Young of the Boston Americans (a/k/a Red Sox) battled the elements as well as the Pittsburgh Pirates in Game 7 long after heavy snow had chased away most fans. Seen below (with 3rd-baseman Jimmy Collins guarding against the bunt), Young called this "my coldest day in baseball" but still stifled the Pirates for a 7-3 victory.

Bud Selig has to suck it up and let these guys play ball. And I mean literally suck it up—get down on his hands and knees and suck up all the water on the basepaths and mound so that the Phils can bring our city a championship with no more delay. Selig has been highly culpable in Major League Baseball's recent black eyes (ignoring the rise of steroids, ineffectually presiding over the strike that canceled the 1994 World Series, declaring a tie in the 2002 All-Star Game), so the least he can do to clean up baseball is to clean up the baseball diamond.

Assume the position, Bud.

Pretzel's Honor

2008-10-27T09:11:00.009-05:00

Before the start of the NLCS between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Philadelphia Phillies, L.A. Times columnist T.J. Simers wrote an article that went beyond poking good-natured fun at the opponent city and took cheap shots at Philadelphia, its culture, and its citizens. An excerpt:

ANGRYVILLE—You spend any time in this dingy city and around these folks, and pit bulls running wild come to mind.

Fine when leashed, but set them free, put a beer in their grubby paws and it's only a matter of time before they're going to go on the attack—both the home team and its opponent feeling the bite.

For Dodgers, it will be handle with care... Dodgers bullpen might not include...It's an angry place, all right, everything old here in Philadelphia, crumbling and in ruin. Even the city's main attraction has a crack in it.

So the prevailing opinion around here is you have to be an obstinate pug to make it in Philly, the football team tough, the hockey team a bunch of bullies and the Phillies rugged competitors like Larry Bowa.

This is supposed to make Philly an intimidating place to play, Bowa telling the media Wednesday that if the Dodgers thought Chicago was bad, "they're going to be in for a rude awakening" playing here.

"It was like a West Coast crowd in Chicago," said Bowa, the Philly in him unable to keep himself from slapping Dodgers fans, and apparently discounting the manner in which Nancy Bea Hefley can whip a Dodgers crowd into a frenzy.

But if a Philly crowd is so intimidating, as Bowa suggests, why do the Phillies lose here so often? A year ago, the Phillies became the first pro sports franchise in North American history to lose 10,000 games.

Philly has always been more bark than championship bite, so why should the Dodgers give a hoot about folks who paint their faces and then have to drive home looking like sad clowns?

The Dodgers have the better team, a destiny date in Boston, and while that might make the folks in Philly miserable, they don't know how to act any differently here.

Simers' article was soon reprinted on a Philadelphia Web site (digphilly.com), whereupon it drew the ire of many locals. It was brought to my attention by a friend, who "commissioned" me to post a suitable response to Simers' boorish snobbery:

T.J. Simers proved as astute a baseball expert as an appreciator of American culture. But that’s to be expected from a resident of a city so uninventive that it essentially named one of its baseball teams the “City of Angels Angels.” Through L.A. smog, he foresaw victory for a squad that won a powderpuff division with a puny 84 wins—and won it solely because the Boston Red Sox virtually gave away Manny Ramirez. Without Boston’s gift, the Dodgers are pipe-dreaming of a .500 season. Even with Manny, they could only eke out a lone win in the NLCS—but that’ll happen when the opponent’s #2 starting pitcher out-RBI’s your catcher and right-fielder combined.

Yes, everything is “old here in Philadelphia, crumbling and in ruin.” We’re practically living in rubble. To hell with the history of the United States—we should raze historical and architectural landmarks like Independence Hall, the Museum of Art, Walnut Street Theater, the marvelously ornate City Hall, and start afresh. Who needs the colonial sublimity of Elfreth’s Alley when we could instead erect soulless abominations like Walt Disney Concert Hall and stare agog at how shiny they are? (Note to Los Angeles City Council: Keep Donald Duck away from the blueprints next time.)

Still, we’re quite proud of our city’s main attraction, crack and all. In the town that gave the New World democracy, our Liberty Bell is the foremost symbol of freedom—the same freedom enjoyed for the last fourteen years by the unending Los Angeles embarrassment known as O.J.

Yes, the Phillies were the first North American team to 10,000 losses. It’s easy to stay off that list when your city doesn’t even have a professional sports team until after World War II. (Our long-departed A’s gave us five World Series titles before Hollywood even started shooting in Technicolor.) And how does the second-largest city in the nation allow not one—but two—NFL teams to abandon it? That’s some fan base Apathenos have there. But then, you can’t spell “blasé” without “LA.” Granted, the Lakers own a glorious history (even if their best player of the last decade is a Philadelphian), but those triumphs are cruelly balanced by the woeful Clippers, one of the poorest-run franchises in American sport.

And why do the Kings even bother?

“Angryville,” as Simers has less-than-cleverly dubbed Philadelphia (conjure that one in six-lane traffic on the way to work, T.J.?), doesn’t require Hollywood glitterati at its games. We’re content living without the starstruck sycophantism of La La Land. And if our favorite sons are as glamour-less as Benjamin Franklin and W.C. Fields, that still beats the Bloods, Crips, and the omni-obnoxious Jack Nicholson. (By the way, six decades after his death, Fields’ films are still more entertaining than ninety-five percent of the drek Hollywood churns out.)

Philadelphians are passionate fans, alright—occasionally too much so—but it was Dodgers fans guilty of acting like classless buffoons in this series, reported in the media and caught on Youtube throwing food, viciously berating, and even spitting at isolated Phillies fans.
You might want to reset the coordinates of Angryville in your GPS, T.J.

A Foreheady Rivalry

2008-10-13T11:00:00.069-05:00

Peyton Manning has been inextricably linked to brother Eli since the younger Manning entered the NFL in 2004. And with good reason: the Mannings are talented, high-profile quarterbacks who each led his team to Super Bowl victory in the last two seasons.

But as unfair as comparisons of a younger, struggling Eli to his superstar sibling have been at times, those comparisons have proved just as unfair to the elder Manning. For the hard truth is—though the Manning boys engender direct comparison because they are siblings playing the same position—Peyton's true rival is Mike Farrell, a/k/a Capt. B.J. Hunnicutt of M*A*S*H.

Until Peyton Manning's emergence on the national stage in 1998, Mike Farrell's crown for America's biggest forehead remained unchallenged—an honor he had taken from the Talosians of the Star Trek pilot (seen at right). Joining the M*A*S*H ensemble in 1975, Farrell's prominent squama frontalis instantly became the most recognizable frontal anatomy in prime-time. Although cast as a mild-mannered foil to Hawkeye, the producers soon found that Farrell's forehead lent much-needed counterbalance to Jamie Farr's nose. Farrell's huge forehead quickly became one of the 4077th's centerpieces—and even found its way into plotlines, doubling as an emergency helicopter pad in Episode 114, "Beyond the Call."

Farrell confessed to People in a 1981 interview: "Most of my fan mail concerns my forehead. Viewers want to know everything about it."

After M*A*S*H left the air, Farrell considered reprising his role in a spinoff, which was to be called BJ, MD and follow his post-war days as President Eisenhower's personal physician. But Farrell, a liberal activist, thought the character's conservative leanings on transthoracic echocardiography too out of sync with his own. Yet even without a major role since 1983, the abundant acreage above Farrell's eyebrows left him the king of craniums for a quarter-century.

And along comes Peyton Manning, a supremely talented quarterback with a forehead unlike any ever seen in the NFL. Former Indianapolis Colts coach Jim Mora would diagram plays on Peyton's ample forehead during timeouts. Sure, Manning's forehead afforded plenty of space for all the X's and O's—the Colts offense had a grand view of Mora's strategy. Only problem was that Peyton, himself, couldn't see the play. He'd look up and try to snare a glimpse of the upcoming playcall, but, of course, it was futile...and the Colts finished a dreary 3-13 that season. Not until Tony Dungy introduced the clipboard to the Indianapolis offense in 2002 did Manning blossom into an MVP.

Neither Manning nor Farrell has ever consented to a forehead measurement, so it remains to be seen who officially possesses more cranial surface area. But Manning's celebrity and broad advertising appeal have made him virtually ubiquitous, whereas Farrell has largely faded from the public eye. However, Farrell is fast becoming the darling of the astronomy circuit, his convex upper profile providing California observatories with on-demand solar eclipses, from which scientists have garnered a wealth of new data about the sun's atmosphere. Rumor has it that Farrell may take his new talent to observatories across the nation so that the public might benefit, and that Farrell has acquired the rights to Thus Spake Zarathustra to complement what NASA has dubbed the "Farrellian eclipse." This could well make Mike Farrell a hot commodity once again, so perhaps the crown shouldn't be handed to Peyton Manning too quickly.

Who's really the Sultan of Skull? Unless someone can get a caliper to Farrell's and Manning's foreheads while they're sleeping, it's the Super Bowl vs. the solar eclipse in the battle for the public's heart.

Sibling Vapidity

2008-10-06T11:47:00.022-05:00

Last Thursday, USS Intrepid, one of the United States Navy’s most decorated aircraft carriers, returned to the Manhattan pier she has called home for a quarter-century, after a two-year, $120 million renovation in nearby Staten Island. Intrepid—seen here steaming toward something exciting—saw action in six major battles of the Pacific war, as well as in Korea and Vietnam. She also twice served as a recovery ship for NASA astronauts. Since 1982, she has served as the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, one of New York City's most popular tourist attractions.

Yet, whereas Intrepid has one of the most distinguished careers of all aircraft carriers, little remembered is her sister ship, USS Insipid, owner of a stultifyingly boring and pointless history.

According to Jane’s Bickering Ships:

USS Insipid (CV-0) is surely the United States Navy’s most banal warship. Her keel laid down in autumn 1941 by wholly disinterested shipbuilders, she sailed from one end of the Pacific to the other without once encountering the enemy. Sighs of boredom from her exasperated crew could be heard aboard screening vessels more than a thousand yards away, and she soon came to be known throughout the fleet as "Dull Hull." By March 1945, even the Japanese Imperial Navy deemed her too jejune to seek out and directed their kamikaze pilots to target more interesting vessels. At war’s conclusion, she docked in San Francisco Harbor to scattered yawns.

