Thursday, December 13, 2007

Rocket Flame Out

Today is the day that the Mitchell Report gets released. The report is the exhaustive findings of George J. Mitchell's 20 month investigation into drug use in Major League Baseball. Let me tell you this thing has taken on a life of it's own. The internet tubes are popping and sizzling, buzzing with leaks and speculations, hints and allegations. It's sweeping across the sports blogs like a prairie fire. It's as if George Mitchell threw a party and everyone in baseball was invited. But the guest of honor seems to be none other than the mighty Roger Clemens whose lawyers are, at this very moment, no doubt trying to mitigate the damage being done by having their client fingered in the investigation.

Clemens, the surly, megalomaniacal, fire-balling New York Yankees pitcher, nicknamed "The Rocket," has been a singularly unlikeable figure for some time. One could start just about anywhere with him, from his churlish attitude to his penchant for throwing at batters and being labeled as a headhunter. But for me, his problem is he just wont go away. He retires after every season and then, around spring time, he begins his diva-like dance where he begins to murmur about coming out of retirement, causing a stir among teams. Picture Roger with a fruit basket on his head, shaking some maracas, and you'll have an idea of how distasteful this all is. He then fields offers and by May he is once again pitching for a contender. He always signs huge one-year deals so that he can do the dance again the next season. Plus, the deals he gets entitle him to special treatment. (For example, when pitching for the Houston Astros he did not have to travel with the team for road games.) Roger doesn't have to travel with the team. The other teams travel to him.

On the baseball field, Clemens trajectory seems to have mirrored Barry Bonds's in many ways. By 1996 his career was faltering, having gone 10-13 with the Boston Red Sox. Notoriously, Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette said Clemens was in the "twilight of his career" following four consecutive seasons, 1993-96, in which the pitcher was a mediocre 40-39 with few of the eye-popping statistics that had become his norm.

Duquette traded the ailing Clemens to the Toronto Blue Jays and things magically turned around. Well, most of that "magic" came in the form of enhancing drugs which were injected into Clemen's ass via personal trainer Brian McNamee. Clemens career turned around from that point and he averaged 17 wins and 6 losses over the next ten seasons, capped off with a 2005 in-which he went 13-8 with a godlike 1.87 ERA, at the age of 42. Like Bonds, as Clemens got older he got better. But, like Bonds, he also got larger. Gone are the early days of his career when he clocked in at 190 lbs. Now he packs on 220 lbs and throws bats at people who upset him. He once threw at a batter during an All-Star game. And once threw at his son during a minor league game after his son homered off him in a previous at-bat.

Clemens has always loved the attention. From his awkward re-signings to his patented post season flame outs. Most recently, in the 2007 ALDS game three, he gave up two runs on four hits in the first two innings and by the third inning he pulled up lame and had to leave the game. Clemens put in similar post-season antics in 2005, 2004, 2003, 2001, 1999, and got himself ejected in 1990. He's the Barbara Streisand of pitchers.

Well now Clemens will receive all the attention he desires. The Rocket was singled out in nearly nine pages of the Mitchell Report, with much of the information on the seven-time Cy Young Award winner coming from McNamee himself. More than a dozen Yankees, past and present, were among the 75-plus players identified.

"According to McNamee, from the time that McNamee injected Clemens with Winstrol through the end of the 1998 season, Clemens' performance showed remarkable improvement," the report said. "During this period of improved performance, Clemens told McNamee that the steroids 'had a pretty good effect' on him."

McNamee also told investigators that "during the middle of the 2000 season, Clemens made it clear that he was ready to use steroids again. During the latter part of the regular season, McNamee injected Clemens in the buttocks four to six times with testosterone from a bottle labeled either Sustanon 250 or Deca-Durabolin."