Boatswain's Mate J.W. Chouinard and Betsy with
nothing to do in the Tasman Sea, 1944.

The third ship in the US Navy's history to bear the name Insipid, she inherited a pallid legacy. The original Insipid, a frigate that fruitlessly patrolled the Mid-Atlantic coast during the War of 1812, was taken out of service when her jaded crew contracted narcolepsy. Her successor, a Union gunboat, ran aground in 1864 due to "dreadful ennui."

Insipid's colorless career continued until 1962, when the Chief of Naval Operations recalled that she was still part of the fleet and, deciding that the ensuing paperwork would be more stimulating than giving Insipid another assignment, ordered her decommissioned. Capt. Theodore Purvis, tears of monotony streaming down his face, gushed, "Thank god that's over with..." Her 20-year ship's log, now displayed behind some empty boxes in a closet of the United States Navy Museum, contained no entries.

Three Ryans a-Vyin'

2008-08-27T12:13:00.035-05:00

As of this morning, the top three National League leaders in home runs comprised a trio of Ryans: Philadelphia's Ryan Howard leading the league (and tied with Adam Dunn), followed closely by Ryan Braun of the Milwaukee Brewers and Ryan Ludwick of the St. Louis Cardinals.

There were 400 players on the National League's 2008 Opening Day rosters. Of those 400, 16 were named Ryan—and of those 16, six were pitchers. Thus, there are only 10 Ryans realistically capable of leading the league in home runs. Excluding Howard, Braun, and Ludwick, the remaining seven Ryans have, as of this morning, hit a collective total of 40 homers, with no player hitting more than Ryan Doumit's 13—hardly making any of these Ryans a threat to win the home-run crown.

Furthermore, Ryan Howard is the only Ryan ever to win a home-run title (2006) since the inception of the first professional league, in 1871, which illustrates the futility of a Ryan competing with the Hanks, Willies, and Gavvys of the baseball world.

According to namestatistics.com, whose data are derived from the US Census, Ryan is the 49th most common male name in the United States, with only 0.328% of the American male population possessing it. And Ryan currently is near its peak of popularity as a name for newborn American males—it has never appeared anywhere near the top ten most popular names since baseball's inception. Thus, the odds of three Ryans simultaneously leading the league in such a butch category as home runs is—well, my abacus is missing a few pegs, but it's gotta be in the zillions. Statistically, the chances of such an occurrence must be about as infinitesimal as Saving Private Ryan, Saving Ryan's Privates, and Shaving Ryan's Privates finishing 1-2-3 for an Oscar as Best Picture.

Which might have happened had Tom Hanks trumpeted comical war wounds and erotic hair removal as much as he did World War II veterans...

(Graphic wizardry courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

Dude, Where's My Sequel?

2008-08-22T08:21:00.013-05:00

I just had the idea for Ashton Kutcher's next film, based on an incident that I experienced not twenty minutes ago. Exiting my local bank, I walked to my car and opened the door. (I always lock my car door, even when popping into the lobby just to use the ATM...except for this time.) As I opened the car door, I hear, "Dude, that's my car," coming from a very portly gentleman who had exited the lobby a few steps behind me. I looked down and realized that I was absent-mindedly opening the door of the car adjacent to mine (I didn't need my key, as I'd left it unlocked, but by coincidence, his door also was unlocked).

Dude, That's My Car! would make the perfect sequel to Dude, Where's My Car?, Ashton Kutcher's career-defining epic. A two-hour film based on an insignificant five-second incident? Well, it's still more to go on than the original 2000 flick.

Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott drive to the bank to get money for their twin girlfriends' second-anniversary presents, only to find that they don't possess enough collective brain-power to operate the ATM. Frustrated and broke, they decide to go home, eat pudding, and watch their DVD of G.I. Jane. But as they're getting into the vehicle, a portly man (optimally played by William H. Macy, who puts on 90 lb for the uncredited cameo) informs them, "Dude, that's my car!" Further failing to possess enough collective brain-power to identify their own car, Ashton and Seann are forced to stand outside the bank for six hours, until the bank closes and the parking lot empties...during which time they discuss such compelling topics as what was their car's license-plate number to how awesome it would be to be back in their car.

When they finally get back to their car, Ashton and Seann realize that not only is it too late to buy presents for their girlfriends, but that they forgot to write their twin girlfriends into the sequel. Lamenting their lack of brain-power, Ashton and Seann become further despondent when they realize that their DVD of G.I. Jane probably isn't showing again tonight. They drive off to go home and eat pudding, leaving the door open for yet another sequel..."Dude, Where's My Pudding?

Also starring Stifler's mom as the lascivious bank teller who posts interest in her own special way and Rain Man as the automated change counter with a personal touch.

(Dude, Where's My Car? photo copyright 20th Century Fox.)

Saving the Last for Best

2008-08-12T08:25:00.019-05:00

Forty-six years after being kicked out of The Beatles, the first album of original songs by Pete Best is scheduled for release in mid-September. Don't be surprised if it's titled F*ck You, Ringo!

I'd also wager that the track list goes a little something...like this:

1. Can't Buy Me Bread
2. I Should Have Played Better
3. While My Snare Gently Weeps
4. I'm Only Sleeping in the Alley
5. Hey Judas
6. I Want to Hold Your Hand (Over an Open Flame)
7. Baby I'm a Poor Man
8. You Forgot My Name (Look Up Welfare's Number)
9. I Want to Tell You That You Ruined My Life
10. Lonely Peetah
11. Komm, Gib Mir Deine Royalty (bonus track)

Pat and Randy's Band Release Album!

2008-07-02T09:09:00.006-05:00

This is the shameless promotion of the day. Pat and Randy's band, Effusion 35, has at long last released its debut album, Stonewind. Please buy it so that they can eat.

A Great American

2008-07-01T13:56:00.015-05:00

In a perfect world, George Carlin would have been president, for he possessed far more intelligence and honesty than any actual candidate. Carlin's incisive wit peeled away the layers of bullshit that the government, organized religion, big business, and everyday idiots heap on the world, exposing human foibles with the visceral precision of a forensic pathologist.

Yet, as Carlin demonstrated time and again, this is anything but a perfect world.

My introduction to George Carlin occurred circa 1977 as I watched an airing of Saturday Night Live. He walked on stage and stared blankly at the audience, not uttering a word during his entire routine. At first confused, the crowd's reaction slowly turned to pockets of giggling, until, after two or three minutes, the audience couldn't contain itself and bubbled over in torrents of laughter as an expressionless Carlin eyed them silently. I was about ten and too young to grasp the courage of such a routine. But Carlin had the courage to say and do what he believed, whether it be his infamous "seven dirty words" or his diatribes on the fallibility of religion and our leaders. Sometimes he made his audience squirm because they were among the characters and ideologies he lampooned—but he made them laugh as they squirmed, and he made them think with his wonderfully constructed routines. Carlin's rapid-fire wordplay fell from his acerbic tongue so eloquently that how he said it almost overshadowed what he said. And when he microscoped the mundanities of everyday life, such as on A Place For My Stuff—one of the funniest comedy albums ever recorded—Carlin created timeless humor that will remain forever relevant.

In one of his many HBO specials, Carlin claimed, "I'm not a very good American, because I like to form my own opinions. I don't just roll over when I'm told to." His all-too-accurate knock on Americans' sheep-like proclivity aside, George Carlin was, perhaps, the ultimate American. Anyone can waive Old Glory and proclaim America "great"—it is the courage to question (and when necessary...denigrate) the highly suspect actions of those in power that constitutes the rarefied essence of what it means to be an American.

The Supreme Court ruled Carlin's "seven dirty words" routine "indecent, but not obscene," but Carlin, watchdog as well as comedian, highlighted life's true obscenities in its iniquities, prejudices, and idiocy. He never mellowed with age or grew complacent with fame, maintaining to the end his prolificacy and dissatisfaction with the state of the world. Carlin is one of the few people about whom I can honestly say that our world is a lesser place without him, because—if you'll consult his seven dirty words—George Carlin was one funny #6.

Heston Peace, Charlton

2008-04-11T08:08:00.013-05:00

As a youngster, one of my first personifications of God was Charlton Heston’s Moses in The Ten Commandments. Sure, I little grasped biblical hierarchy, but Moses’ austere white beard, commanding voice, flowing robe, and superpowered walking staff epitomized a Supreme Being to my young eyes. Not long after, Dad took me to see Earthquake, and the ultimate eye-opener proved not to be the oh-so-lame Sensurround, but witnessing the man I previously identified as God struggling to lower a screaming yenta down the side of a wrecked skyscraper with a chair and firehose. That’ll take the luster off a deity right quick.

Still, as both actor and activist, Charlton Heston played a leading role on the American scene for more than half a century, fooling thousands into believing he was Jewish through such iconic roles as Moses, Judah Ben-Hur, and the narrator in Armageddon, while lending star-power to every Rambo-wannabe nutjob itching to get his trigger finger on an automatic weapon. With the passing last Sunday of one of the earliest influencers on my conscious, I can’t help but pause to reflect on the man who, for a time, filled my young mind with otherworldly wonder.

Nor can I help but wonder if his final resting place will be marked by a Ten Commandments–like double-headstone. Or possibly a half-buried mini–Statue of Liberty. Will any apes attend his funeral? Will he be buried with a rifle, or will the funeral director indeed pry it from his cold, dead hands? Will he even be buried, or will his corpse be used to make soylent green? Tough questions to ask about the man who once embodied my concept of God.

Yet they needed to be asked. Needed to be asked because I’m bored out of my freakin’ mind by my job and all I have for jollies during daylight hours is this goddamn Web site that nobody reads and it now costs almost $3 for a friggin’ slice of plain pizza and I can’t get my hands on a DVD of the original Ultraman series, which I haven’t seen since 1975, and no one uses a goddamn turn signal anymore and the world is teeming with idiots, all of whom find their way into my life, and the country is doomed and I’m hungry and I have no money for the vending machine and I just wanna lie down.

Yes, these questions needed to be asked.

Heston peace, Charlton.

Catching Up With a Stand-up Performer

2008-03-05T09:21:00.021-05:00

As the 40th anniversary of the release of 2001: A Space Odyssey approaches, you’d think that the film's most recognizable star would stop and smell the roses. But while other surviving veterans of the science-fiction classic are fondly reminiscing on a job—and a career—well done, not every cast member is basking in the starshine. The forty years since this cinematic landmark have not been kind to the 2001 Monolith, and he let’s Mount Drinkmore know about it.

Randy: First of all, should I call you "Monolith"?

Monolith: Yes. I prefer it to “slab.”

Randy: Is this a special year for you? Is there a heightened sense of pride that your work is as highly regarded today as it was four decades ago?

Monolith: I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of what the film still means to people. We revolutionized an entire genre of motion pictures, and to an extent, American culture.

Randy: And yet you’re bitter?

Monolith: You’re damn right!......I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit on edge about all of this.

[Quite literally he was, and I needed a lever to get him down flat again.]

Monolith: You see, being selected for that film was an honor and a challenge. I did some really fine work in it. Have you ever seen a more low-key, yet dominating, performance than what I portrayed in the “Dawn of Man” scene? It was all-encompassing power and subtle dignity amongst screeching, frenzied man-apes. Steve McQueen couldn't have pulled that off. I thought my career would skyrocket after that caliber of acting.

Randy: And what did happen?

Monolith: We all know what happened—a bunch of half-assed, totally exploitative offers that led nowhere. A lot of Roger Corman rubbish—Blood Slab and the Cobra Woman. Are you kidding? Playing second fiddle to Bruce Dern in parts not fit for a dog. You know who got all the glory? HAL. He’s the one everybody remembers. A red light! From the back of the theater, he could’ve been mistaken for the exit sign. All of his lines had to be overdubbed by Douglas Rain anyway. Yet he’s the icon. Big deal. A talking computer won’t open the pod-bay doors. Boo-hoo. That’s a film? Not much of a story without my mysterious intrigue and extraterrestrial intelligence. But the industry forgot about me in a hurry. The only offer I’ve had in the last four years has been to pitch Viagra. “You'll be the perfect spokesman,” they told me. What a joke.

Randy: The rest of the cast went on to fairly successful careers in the 70s and 80s. Did you ever feel resentment toward them?

Monolith: In the beginning. I mean, those damn apes padded a half-hour sequence into years of lucrative Samsonite commercials. I stewed about it for a while. But then I came to realize that the apes, Keir Dullea, Gary Lockwood, William Sylvester, all of them, were just doing what they had to do. I would’ve done the same. What made me seethe—and still does—are the studios. They wouldn’t know talent if it emoted in their faces. By 1970, the quality parts had already dried up. Do you know what I had to resort to? That damn Who’s Next album cover. Can you believe that? Here I am, the star of a groundbreaking film just a few years before, and I’m sitting through six hours of makeup just so they can make me look like a concrete block. The money was good, but if I’d known those limey animals were going to urinate on me, I’d have crushed them where they stood.

Randy: Didn’t you also appear on Led Zeppelin's Presence album?

Monolith: That’s only a likeness of me. They wanted me, but I didn’t want to get typecast in album cover art, so I refused. Jimmy Page somehow got hold of my baby pictures and used them without my permission. I never saw dime one. If it ain't nailed down, Jimmy Page'll steal it. And if it is nailed down, Page'll steal the floor and get it anyway.

Randy: And what about the sequel, 2010?

Monolith: [heavy groan] Rubbish. I did it for the money. Period. They had me regurgitate the same role I’d done fifteen years before. Humiliating.

Randy: So what do you think of 2001 from a cinematic standpoint?

Monolith: I must be dashing the hopes of every hardcore fan out there, but I don't know what the hell it means. People are always coming to me for the answer, looking for some mystical insight that will unravel the great cinematic secret. Damned if I know what Kubrick was going for. I don’t have the answer. I’m just happy not to fall over.

Enjoying a quiet afternoon in the park is a challenge for the Monolith, whose privacy is often disturbed by those soliciting the meaning of his most famous role.

Randy: From a technical aspect, though, it certainly was a marvel.

Monolith: Sure, no doubt about that. But gimmickry was never my cup of tea. I always preferred dialogue and character development. I was weaned on English sitting-room dramas, and well-crafted witticism sat better with me than filling the screen with fantastic colors. The “Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite” sequence was nice, but it did nothing to advance the plot. Truth be told, I thought it would have fit much better in Barry Lyndon, but that’s hindsight.

Randy: How did you decide on an acting career?

Monolith: I come from a long line of I-bars, cross-beams, and highway pillars. But even at a young age, I didn’t see holding up an overpass as a rewarding profession. It was so...redundant. I did have a cousin who found success as a sculpture outside of a Cleveland public school, but acting was in my blood from an early age. I never felt that I could express myself as a piece of superstructure.

Randy: Did you have any idols in the acting arena?

Monolith: I've always admired the strong, silent type, so I was a great aficionado of Gary Cooper. He could say more just by standing there than any other actor I’ve seen. I also adored Red Skelton, but I learned early on that hamming it up wasn’t my forte.

Randy: What are your thoughts on Stanley Kubrick?

Monolith: He got more out of me than any other director, before or since. We’d met in ‘66 at a foundry in Birmingham and hit it off right away. He was taken with my appearance and intimated to me that he was writing a treatment about some outer-space epic. Our chat must have left a good impression, because he called two weeks later asking if I’d be interested in the part of the Monolith. I told him, “You provide the crane, and I'll do it.”

Randy: So you were his first choice for the role?

Monolith: Well, the first choice of actual actors. They’d hit a snag on how to depict the “Sentinel,” as it was called at the time, from Arthur C. Clarke’s original short story. As filming approached, MGM was really pressuring him to get the ball rolling. Out of desperation, he was going to use a blackened, overcooked soft pretzel shot at low angles as the Monolith...which probably wouldn't have played as well. It was just good fortune that we bumped into each other when we did. Well, he bumped into me...

Randy: Did you sit in on any of the advance screenings before the general release?

Monolith: Yes. I had the crew of Loew’s Chinese Theater disguise me as one of the balcony risers and laid quietly under the last two rows. The audience viewed the unedited version about three weeks before it actually premiered. Not a peep out of them for the first forty-five minutes. But as the sequence on the moon developed, the audience really got into it. I found out later that people were dropping enough acid to drown a cow.

Randy: Did you ever indulge back then?

Monolith: I never got involved in the drug scene. Besides, I’m solid, non-porous lucite, with no mouth, nose, or veins. How would I even ingest them?

Randy: Does any aspect of show business still give you pleasure?

Monolith: Not really. My son has taken up acting and quite enjoys it. He’s very good. I enjoy it through him. He’s playing Hitler’s moustache in the new Broadway version of The Producers.

Randy: Clarke wrote two sequels since your last film appearance, in 2010. Would you ever consider doing one of them?

Monolith: Only if they give me screen time worthy of my talent. I’d much rather get a spot on Boston Legal.

Randy: Do you ever see any of your co-stars?

Monolith: Only if they come to see me. It’s tough for me to get around. I saw Keir Dullea about two years ago at a Piggly Wiggly, but he was in a rush. In truth, I had very little interaction with him during shooting. It was the apes with whom I shared the most scenes. I’ve stayed in touch with a few of them over the years. Doug Rain still crank-calls me as HAL. Every year, it's the same gag—"Hello, Monolith...it's HAL. What...are you...doing, Monolith?" That guy drives me nuts!

[I sensed that the Monolith was getting annoyed now, as his trademark eerie, high-pitched shrill began to crescendo, so I bid the embittered Monolith farewell.]

United Ireland on Shaky Ground

2008-02-29T09:56:00.011-05:00

On Tuesday, a magnitude 5.3 earthquake shook northern England. Sinn Féin and the factions of the IRA missed a golden opportunity when they failed to claim responsibility. Decades of political maneuvering and sporadic violence have brought Ireland little closer to unification, but the Brits might be frightened out of Ulster if they think Irish republicans now have the power to shift the Eurasian plate...especially if Gerry Adams can come up with some strange, unidentifiable contraption with, say, wires running into the ground, and have a photograph taken of him "operating" it.

England at the mercy of Irish earthquakists is a troubling prospect for a nation of tea-drinkers whose boiled lifeblood is so vulnerable to falling dust...and especially grim for chubby UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown, who is prone to embarrassing jiggling.

Such a ruse could finally force the British to relinquish Ulster, achieving a unified, free Irish nation bloodlessly.

Like how Gandhi non-violently got the British to quit India by putting on a scary voice and claiming to be the cause of an early frost that ruined Clement Attlee's petunia garden.

I'm Dreaming of an Olive Christmas

2008-02-29T00:43:00.017-05:00

For centuries, countless Western artists have portrayed Jesus as lilywhite, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired, creating his likeness in their image rather than admit his true ethnicity. But genealogy, biology, and common sense tell us that Jesus, a Middle Eastern Semite, almost certainly possessed olive (or even darker) skin, as well as coarse, dark hair. Our institutional images of Jesus—cast into public consciousness centuries ago by Europeans who could not, or would not, accept so foreign a savior—amount to ethnocentric self-deception.

Yet today, many Americans and Europeans still can't bear the idea of Jesus as anything but the classically wholesome, fair-skinned, Nordic type. Witness the blatant denial of Jesus’ desert heritage in this current ad for a S’mores nativity scene. Could Jesus be any whiter?

When will someone offer a historically accurate S’mores nativity scene using roasted marshmallows that properly reflect Jesus’ true ethnicity?

(Photo of S'mores nativity scene copyright Santa’s Depot.)