And, incredibly enough, ex-baseball player turned hatchet-man Jose Canseco was right all along. In his book Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant 'Roids, Smash Hits & How Baseball Got Big Canseco alleges that Roger Clemens had expert knowledge about steroids and suggested that he probably used steroids, based on the improvement in his performance after leaving the Red Sox. While not addressing the allegations directly, Clemens was dismissive of Canseco stating "I could care less" and "I've talked to some friends of his and I've teased them that when you're under house arrest and have ankle bracelets on, you have a lot of time to write a book."

Good one, Roger.


Update: By the way I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't predict that Sport's Illustrated's steroids-in-baseball watchdog Tom Verducci is no-doubt currently churning the froth on his latest venom filled anti-doping article for the magazine. Verducci relentlessly dogged Barry Bonds for well over a year during his pursuit of Hank Arron's home run title. He seems to have turned a blind eye to the obvious in Roger Clemens of whom he wrote in 2003, "Clemens' feats in the late stage of his career are remarkable."

Almost magical, isn't it Tom? If you can stomach the whole article it's here.

Which brings me to this, an excellent piece by Jeff Pearlman of Slate, written in 2006.

Likewise, when I look at Roger Clemens, I wonder: Where's the investigative digging? Like Bonds, Clemens is a larger-than-life athletic specimen. Like Bonds, Clemens is producing at an age when most of his peers are knitting. Unlike Bonds, Clemens does not have journalists breathing down his neck. Instead, the hometown Houston Chronicle has covered his recent re-signing with the Astros as a time for unmitigated celebration. Forget combing through his garbage for vials—I just want the Chronicle to ask Clemens whether he's used. Is the Rocket cheating? Again, I don't know. But doesn't someone have to at least try and find out?

"A lot of baseball writers are drunks or cheat on their wives," says Jose de Jesus Ortiz, the Chronicle's Astros beat writer. "I would never question anybody unless I have evidence. It's unfair to feel that just because of Bonds now we're required to question everyone about their methods."

Is it unfair to pester individual athletes about steroids? Maybe. Is it the right thing to do journalistically? Without a doubt.
My sentiments exactly. Now all the writers, like Verducci, who butter their bread with anti-doping columns, who ridiculed Canseco and his book, can act stunned about the great Roger Clemens.

And, finally, I dug this quote up from Hank Aaron himself. "A guy can take steroids, drugs, whatever. He still has to be able to hit that Roger Clemens 96-mile-an-hour fastball. Steroids don't help you hit that fastball."

No one imagined the fastball could be hopped up on 'roids too?

How to be like Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad Chuck Norris has never cried. Ever.

Chuck Norris hasn't made a real movie since 1990 and that movie was Delta Force 2: the Columbian Connection. His TV show Walker, Texas Ranger was canceled in 2001. And yet here he is today, a pop culture phenomenon. His legend has grown and now he has taken the form of an irate, all-powerful superbeing, a job which, no doubt, consumes at least a few hours of his leisure time. We all have to model ourselves after somebody, so why not make the world's greatest bad ass your own personal Jesus? Here's how.

1. Learn how to do a roundhouse kick. You never know when you're going to need to unleash this kind of fury. You may be trying to bust POWs out of Vietnam (Missing in Action), dealing with terrorists (The Delta Force), or trying to track down an ancient Aztec/Mayan/Egyptian/Apache horde of gold (Firewalker). It's also useful in social settings. Is your boss giving you a hard time? Stuck in traffic? Can't speak French? The roundhouse kick is a potent finishing move no matter what situation you're facing.

2. Grow lots of body hair. If you're one of those hairless Chihuahua types consider yourself out of luck. You may be on Chuck's list. In fact you may already be dead. Anyone wanting to be like Chuck Norris has to have needs a ton of body hair, including a full grown beard. If you can't grow a full beard like a real man you best model yourself after Jean-Claude Van Damme or some other European action star and then prepare thyself for Chuck.

3. Be able to divide by zero. It is now a commonly held fact that Chuck Norris can indeed divide by zero. Work on it.

4. Wear Stetson.

5. Create your own martial art form. Don't be a follower. Chuck Norris doesn't follow. The world follows him. He invented his own martial art, known as Chun Kuk Do, which includes forms of every martial art he knows. That means all of them, even the ones that haven't been created yet. What have you invented lately?