To Sleep, Perchance to Vote

2008-02-25T13:45:00.002-05:00

One of my dreams Saturday night included a midget doing yoga. I don’t know what it meant, but I suddenly feel inclined to vote for McCain.

The Curse of Cato

2008-02-22T18:03:00.019-05:00

Sports “curses” have haunted luckless franchises almost as long as professional leagues have existed: the Curse of the Bambino, the Curse of the Billy Goat, The Curse of Muldoon, and the Curse of Billy Penn, to name some of the most infamous.

I believe it’s time to add another “curse” to that list: the Curse of Cato.

Cato the Younger (95-46 BC) was one of Rome’s greatest senators, a staunch defender of the republic, known for his honesty, integrity, and his opposition to power-hungry militarist, Julius Caesar. A man of inscrutable moral fiber, Cato would be appalled that the Ottawa Senators franchise carries as its logo not the pride of the Roman republic, but a Roman centurion—the symbol of brute imperial dictatorship. As senator, Cato devoted his public life fighting to maintain Rome’s republican principles. Such a slight to republican ideals by the Ottawa Senators angers not merely the hockey gods, but Jupiter, Mars, and the entire Roman pantheon.

The Curse of Cato is starkly reflected in the fortunes of the Ottawa Senators. In fourteen full seasons in the modern NHL, the Senators have progressed from league doormats (losing 70 games in 1992-93) to paper tigers. Ottawa has registered at least 100 points in six of the last eight seasons—and is well on its way to a seventh—yet the talented Senators fall short of the Stanley Cup every year.

Prior to the Ottawa Senators’ re-institution to the NHL in 1992 and its adoption of the centurion logo, the first incarnation of the franchise won eleven Stanley Cups as one of professional hockey’s early powerhouses. In those bygone years, Ottawa donned a truer, more honorable logo—one that didn’t mock the franchise’s very soul by featuring its political arch-enemy. In fact, it could be argued—especially after a 12-pack of Labatt’s—that Ottawa’s original logo (seen here, on the sweater of Frank Finnigan) paid senatorial homage to Cato, who was known to friends, Romans, and countrymen simply as “O.” Even if you don’t drink Labatt’s, you can’t deny that the Ottawa Senators enjoyed infinitely more success sporting their Cato-friendly logo. When Ottawa shunned that in favor of an imperial image, the Senators lost power like their Roman counterparts in the wake of the Caesars.

Until the Ottawa Senators lift the Curse of Cato by replacing that centurion on their chests with the deserving image of Cato, Cicero, or one of the Gracchi, don’t expect a parade down Wellington Street any time in the next millennium.

(Ottawa Senators' logos copyright the National Hockey League. Graphic wizardry at center ice courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

2008-02-22T10:17:00.000-05:00

The Imperfect Storm

2008-01-31T07:29:00.002-05:00

In the 1990s, certain Native American groups pressured numerous professional and collegiate organizations to change their nickname from what these groups perceived as stereotypes offensive to their culture—among these "offenders," the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, Washington Redskins, and St. John’s Redmen. According to the St. John’s University Web site, “Redmen” derived not from the traditional derogatory slang for a Native American, but from the fact that “the men of St. John’s wore red.” Even so, St. John’s caved to pressure and renamed itself the “Red Storm” in 1994.

Personally, I never understood the rationale for “Red Storm.” The only sensible connection that it possesses is to Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, a gargantuan red-tinged storm that’s been whirling for centuries through the Jovian atmosphere.

That’s not very practical for an Earth-based team. Whose sponsorship is the university’s board of governors trying to lure? Sure, Jupiter, king of the planets, is a thousand times more voluminous than Earth and potentially harbors a colossal fan base. But even assuming life does exist in its frozen, toxic clouds, it's most likely the microbial variety. And if those microbes could make the 700-million-mile journey to Earth, so many would fit in a single seat of Carnesecca Arena as to render corresponding ticket sales totally unprofitable for the university.

Poor marketing move.

Much wiser would have been to rechristen the university’s nickname the St. John’s Wort. Pharmaceutical companies toss advertising dollars as freely as UConn guards toss alley-oops over St. John’s heads, and with the 7-12 Red Storm currently dead last in the Big East, makers of this herbal treatment for depression could find a goldmine among tortured St. John’s students and alumni. Frankly, how can St. John’s University hope to compete against Georgetown, Syracuse, and the other beasts of the Big East without becoming the St. John’s Wort and cashing in on America’s insatiable need for medication? Yes, St. John’s wort may cause sensitivity to sunlight, but when you’re going to school in Queens...the less time spent outside, the better.

DISCLAIMER: Less than sixty seconds before I posted this, ESPN SportsCenter’s upcoming topics displayed on the right side of the screen included the headline “St. John’s Warts.” For the record, ESPN’s pun in no way inspired or gave rise to this post. In truth, I conceived the idea for this post six weeks ago—a fact verifiable by Mount Drinkmore’s Dave, who worked the graphic genius that you see above via e-mail on December 20, 2007—although the text had not been fully fleshed out. This morning’s headline on ESPN merely served as the catalyst to finish this post immediately, lest some Cheeto-fingered ESPN junkie falsely accuse me of lifting ideas.

I would also like to express my deep admiration for ESPN anchorwoman Linda Cohn’s thighs, so seldomly yet tantalizingly displayed during full-body shots.

(Graphic enhancement courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave; St. John's Red Storm logo copyright St. John's University; photo of Jupiter courtesy of NASA.)

Here a Goose, There a Goose...

2008-01-21T15:29:00.038-05:00

On January 8, Goose Gossage was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in his ninth year of eligibility. The fireballing fireman was one of the premier closers of the late 1970s and early 1980s, thrice leading the American League in saves, en route to a lifetime total of 310—fourth on the all-time list upon his retirement. Regardless of your personal feeling on whether (or how many) relief pitchers deserve enshrinement in Cooperstown, one fact is indisputable: the hallowed walls of baseball’s Hall now boast a pair of Geese: Goose Gossage and 1920s slugger, Goose Goslin.

No sooner does Gossage emerge from the decade-long battle amongst Baseball Writers’ Association of America voters over the Hall-worthiness of relief pitchers than he finds himself immersed in an even stickier debate: Just who is the Hall of Fame’s greatest Goose?

It’s futile to debate the statistical virtues of a slugging left-fielder versus a flame-throwing reliever. Clearly, both were among baseball’s best during their heyday, and each vaulted his team into multiple World Series. So what remains to settle the issue?

Why, prominent facial features, of course.

Goose Goslin was renowned for his colossal proboscis, which took up much of Griffith Stadium’s outfield and may well have been the source of his nickname. Born in Salem, New Jersey, some say Goslin’s nose grew to enormous proportion as a direct result of the nuclear power plants located in his hometown. But as many pundits fail to realize, Goslin’s nose had reached its generous size more than half a century before the first Salem nuclear plant commenced operation.

Goose Gossage, as many will recall, sported in his prime an intimidating horseshoe moustache, which, when combined with his surly on-field attitude and blazing fastball, lent him something of a demonic aura. I once saw him throw a fastball behind a batter, leaving the hitter shaken and contemplating a career change to geology. Gossage’s horseshoe moustache irrefutably contributed to his greatest success, for his career stats demonstrate that his glory years in New York and San Diego coincided with donning his overgrown facial hair, whereas he had largely struggled while clean-shaven with the White Sox. Such mustachioed success was recognized by opponents, culminating infamously in 1979, when Carlton Fisk of the arch-rival Red Sox charged the mound with a Gillette Atra.

Goose Goslin, too, used his facial attributes to his advantage. Although one of the most feared sluggers of his day, Goslin was hit by a pitch 55 times, almost all of them on his nose—including a key 1931 contest in which his bases-loaded hit-by-pitch in the 9th inning enabled the fifth-place St. Louis Browns to cut the mighty Philadelphia Athletics' lead to 17-3. (After the game, a bandaged and bruised Goslin called his effort, "My gweatest day in basebawl.") His nose also played a vital role in the 1935 World Series by providing shade for a laboring Alvin Crowder late in Game 4. Crowder credited Goslin's nasal shade with conserving enough of his strength to shut out the Cubs over the final three innings and preserve victory for the Tigers.

Clearly, each Goose's unique facial feature contributed mightily to his success. Enough to make each Goose a Hall of Famer? It's difficult to assess...although the majority of animal-nicknamed players go on to Hall of Fame careers—Ducky Medwick, Rabbit Maranville, Catfish Hunter, Chick Hafey, Turkey Stearnes, Mule Suttles. (Frankly, Cooperstown is as much zoo as it is museum...)

Bill James, one of baseball's preeminent sabermetricians, awarded the following total of career "win shares"—his measure of an individual player's contribution to his team's performance—to each Goose:

Goose Goslin: 355
Goose Gossage: 223

Such a large discrepancy is, of course, a result of comparing a relief pitcher against a position player, who, obviously, plays far more often—and thus has far more impact—on his team's fortunes. Even so, such figures swing well in favor of Goslin as the greater Goose.

However, the win-shares system doesn't take into account that Gossage, who pitched for six years in the all-night party of the Big Apple, probably got laid a helluva lot more.

Yup, boners are more important than homers. I've gotta go with Goose Gossage as the Baseball Hall of Fame's greatest Goose.

Dream: A Muddy Little Christmas With The Zombies

2008-01-11T15:14:00.001-05:00

Hold onto your hats for this one—I am going to see this boat my grandmother bought. It's a fairly sizable fishing boat. Me, Melissa, and my family are all going. We get there and the boat resides in this football field–sized swimming pool. We get on and just tool around the pool for an hour or so. The pool is also filthy with leaves and dirt everywhere and is in the middle of nowhere. After that fun, Melissa and I head back to this house we have on the plains. We have to get back before dark to board it up because the "zombies" are coming. They do come, but don't get in. The next day, we go to my parents' house to find that Melissa's mom has left Christmas presents for us in the mud in the back yard, by my old tire swing. Also, our cat is on a leash and is trying to break free. Again, we rush home because the zombies are coming.

Worst Idea Ever #731: Mick Jagger and David Bowie's "Dancin' In The Street"

2008-01-09T09:47:00.002-05:00

It probably seemed like a good idea on paper. Two friends....perhaps more than friends.....both highly talented and respected singers in their own right, covering a Motown classic from back in the era when they themselves first made their mark. Okay, I can accept that. But then there was the VIDEO. Capturing some of the most heinous, over-the-top footage since the crowd reaction to the stripping robot in Metropolis, this video would make Ziggy Stardust crush his own sweet hands in horror. Perhaps the only way it could have been worse is if they included the bubbles from the Rolling Stones' "It's only Rock 'n' Roll" video. The disgusted look Charlie Watts gives as the bubbles overtake him says it all in that one. Sadly, he was not there to be the voice of reason for Mick and Bowie's misadventure.

Philadelphia: The City That Loves You to Look Back

2008-01-07T15:32:00.001-05:00

We Philadelphians are tortured sports souls. We haven’t known the thrill of a major sports championship since the 76ers won the NBA title in 1983 (and even that is difficult to savor because, well, it’s basketball…). We bemoan our fate whenever our Phillies, Eagles, Flyers, and Sixers break our hearts in their annual ritual of defeat. So desperate for a champion are Philadelphians that we grasp at any homegrown straw—human or animal—in hopes of salving our collective self-esteem: Bernard Hopkins, the 2004 Saint Joseph’s Hawks, Smarty Jones. We are forced to revisit past glory because we enjoy none in the present, our media endlessly regurgitating the long-gone triumphs of the 1980 Phillies, the Broad Street Bullies, and Chuck Bednarik’s 1960 Eagles. Many Philadelphia fans weren’t yet born the last time one of our major sports teams won a title, and most of us exist in a state of perpetual nostalgia to cope with the frustration over today’s teams.

To ease Philadelphians’ suffering, I propose combining our insatiable penchant for living in the past with the in-vogue marketing ploy of “throwback” uniforms and hold a throwback parade for one of our past championship teams. Instead of incessantly booing our athletes and badmouthing them on local call-in radio shows, let’s get the entire city lining Broad Street for the yesteryear glory we haven’t experienced in decades. The city could hold a parade for, say, the pennant-winning 1915 Phillies. Fly in some distant relatives of the original team and dress them in those vintage woolen uniforms. A column of cars parading Grover Cleveland Alexander’s 5th cousin, thrice removed, and a bunch of other anonymous yokels down Broad Street as they wave to two million adoring fans while wondering what the hell they’re doing there is just the shot in the arm Philadelphians need. At City Hall, a descendant of manager Pat Moran can thank the town for its passionate support and then urge continued isolationism in the wake of the Lusitania torpedoing to a confused crowd. The parade could continue up Broad to Lehigh—the former site of Baker Bowl, the 1915 Phillies home—and conclude with the septuagenarian grandchildren of Erskine Mayer and Gavvy Cravath getting checked for gout at the medical center that now stands there.

(Graphic enhancement on banner courtesy of Dave.)

One Missed Call I Won't Miss

2008-01-04T16:15:00.001-05:00

So just about every day for the last 3 weeks, I have been bombarded by commercials for one of the lamest-looking movies I have ever seen: One Missed Call. Seriously, does anyone want to see this garbage? Some amalgam of The Ring, The Grudge, and every other J-Horror film of the last 10 years. That's not even to mention it doesn't look even remotely frightening. This is what we've been reduced to? Fear of missing cell-phone calls? Since the movie is being released today, I am praying the promotional campaign will finally stop. That is, until the sequel: Two Missed Calls.

Indiana Jones or Indiana's Pride?

2008-01-04T09:29:00.002-05:00

While re-watching The Fugitive several weeks ago—an excellent film and a real testament to amputees with a can-do attitude—it occurred to me that although Harrison Ford gave a strong performance, his role would have been better played by David Letterman. Sure, this taut thriller called for moments of deadpan dramatics, but Ford played it a little too straight. Starring opposite the equally intense Tommy Lee Jones, the film ached desperately for levity—a facet the serious-minded Ford lacks. There was no give-and-take between Richard Kimble and Deputy Gerard, no mocking, no cynical wisecracks—a commodity Letterman could have delivered in droves. One of the Late Show host’s trademark quips through his goofy, gap-toothed smile while standing at gunpoint in the dam’s tunnel would have elevated The Fugitive from merely excellent to the realm of Citizen Kane, Casablanca, and Gone With the Wind.

After a two-month hiatus, Letterman returned to the air Wednesday—sporting a decidedly Richard Kimble–esque beard…fully validating my theory.

Therefore, I offer my Top 10 reasons why David Letterman is a better actor than Harrison Ford.

Drum roll, please...

10. While being prepped for quintuple bypass, Letterman kept surgical team in stitches; surgeons find Ford a colossal bore concerned only with improving his medical condition.

9. Ford cannot enunciate with a cigar in his mouth.

8. Ford's portrayal of "Alexei Vostrikov" in K-19: The Widowmaker clearly derived from Letterman's "Old Salt" in Cabin Boy.

7. When Letterman comes home at 2 AM, girlfriend buys "flat tire" story; when Ford comes home at 2 AM, Calista Flockhart remains suspicious.

6. Letterman spent several years as an innovative television weatherman; Ford doesn't even know what a "dewpoint" is.

5. While Ford was starring in one of the biggest bombs of 1979 (Hanover Street), Letterman electrified nation as "Ellsworth," a shady group therapist, in Episode 17 of Mork and Mindy. (I recall watching the episode as a youngster and thinking, "America's finally found its new Brando.")

4. Harrison Ford has several false teeth; all of David Letterman's teeth are false.

3. Ford made a career playing the same characters (Han Solo, Indiana Jones, Jack Ryan); Letterman versatile enough to host "Stupid Pet Tricks" and "Stupid Human Tricks."

2. Harrison Ford had zero on-screen chemistry with Larry "Bud" Melman.

And the No. 1 reason why David Letterman is a better actor than Harrison Ford:

1. Letterman turned down the role of the T-1000 in Terminator 2: Judgment Day; Ford was never offered the role.

(Photo of Harrison Ford and The Fugitive copyright Warner Brothers. Photos of David Letterman copyright CBS. Outstanding graphic enhancements courtesy of Mount Drinkmore’s Dave.)

You Are Now In The United States of Pottersville

2008-01-02T12:59:00.001-05:00

Last week on Christmas Eve, Melissa and I were watching It's a Wonderful Life, and I began to get this strangely familiar feeling whenever a scene with Mr. Potter would come up. Like I had seen him earlier that day, or had been seeing him quite often for a long period of time. Then it hit me: Mr. Potter is Dick Cheney. Could Lionel Barrymore still be alive and maniacally playing out the worst fears we had of Mr. Potter taking over the Building & Loan...and then THE WORLD? I think the photographic evidence is more than enough to make the case:

Dream: Doppelganger Gets The Mail

2008-01-02T12:27:00.001-05:00

So I had this dream the other night in which I move into a new house and creepy things start to happen—objects being moved around, disembodied voices, all of the usual stuff you hear about. But then I look out the window one day and see MYSELF getting the mail!!! In the dream, this is absolutely terrifying, but it seems far less so in waking reality. In fact, once you got past the uncomfortable, possibly demonic nature of it, who wouldn't want another them to get the mail, get the paper, and maybe do a little yard work?

Of course, when I woke up, I almost had a heart attack because the Christmas stocking I had hung the night before looked like someone's arm peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. Maybe my OWN arm, with the mail!

3600...3599...3598...

2007-12-31T18:21:00.001-05:00

Certainly, the most enjoyable moment of New Year’s Eve is the countdown from 11:59:50 to midnight—ten seconds of anticipation and suspense as we cork our emotions and then let them burst forth in unchecked celebration. In those ten seconds, all of our pent-up frustrations of the past year dissolve into alcoholic ecstasy of the New Year’s promise. We revel in the ten-second countdown—both roomfuls of friends and millions of anonymous people simultaneously playing out the exact same ritual—but like most festive occurrences, the moment ends all too quickly.

That’s why, every New Year’s Eve, I take a page from the master of suspense, Alfred Hitchcock, and draw out the moment of anticipation by starting my countdown not from the final ten seconds, but from the final hour. There is nothing like beginning the New Year’s countdown at 3600 and living out the mounting drama three thousand six hundred times. Sure, I’ve received angry stares, many a Shut the fuck up!, and celebrated one or two midnights on the street after being told to leave, but commencing the moment of joyous abandon while everyone else is still making small talk about property taxes and sinus problems makes such awkwardness well worth it. Like how the great Hitchcock let his audience in on the secret and stretched nail-biting suspense across the next hour of Rope, I’ll be starting my countdown to Happy New Year! at 11:00 sharp. Care to join me?

Now let's all sing in our best Alfred Hitchcock voice:

Good evening...
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind…

Man vs. Mild

2007-12-28T23:40:00.004-05:00

I spent last night at a Holiday Inn Express in Tarboro, North Carolina. When I awoke this morning, I switched on the television and found myself observing an episode of Man vs. Wild. Bear Grylls was roughing it in the wilderness of southern Alaska, braving dangerous terrain, savage weather, the ever-present threat of bear attack, and the arduous battle to keep warm and fed until rescue. At first, I was impressed. But toward the conclusion of the episode, I stepped into the shower and became aware of the almost eerie juxtaposition between Grylls' predicament and my own.

As hot water cascaded down my body, I found that the hotel’s complimentary amenities did not include a vial of shampoo. Sure, I had body lotion and conditioner—but using conditioner without shampoo is like squatting in a forest of the Chugach Mountains and trying to flint-strike a fire without kindling. Pondering my conundrum as soothing steam rose around me, it was too late to hike down to the front desk—my only option to forge ahead with a shampoo-less rinse. Predictably, the ordeal left my hair as matted and unmanageable as Alaskan reedgrass. Bear Grylls may have had to glissade down the side of a glacier, but he didn’t have to endure an improperly washed coif…

When you consider the myriad other perils I faced in that Tarboro hotel—a slightly malfunctioning heater that plunged room temperature to 68°, a lumpy pillow, the noisy occupants across the hall, a mini-fridge set all the way down on the floor instead of knee-high on the bureau, and the looming threat of an errant wake-up call—you can see that a night in a hotel can be just as harrowing as a night in the wild.