6. Join the military. Chuck Norris is the real deal and unlike so many other action heroes or leaders he actually does have bona-fide military experience. So, when he pulls a man's beating heart out of his chest you can bet your ass that comes with the official seal of approval from the U.S. government. Oh, and keep the change.

7. Get one of those big ten gallon hats. Wear it all over the place.

8. Get off your ass and avenge your defeats. Chuck Norris started his karate career with two tournament losses. He then found his resolve and started owning people, holding the Professional Middleweight Karate title for six consecutive years, and in 1969 was named "fighter of the year" (yes, "fighter of the year") by Black Belt Magazine. Along the way he went on to defeat all the opponents who defeated him.

9. Get on your own commercial with Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee.



10. Decide who lives and who dies, and make it so. It's a well known fact that Chuck Norris doesn't believe in the theory of evolution. This is because there is no evolution, only a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live. Go and do likewise.


Do these things and you'll be well on your way to Norris-like stature which has been proven to help you in bar fights and defend the free world. And when in doubt, ask yourself: What Would Chuck Do? Maybe someday people will be writing "facts" about you. Until then, here is a list of my favorite Chuck Norris "facts" found on the web page Chuck Norris Facts.

  • Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.
  • Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
  • Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is.
  • Chuck Norris’ hand is the only hand that can beat a Royal Flush.
  • When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.
  • There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.
  • Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.
  • Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.
  • Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.
  • Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
  • When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Supreme Court Decides Bush v Gore (a tribute)

It did not escape my attention that today is the seventh anniversary of the Supreme Court's decision to end Florida's state-wide ballot recount, which allowed George W. Bush to be certified as the winner of the 2000 election. Much has already been said about this historical event--the fact that Al Gore lost even though he won the popular vote, and the inability of Floridians to properly punch their voting cards leading to a confusing re-count. In my humble opinion all of this speaks to the fact that the Founding Fathers weren't that smart, and neither are we.

I've never been much of a conspiracy theorist. My belief that large entities are behind all of our current woes went the same way as my theism. (It turns out they had a lot in common.) I don't really believe that the Supreme Court "stole" the election for Bush. I don't really think there was a massive cover-up going on. I do think, however, that the electoral college is an antiquated idea whose time has come.

The electoral college was a necessity 200 years ago when people rode their horses to delegate meetings and cast their votes in secret rooms, signaling the victor with a plume of smoke from the chimney behind locked doors. Oh it was a high time at those gatherings, let me tell you, with all those delegates dressed up in colorful robes, burning incense and offering prayers to Artemis for light and wisdom. But those days went out with the Eisenhower administration.


First of all, direct election would give everyone's vote the same weight. What's the point of even voting Republican in a state like New York or California other than to exercise your right in a hallow gesture? Since most states operate on a winner-take-all system there's no reason to even pander to Texas or Georgia. It's a foregone conclusion those states will vote Republican anyway. Candidates know this and so they simply focus on a handful of swing states. If you're lucky enough to live in one of those states your vote counts a great deal. If not, get bent.

Secondly, it has now happened four times that the winner of the popular vote did not receive election. You would be inclined to believe that once the electoral college's efficiency trumps the will of the people its value should be questioned. But still we cling to it like an old blanket. Arguments for the continuation of the electoral college usually focus around crusty ideals like the "continuation of the federal character of the nation" or "national stability through a two party system." Yawn. I don't know about you, but I don't find these to be particularly compelling.

Maybe the saddest thing about the 2000 recount is that so many people couldn't figure out how to punch their ballot cards, and the term "hanging chad" was introduced into the lexicon. Maybe this is a microcosm of our problems? Listen, people, punching a hole in your card isn't that hard, is it? And if it is, shouldn't your vote then be negated? Seriously. We're electing the leader of the executive branch, exercising the ancient human right of freedom and representation, in the most powerful country in the world. Your collective wisdom decides the fate of so many innocent people around the world. And all the gods ask is that you follow simple voting instructions.