So the next time you're traipsing through the forest and find yourself face to face with a 900-pound grizzly, Mr. Grylls, consider what it's like to experience an incompetent hotel clerk who can't tell time...

(Photo of Bear Grylls copyright The Discovery Channel.)

We Are Not Amused (By Constitutional Monarchy)

2007-12-17T09:15:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow, Sotheby’s is putting up for auction one of the seventeen surviving copies of Magna Carta, the 13th-century document that provided basic rights to English citizens and served as the blueprint for the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights half a millennium later. Originally signed in 1215 by King John, Magna Carta didn’t become cemented into English law until 1297. The copy being auctioned by Sotheby’s was signed in that year by Edward I, better known to history as the bad guy in Braveheart. This pricey piece of political sheepskin is expected to go for $20 to $30 million. I don’t have the wall space for it, but Queen Elizabeth does. And after fifty-five years as a queen exempt from income and capital-gains taxes, she’s certainly got the cash.

If I were her, I’d outbid everyone for Magna Carta…and then revoke it. Yeah, Queen Elizabeth has a sweet life, living off money doled out by Parliament and getting to speak in the third person without ridicule. But no English monarch has held real power since Victoria—and what’s the point of wearing a crown without wielding absolute, unpredictable, crazy power? A revoked Magna Carta restores feudalism, neutralizes Parliament, and turns the Queen from a figurehead into a figure of dread. Personally, I suggest renewing English claim to Brittany, Anjou, Poitou, and Aquitaine. If the ancient wars between England and France taught us anything, it’s that they make for really smashing theatre. Then issue a royal edict that Led Zeppelin must go on tour—watching their recent one-off reunion on DVD with a bag of Cheetos ain’t gonna cut it for hardcore fans. And include in that decree that they have to play their obscure gem, “Poor Tom." I further suggest moving the capital from London to Land’s End in Cornwall. Let’s face it: the soul of English culture is fish & chips—the capital should be seaside, where this delicacy is freshest and most readily available. Fish & chips should also be incorporated into the union jack.

And most importantly, confer a posthumous knighthood on the late, great Benny Hill.

Sotheby’s, this Tuesday, Your Majesty. England is yours for the taking…

(Graphic enhancements courtesy of Dave.)

Separated at Birth?

2007-12-14T16:34:00.002-05:00

For a long time, I’ve wondered if former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev and Sesame Street’s Snuffleupagus were related. They have nearly identical runaway eyebrows—a homozygous recessive trait found in individuals native to extremely cold regions. Snuffleupagus was born on Wrangel Island, located in the Arctic Ocean, off the coast of the Russian Far East. (In recent years, the well-preserved remains of several snuffleupagi have been unearthed from Wrangel’s permafrost, making the remote island the richest archaeological Muppet site in the world.) Subzero temperatures are common to Wrangel Island, and the winters in Brezhnev’s native Ukraine can be harsh as well. In these hostile environments, overgrown eyebrows are vital to keeping the eyes warm and free of drifting snow. Thus, not only does the genetic propensity exist, but, taken together with the possibility that direct contact between Ukraine and the Russian Arctic occurred via a really poorly planned branch of the Silk Road, atavistic relation between Brezhnev and Snuffleupagus looms large.

Angry at Stalin’s treatment of hand-puppets and fearing a widening of anti-puppetism, Snuffleupagus escaped the Soviet Union and made his way to the United States via a Japanese fishing trawler in 1952, whereupon he requested political asylum. Though eventually granted resident status, Snuffleupagus—an aspiring actor—found himself quietly blacklisted because of the close proximity of his Wrangel mating ground to a Soviet weather station. After years of surviving on odd jobs in the Cold War '50s, he finally found work in the more liberal-minded '60s, becoming an extra on Days of our Lives. Several cigarette commercials followed. Then came Snuffleupagus’s big break: landing a cameo on an episode of Sesame Street in 1971, which, of course, grew into a recurring role. Ironically, Brezhnev assumed complete control of the communist party around this time, and most of Snuffleupagus’s early exchanges with Big Bird constituted diatribes on Soviet foreign policy, including this one, which aired March 12, 1972:

Big Bird: “Hi, Snuffleupagus!”

Snuffleupagus: “Ohhh, hello, Big Bird. Ohhh.”

Big Bird: “What’s wrong, Snuffleupagus?”

Snuffleupagus: “Ohhh, it’s those damned Soviets, Big Bird. Why don’t they get out of Czechoslovakia? Czech dissidents such as Václav Havel have clearly demonstrated a mandate for democracy. Damn that Brezhnev. Ohhh.”

Big Bird (whispering): “Stick to the script, you putz!"

Brezhnev publicly expressed contempt at Snuffleupagus’s frequent harangues, going so far as to call Snuffleupagus a “punk” during the SALT I talks in Moscow (although Pravda added that Brezhnev admired Grover). Thus, in addition to their startling physical resemblance, Snuffleupagus and Brezhnev possess the classic qualities of sibling rivalry.

Although the Kremlin still categorically refuses to release any information on Brezhnev’s DNA or medical history, and Snuffleupagus isn’t talking, I believe that the evidence is overwhelming.

(Photo of Leonid Brezhnev copyright Associated Press.)

Will Cubs' Bling Bring a Ring?

2007-12-12T10:32:00.001-05:00

After a quick but spirited bidding war between the Chicago Cubs, their crosstown rivals the White Sox, and the San Diego Padres, Japanese baseball star Kosuke Fukudome and the Cubs have agreed to a 4-year, $48 million deal, pending a physical. An outfielder for nine years with the Chunichi Dragons, Fukudome was named 2006 Most Valuable Player of the Central League, batting .351 and smashing 31 home runs, while leading his team to its first Japan Series championship since 1954. Like the Boston Red Sox a year ago, The Cubs are investing a huge amount of money in a player yet to prove himself at the Major League level. In adding Fukudome to a payroll that already boasts the eight-figure salaries of Alfonso Soriano, Carlos Zambrano, Derrek Lee, and Aramis Ramirez, the Cubs 2008 payroll should well exceed $100 million. This becomes troublesome because Wrigley Field’s capacity is only 41,118, and even though Chicagoans filled it to nearly 98% capacity last season, cotton candy sales were way down.

Though it be baseball heresy, I say the free-spending Chicago Cubs must vacate venerable Wrigley Field for a larger stadium—one with a seating capacity of at least 50,000 and sporting all of the pricey luxury boxes and accoutrements that have made other franchises so lucrative. In fact, I suggest that the Cubs build a domed stadium...and name it—in honor of their latest savior, Kosuke Fukudome—the Fuk-U-Dome, with the lettering directed toward the South Side.

That would really put those hated White Sox in their place.

(Graphic enhancement courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

The Art of ConVicktion

2007-12-11T17:03:00.003-05:00

The Michael Vick fiasco marks a sad and despicable chapter in American sport, painfully illustrating how misplaced is our hero-worship. But if any good has come out of this dog-killing debacle, it is an overdue appreciation for the often stunning work of courtroom sketch artists. Just look at the mastery of Vick’s sentencing captured by artist Dana Verkouteren:

Vick’s prison stripes are bold and stark, serving not just as a literal depiction of his courtroom apparel but as an allegory of inevitable justice. Vick’s defense team—the eldest gentleman behind, the slightly younger lead counsel to Vick's right, and the youngest seated—represents the three ages of man, a metaphor for the spiritual growth over time Vick will experience as he physically serves time. Perhaps most impressive is the array of characters in the background. Their detail is at once revealing yet obtuse. At far left, Vick’s brother clings to his wife in fear of the coming judgment. His fright is palpable, yet his embrace borders on amorous, as if to signify that sex can happen even on the day his brother goes to the slammer. To their left, a host of anonymous eyes observes the fall of an icon. Their gaze is one of incredulity as they ostensibly muse, “You jackass! How could you jeopardize your gargantuan NFL contract plus tens of millions in endorsements to make pocket change by letting dogs maim each other? You’re a complete idiot!” And at extreme right, the red doors symbolize, of course, the gates of hell.

Not since the Mona Lisa has background contained such intricate poignancy.

The splendid work produced by courtroom artists has gone virtually unnoticed in the glare of more respected masters such as Rembrandt and Renoir. But study Verkouteren’s piece against Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party:

Yes, in Renoir’s work, the wine flows as the subjects enjoy a lovely summer day instead of killing dogs (note the lady at left playing with a small dog rather than starving it and administering electric shock); startling technique aside, Renoir concentrated too much on the hats while remaining conspicuously silent on growing French colonialism in North Africa—a detail, I suspect, the daring Verkouteren would not have omitted.

Verkouteren’s piece is similarly on par with a work such as Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère:

Again, the technique is astonishing—there’s plenty of booze in the foreground, and the bartender’s got a nice pair. Behind her, a multitude of thirsty patrons clamor for absinthe so they can forget that their grandchildren will one day roll over to the Nazis without a fight. Manet managed not to paint outside the lines on this one, and his effort shows abundantly. Still, there is no apparent superiority to Verkouteren’s piece. And let’s face it: those impressionists often used hot models, so their subject matter was more interesting from the get-go.

Regardless, it is time for courtroom sketch artists to be placed among the masters. Their medium reflects who we are, in all of our seedy shame. Only when The Birth of Venus, American Gothic, and The Starry Night are joined by O.J. Tries on the Glove, Saddam Denies Court’s Legality, and Kenneth Lay Weeps Like a Girl will the human race's story truly be told…

(Sketch of Vick’s sentencing copyright Dana Verkouteren and Associated Press.)