This is why I think issues like stem cell research and gay marriage should be left off the ballot. Haven't we proven unequivocally that we have no idea what we're doing? Not only did someone like George W. Bush slip through the cracks to take the helm of our great nation, but the man was re-elected after beaching it on a sandbar. The same group of people who opted for that guy should also weigh in on when life begins, and whom can legally marry whom? That sounds like trouble. Maybe we should have less responsibility and not more. Then, if we thought less about what was going on in other people's bedrooms, we'd have more energy to devote to punching that voting card properly. Just a thought.

But I'm not unsympathetic. I can see how all of this gets confusing. The average person has a ton of stuff to think about. I mean mundane stuff like is Bobby catching a cold? And don't forget to pick up the milk after work. That, plus the piles of responsibility we each have at work trying to stay one step ahead of unemployment or outsourcing while engaging in continuing education and re-branding. It's exhausting isn't it? How am I supposed to know about stem cells? How am I supposed to know how to vote? Can't we just leave it all up to those high-powered, super-intellectual commissions that form every time our elected leaders are found in dereliction of duty? Back when delegates road horses to super-secret meetings to elect the President such governmental oversights weren't even a wild dream. That shows how far we've come in seven years. Yes, it does.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

MST3K Resurfaces as Cinematic Titanic

It was sometime around 1989 and I was about fourteen. My mom and sister had discovered this nutty show where a guy and his robot friends watch and riff on really bad movies for two hours. The show was "Mystery Science Theater 3000." I watched as my mom and sister never missed an episode and even made their pilgrimages to Minneapolis for MST3K conventions. One year my sister dressed up as a giant leech. Another year my mom went as the brain that wouldn't die. It's funny to think back on those days when a campy TV show brought the whole family together. (Well, except my dad who was usually out in the garage.)

For fans, MST3K was more than a show, it provided a family identity. Like the Partridge Family, except with no Susan Dey, no music, just a crapload of terrible B-movies. What was really enjoyable about the show was its low production values, and one-take skits. It had a very immersive quality. It didn't try to please everyone, and that was why the people who liked it loved it so much.

It turns out a lot of other people felt the same way my mom and sister did. The fans became known affectionately as "MSties," MST3K turned into a cult classic, and Time Magazine later named it one of the 100 greatest TV shows ever. Even after it's cancellation in 1999 an underground following remained. Revived by the DVD format, fans can now get old episodes through NetFlix and other outlets.

But now it looks like the original spirit is back. MST3K creator Joel Hodgson has launched a new internet-based project called "Cinematic Titanic" which he describes as "a new movie-riffing delivery system." Along with Joel will be the original writers from MSTK: Trace Beaulieu, Frank Conniff, Mary Jo Pehl, and J. Elvis Weinstein. They will, as in the original show, riff on terrible movies, and the end product will be available via download, web stream, or DVD delivery on a monthly basis.

I received word of this when my sister alerted me (of course). When she explained to me the premise I said, "Wait, isn't Mike Nelson doing something similar with "RiffTrax?"

"This is different," she said. And then, in a voice like Dave from 2010, in full MST3K mode she said, "It's something wonderful."

Here's a link to the Cinematic Titanic homepage where you can join their newsletter and get alerts on new movies coming out.'

And, if you have no idea what MST3K is all about, here:



And, if you think I'm crazy, here's the word on the street:

SFist: MST3K Returns!
Slashdot: Joel and Original Cast of MST3K Riding the Cinematic Titanic
Wired: Cinematic Titanic Steams Into Mystery Science Theater Waters

Friday, December 07, 2007

Honey Calms Children's Coughs, Tastes Ohh So Good

According to a new report, honey, that sweet, delicious substance produced by honey bees, seems to calm children's coughs and help them sleep better.