The Knicks Are the MSG Humiliation Society

2007-11-26T11:47:00.002-05:00

Each morning, before getting ready for work, I watch ESPN SportsCenter to catch up on the previous evening’s scores and highlights. Last Friday, as the scoreboard of the upcoming evening’s NBA games is being displayed, my bleary eyes see the Knicks-Kings graphic as:

Knicks
Kinks

(That's what happens when you mix so many k's early in the morning.)

I realized my mistake soon enough—but it got me to thinking: Wouldn’t the game be better if the New York Knicks did play the Kinks instead of the Sacramento Kings? I mean, the Knicks were on a four-game losing streak and off to a 2-5 start. Their highest-paid player, Stephon Marbury, was fined nearly $200,000 for skipping a game and didn’t seem much interested in earning a penny of his $20 million salary. Not to mention the franchise’s shame stemming from the sexual-harassment suit of Knicks' Head Coach/President Isiah Thomas.

Let’s face it: the Knicks had no chance of defeating Kevin Martin, Ron Artest, and co. (True enough, New York lost that evening, 123-118.)

But the Knicks—a team in turmoil—become instantly competitive against a bunch of sixty-something Brit-rockers who probably never picked up a basketball in their beer-sodden lives. Ray Davies has penned some of the greatest songs of the rock era, but his penchant for portraying lower-middle-class English life isn’t going to stop Zach Randolph and his 12.3 rebounds per game. Sure, Dave Davies and his surly attitude might hang with Eddy Curry for a quarter, but Curry’s got nearly a foot on him and would dominate the Muswell Hill guitarist in the paint. You’d better (Wish You Could Fly Like) Superman, David…

I know what you’re thinking: the Kinks are only four members—how could they possibly compete with the New York Knicks? Well, you’ve got the Davies brothers at small and power forward, Mick Avory in the middle, and spunky Pete Quaife working the point, with Quaife’s successor, John Dalton, at shooting guard. Then there’s John Gosling, their keyboardist in the 1970s, as sixth man, rounding out with Jim Rodford, Ian Gibbons, and Bob Henrit from the Arista years off the bench.

Wanna make a team of overpaid, dysfunctional prima donnas look like a well-oiled machine? Have ‘em play a band of senior-citizen musicians who couldn’t tell Lola from Tom Gola.

Now if we could only get the Seattle Sonics to play the Rolling Stones…

A Bloody Mary to Remember

2007-11-14T17:53:00.001-05:00

We're adding a new feature to Mount Drinkmore, citing the best weekly e-mail conversations between the Mount Drinkmore panel, which would otherwise be lost to our loyal readers. This one is from the week of November 5, after our pal Rich had a bloody mary at brunch....Let's see what develops, shall we?

Rich: "I had a Bloody Mary yesterday at brunch. Went back to bed."

Randy: "(Rich in jammies and sleeping cap.....alarm rings....Rich pops up, grabs the bloody mary on the nightstand next to him, drinks it down, goes right back to sleep)"

Pat: "I never understood sleeping caps. Sleeping with a hat on is not comfortable. And a kerchief? Ma is gonna roll over and strangle herself in the night. 'Twas the night before Christmas.....and improper sleeping clothes killed the parents."

Rich: "Ma: 'Well, time for bed.' (fits goldfish bowl over her head)"

Dave: "I got this sombrero and tried to sleep with it tilted over my eyes like you see guys doing in the movies while leaning up against a wall. You basically wind up breathing in your own sombrero-tainted breath over and over again until you can't take it anymore."

Randy: "Sleeping caps are still essential to sleepwalkers. You can't afford to sleepwalk down a flight of stairs, out a window, or even across train tracks without a sleeping cap. You might catch cold..."

Rich: "The Bloody Mary must have had at least 3 shots worth of vodka in it. I was looped by the end of an omelette. What do they put in those things? I was seriously buzzed, enough that I was slurring my speech. I felt like a hobo."

Randy: "That slurring thing's an urban legend. Most hobos enunciate quite well."

Pat: "I like the boxcar idea of hobos. Is that still going on? I say we all take a week off and investigate."

Randy: "Even back then, riding the rails was illegal. The G-men rounded up all the hobos and locked them in a special camp on the Jersey side of the Hudson.

And that's how Hoboken, NJ came to be.

It's sort of like the 1930s version of Manhattan in Escape from New York."

Rich: "I'll get us some sticks and bandanas."

Pat: "I read bananas instead of bandanas. Could you also get us some bananas?

They should have Pop Tarts with vodka in them. 'Not enough time to get drunk in the morning?'"

Randy: "Or they could fill the middle with amphetamines.

Pep Tarts -- Get your day off to a hyper start."

Rich: "Beer Tarts -- each tart has 12 oz of beer in its center. Creamy beer filling."

A Roll of the Dice-K

2007-10-25T12:32:00.001-05:00

Forget that the Boston Red Sox thrashed the Colorado Rockies last night, 13-1, and may well be en route to the 2007 World Series championship. The franchise has sunk a huge chunk of its future into Daisuke Matsuzaka—$52 million over six years on top of $51.1 million just for the right to negotiate with “Dice-K.”

Boston has received a modest first return on its $103 million investment: 15-12, 4.40 ERA, 201K, plus three mediocre starts in this postseason.

One cannot blame Boston GM Theo Epstein for dishing out a fortune on a player with, at the time, zero Major League experience—he wanted to beat the rival New York Yankees to the punch in acquiring the next potential phenom.

Personally, had I been the Red Sox GM, I would have signed Dice Clay instead of Dice-K. With little going on in his career these days, Dice Clay could have been signed for a lot less than $103 million, and his array of filthy language would mow down hitters far more effectively than Matsuzaka’s array of filthy pitches.

Hall of Famer Warren Spahn once said, “Hitting is timing. Pitching is upsetting timing.”

Well, nothing could upset a batter’s timing more than hearing the pitcher yell, F*ck you, you stupid muthaf*ckah! You think you’re gonna hit my f*ckin’ fastball, ya fat f*ckin’ pr*ck?! There’ll be martial law in this stadium, ya hear?!

Dice Clay: 20 wins easy.

Trick or Heat?

2007-10-23T11:05:00.001-05:00

October 23. Eight days until Halloween. The temperature today is once again expected to break 80 degrees.

And it's humid.

Indian summer? Global warming? As the pundits battle over the cause, have those air-conditioned fat cats in Washington stopped to realize that America is eight short days from crisis? If this autumnal heat wave does not abate, untold Halloweens will be ruined as trick-or-treaters' chocolatey loot melts in the street, not in their mouth.

I needn't stress the importance of Halloween on the child psyche. We've all experienced the joy and the succulence of costume and candy, the emotional release from the relentless grind of homework and the ever-present dread of pop quiz.

Fistfuls of free candy is all that keeps a kid going. Without it, they may as well quit grade school, get a dead-end job, settle down, and prepare for old age.

If autumn doesn't come soon, we're in for a messy All Hallow's Eve and a long winter of discontent.

Al Gore...where are you???

(Photo of jack o'lantern copyright Encyclopaedia Brittanica Online.)

Everybody Must Get Atoned...

2007-09-24T08:06:00.002-05:00

Jacqui's [my girlfriend's] family, who live in Atlanta, were in synagogue Saturday for Yom Kippur services.

And who was also in the congregation?

Bob Dylan.

He had a gig in Duluth, Ga., that evening and attended services earlier in the day at Jacqui's family's shul. The rabbi even had him up to the bimah.

Pray Bobby Pray
Heed what the rabbi said
Until the break of the fast
Pray from your frizzy, yarmulked head

A perfect metaphor for so many aspects of my life...

2007-09-17T08:37:00.000-05:00

Al Davis: Scarier than the Raiders Logo

2007-09-07T12:26:00.000-05:00

There comes a time when every professional sports team must ask itself: "Is our logo instilling more fear in the other team than the face of our owner?" In the case of the Oakland Raiders, the answer is a resounding "no." It is a pity Al Davis does not own the other pirate-oriented NFL franchise, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, because his current facial structure already bears uncanny resemblance to their logo. By simply attaching cross-bones to the back of his head, they would instantly have the best owner/mascot/promotional machine available to the sports franchise.

However, Al Davis owns the Raiders, and while it's not as sure a fit as the Bucs' logo, adding his face to the Raiders emblem will surely be giving opponents nightmares whether they admit it or not. If you can't scare teams with your talent, sometimes you have to look around for new ways of intimidation.....and that intimidation is no further than the skeletor on the sidelines with the bags and bags of money!

It happens every autumn.......

2007-09-07T10:50:00.002-05:00

Around this time every year, a new wave of the dreaded Brett Favre–related amnesia sets in. Sports prognosticators from all over the country begin talking about the once-brilliant quarterback as though we have gone back in time to 1996. Sure, he's a Hall of Famer, but how many hopelessly ordinary and average seasons does a player need to have before they stop treating him as the same threat he was 10 years ago? Is there a store where someone can purchase this lifetime pass from ridicule where only your positive actions from the past are remembered? I'm sure Dubya would be first in line.

A Strange Encounter, Vol VII

2007-09-05T07:48:00.001-05:00

Walking through Suburban Station, a woman standing with a stack of Metro newspapers shouted at me: I LOVE YOU!!! IT'S A BLESSING TO SEE YOU TODAY!!!

I ignored her and kept walking, and from behind comes: I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!!!

The Day The Hat Beatings Died

2007-09-04T12:08:00.001-05:00

On the second anniversary of Bob Denver's death, we thought it would be appropriate to honor him with our tribute and bewildered musings on the happenings on Gilligan's Island. Enjoy!

RANDY: Gilligan died.

PAT: Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!

RANDY: I guess he's now first mate on the boat that crosses the River Styx.

PAT: "TV critics were less kind, dismissing the show as inane. But after it was canceled by CBS in 1967, it found new audiences over and over in syndicated reruns and reunion films, including 1981's The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan's Island.'

Thank God we got to see what would happen if a fake basketball team got to the island.

RANDY: I think a more interesting plot would have been Gilligan Trots in Harlem and centers on him running to get out of the area while pursued for two hours by local thugs.

DAVE: Do basketballs bounce on sand?

PAT: I'm pretty sure they just spun the ball on their finger and whistled "Sweet Georgia Brown" in between Gilligan's hat beatings. The movie was 4 1/2 hours.

RANDY: Wasn't the premise for how the Globetrotters got onto the island that a bolt of lightning hit one of the indigenous lemon trees and turned the fruit into Meadowlark Lemon? If it wasn't, it should've been.

DAVE: Why was it Gilligan's island?

RANDY: Gilligan was a homesteader and he claimed it under the Homestead Act. His horses and cattle drowned on their way to the island.

PAT: He had incriminating photos of the rest of them.

DAVE: Pics of Mr. Howell in a dress.

RANDY: Thurston Howell Sr. and Thurston Howell Jr. were cross-dressers as well, so Thurston Howell III was just carrying on a family tradition.

PAT: That makes sense because I am pretty sure "Lovey" was a man.

RANDY: I don't think it would have mattered. With nothing but fruit to eat day after day and virtually no protein, Lovey, Ginger, and Maryann would have been menopausal inside a year.

DAVE: They could've eaten Gladys the gorilla (sometime-lover of Gilligan).
If I were on the island, I’d have killed them all, made a raft out of their corpses, and sailed away with the Howells’ riches. Now THAT'S comedy, folks!

RANDY: Dave's "Wilson" would have been the Professor's head bobbing in the water.

PAT: Best episode ever: Giant stuffed spider in a cave dangling from a string. They scare it back into the cave with a mirror.

RANDY: And that episode with the Japanese soldier……….whom they scared back into the cave with a mirror.

They ran out of ideas pretty quick.

DAVE: There's always a canal!

RANDY: Dave's been screaming that for a month. Nobody knows why.

The one I most remember was when Gilligan got struck by lightning and his mouth became a radio. I tried for years to get that to happen to me, but I finally broke down and bought an RCA Victor.

PAT: Remember when they would put on plays for themselves? Was that the only way to keep entertained? What about doin' Maryann and Ginger? Didn't they ever think of that?

RANDY: The castaways weren't members of SAG either. They should have been prosecuted the moment they stepped onshore after their rescue.

PAT: How about the TV movie where they are rescued, decide to take a boat trip again, and get stranded on the same island?! I mean, are you KIDDING me?! And none of these people committed suicide?

RANDY: At the very least, murder among the castaways would have been inevitable. The HMS Bounty's crew that marooned themselves on Pitcairn Island started killing each other left and right over food and women. Don't tell me Gilligan wouldn't have sank into a primal state and taken out the Skipper, his chief rival as alpha male.

PAT: Not to mention, these people get on a boat with the Skipper and Gilligan again? Their ONLY experience with them is them losing control and getting shipwrecked. I would politely say "No thanks."

RANDY: They probably thought lightning couldn't strike twice and figured that getting on a boat again with Skipper and Gilligan is about the safest place they could be.

RICH: There was a sequel to that movie. It was just a shot of their feet swinging back and forth after they had all hanged themselves. The soundtrack was the sound of the palm-frond ropes creaking and wind in the leaves.

RANDY: There's supposed to be a "lost" episode in which Lee Marvin lands on the island and beats the hell out of each castaway in turn. Maybe one day the Marvin estate will cancel the injunction...

DAVE: I remember one of the last ones where they escape from the island and pull into a port full of cheering people on a triple-deck bamboo yacht.

RANDY: Wasn't that converted into the world's largest lawn chair?

RICH: Skipper to passengers after leaving harbor: "I gotta tell ya…I'm reeeeeeeeeal drunk. So is Gilgame...Gilligis...I mean Gilligamagen…"

RANDY: Wouldn't a competent captain have prohibited the Howells from bringing a year's worth of clothing on board before they even set sail? I think the "Skipper" probably was just an ordinary guy who showed up at the harbor wearing a captain's hat and boatjacked the Minnow for a joyride.

RICH: Someone I used to know came up with a great idea for a short movie: The Professor vs. MacGyver. You see each one paddling to an island from opposite sides, they each run to a bush (the island is tiny and the two bushes are the only thing on it), and 10 seconds later, there is a nuclear explosion.

RANDY: You figure that uncharted isle on which Gilligan et al were marooned would have been used for atomic testing, it being the early 1960s and the Cold War and all. That would have been a great final episode -- Gilligan and the gang squint up to the sunny sky:

"Skipper! A plane!"

“A plane, little buddy! We're saved!"

RICH: "I think it's dropping supplies!"

DAVE: I vaguely remember an "Old West" episode too...

RICH: Did you guys ever see the pilot episode? It was in black and white.

RANDY: Wasn't there an eighth member to the cast? I think it was a "Chuck Cunningham." They decided to drop him after the pilot, and then he showed up uninvited on the set of the Happy Days pilot ten years later.

RANDY: If they went on a three-hour tour from Hawaii, that means they were, at most, an hour and a half sailing time off the islands. The storm in which they were shipwrecked apparently carried them about a thousand miles away……..which is about as plausible as Tina Louise having an acting career in the first place.

DAVE: It takes a fast catamaran about 30 minutes to get from Kauaii to Niihau. On the Minnow, they'd still be able to see the Hawaiian Islands after 90 minutes.

RANDY: Woulda been kind of cool if the island on which Tom Hanks had washed ashore in Cast Away was Gilligan's Island and we briefly see Hanks come across a skeleton in a red shirt and white pants and hat. Nothing need to be said for that scene, but it would've been a neat homage.

DAVE: Didn't every episode end with someone running or swimming away with the film sped up so it looks really funny and fast?

RANDY: Yeah, but they had to do that because every episode always ran about thirty seconds too long due to the Skipper's "Keep the reds out of Southeast Asia" message directed at the kids.

Hey, the producers' hands were tied -- it was in Alan Hale's contract...

RICH: Yeah, with the same laugh track used over and over again. Is there such a thing as a sob track?

RANDY: Yeah. They use it when a character is chopping onions.

DAVE: A "Getting-up-with-a-stiff-back" track.

"Arrr... Oh man. Jeez."

PAT: I like when all the visitors would get away somehow. It was quite a heavily travelled unknown island.

RANDY: They never had an episode in which the island was visited by Canadian Mounties. There were a lot of possibilities there...

RICH: I think Jurassic Park should have taken place on the island.

PAT: "Uh, Professor, I think you can stop trying to power that radio with a coconut now. They are cloning dinosaurs over there, for chrissake!"

RANDY: You know the Professor never really invented anything truly sophisticated enough to help them in a tangible way. I'll bet he was just a professor of philosophy or something.

"Professor, a plane! Do something!"

"I can only stand here and be stoic…"

RICH: Dr. Grant: "So…What have you been feeding the raptors, Mr. Hammond?"

Hammond: "Er….Stuff and things…"

RANDY: T.Rex burps out Gilligan's hat.

RANDY: Or at least King Kong should have been there. Then Kong has to decide which chick to covet -- Ginger or Maryann.

DAVE: I would've like just one episode where they all just sit in silence staring into space with glazed-over eyes.

RICH: And Mr. Howell delirious with fever, trying to eat his own foot.

RANDY: That happened in a Mr. Magoo episode…..although that had to do more with Magoo's poor eyesight than raging delirium.

DAVE: When I was a kid, I thought the theme song said "if not for the mighty sailing crew, the middle would be lost."

I mean, a boat without a middle. You're screwed, man.

RANDY: “I mean, a boat without a middle. You're screwed, man.”

That was the opening line in the original folio of Moby Dick.

DAVE: I thought it was "Call me... crazy! But I can't get enough of that ooey gooey fish chowdah!"

RANDY: With the proposed cover an etching of Captain Ahab holding a can of chowder and giving the thumbs-up sign.

Two Tickets to Paradise Lost

2007-08-28T14:54:00.001-05:00

So I'm at home last night, trying to prove my theory that Pink Floyd's Animals syncs up perfectly with The Apple Dumpling Gang, when the phone rings. Caller ID displays "Florida," so I figure it's my folks. But the 850 area code is not theirs -- it's strange and foreign. I pick up the phone and find myself trading Hellos with a gravelly voiced woman dripping cigarette-smoked drawl. Her area code is the Florida panhandle, hundreds of miles from my folks or anyone else I know in the Sunshine State.

"Ah'm callin' 'bout the two FSU season tickets fuh sale..."

Whoah, wait a minute, sister. Whoever ran the ad misprinted the area code as 856 instead of 850. This is New Jersey. No one's got FSU season tickets here.

According to the Florida State Seminoles Web site, a pair of season tickets runs $430. Why didn't I tell her to wire me the cash and then send her those unused passes to the Gordon Lightfoot laser show?

Because I'm too honest about area codes. Always have been. I get an inordinate amount of wrong numbers, yet I decline to take these rubes for all they're worth. I could've had 430 easy smackers.

But what price my soul?

Why not a drinking reality show?

2007-08-28T11:00:00.001-05:00

They've done just about everything else. I propose Leaving Las Vegas: The Reality Show.

Host: "Jim-Bob, you've been voted off; please leave Las Vegas."

Jim-Bob: *stumbles* "Fuck you!" *breaks bottle in half and chases
host*

'73 Super Bowl + '77 Topps = 4-Year Hangover

2007-08-23T15:04:00.001-05:00

Billy Kilmer was an All-Pro quarterback who threw 152 touchdowns, stands fifth on the Redskins list for career passing yardage, and led Washington to an appearance in Super Bowl VII.

But this is how I like to remember him:

Ruling With an Ironic Hand

2007-08-16T10:52:00.001-05:00

If Title 7, Chapter 54, Section 2156(a)(1) of the United States Code has taught us anything, it's that every dog-killer has his day...in court.

If Michael Vick is found guilty of—or plea bargains to—the dog-fighting charges on which he’s been indicted, I say he should be suffocated in a vat of Vicks VapoRub.

There’s no justice like ironic justice…

(Photo copyright Reuters.)