The AP writes:

For the study, researchers recruited 105 children with upper respiratory infections from a clinic in Pennsylvania. Parents were given a paper bag with a dosing device inside. Some were empty. Some contained an age-appropriate dose of honey-flavored cough medicine containing dextromethorphan. And some contained a similar dose of honey.

The parents were asked about their children's sleep and cough symptoms, once before the bedtime treatment and once after. They rated the symptoms on a seven-point scale.

All of the children got better, but honey consistently scored best in parents' rating of their children's cough symptoms.
It looks like honey, that luscious, gooey substance derived from the nectar of flowers, has dealt a major blow to the pediatrics field. The study, funded by the National Honey Board, comes after an expert panel of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration has called for a complete ban on all over-the-counter remedies aimed at children under the age of 6. And many leading doctors agree that if used incorrectly, the cough syrups have the potential to do serious harm.

"This is a huge victory for honey and honey lovers everywhere," said Ed Reed, spokesman for the National Honey Board. "It turns out your grandma was right all along."

Honey is a rich source of antioxidant and antimicrobial compounds that may aid healing. Lead researcher Ian Paul of Pennsylvania State University in Hershey also suspects much of the benefit might come from the "soothing effect of the thick, syrup-like liquid [honey] on the back of the throat." It seems to "calm the irritation that leads to cough."

While scientists and researchers were surprised at the findings, lovers of honey, that irresistibly wonderful nectar of the gods, relished their long over-due vindication.

"Everyone always called me crazy," said Winnie-the-Pooh from his home in the Hundred Acre Wood. "Who's laughing now?"

In other news a tractor-trailer carrying honey buns overturned on I-77 in Charlotte Thursday morning. The truck collided with another vehicle but no one was seriously hurt. Investigators say the sweet, chewy honey buns deployed on impact creating a soft, almost air-like cushion around the vehicles. The driver of the big rig was taken to the hospital with non life threatening injuries.

Honey, is there anything it can't do?

Happy Pearl Harbor Day

Today, on December 7th, a day that would live in infamy, we remember the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and the movies which made it famous.

Sixty-six years ago (my God, has it been that long??) the dastardly Empire of Japan launched a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, a United States Naval base in Hawaii. At the time Hawaii was just a far flung American colonial interest. But the Japanese, eying the pristine and halcyon islands as a possible vacationing spot for weary troops, sailors, and airmen, attacked on the morning of Sunday, December 7, 1941.

The attack which caught the sunbathing, surfing, and beach-lovemaking Americans unawares destroyed two battleships, two destroyers, 188 aircraft, along with 2,333 killed and 1,139 wounded. The attack also forever ruined the torrid love-affair between Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr (meow!) as seen in the 1953 movie From Here to Eternity.

The only thing which prevented the complete destruction of America's entire Pacific fleet at Pearl Harbor was the timely arrival of the U.S.S. Nimitz from the year 1980, captained by Kirk Douglas, as seen in the classic film The Final Countdown.

A monster cast, including Ben Affleck, Alec Baldwin, John Voight, Josh Hartnett, Kate Beckinsale, Cuba Gooding Jr., Dan Ackroyd, and Jennifer Garner all joined with producer Jerry Bruckheimer and director Michael Bay, to help stave off the Japanese attack, documented accurately in their 2001 summer blockbuster film Pearl Habor.

The movie boasted a production budget of 132 million dollars, far more than the actual Japanese cost to attack Pearl Harbor. "We're going to do it right this time," Bay announced.

Although they were ultimately successful, critic Roger Ebert called the affair "a two-hour movie squeezed into three hours, about how on December 7, 1941, the Japanese staged a surprise attack on an American love triangle." He then added, "The filmmakers seem to have aimed the film at an audience that may not have heard of Pearl Harbor, or perhaps even of World War Two." Bay, incensed at the criticism, which he called the worst of his career, had Ebert's house bombed into the ground with dramatic flair.

The film did go on to win one academy award, and also was nominated for six Golden Raspberry Awards for Worst Picture, Worst Director, Worst Screenplay, Worst Screen Couple, Worst Actor (Affleck), Worst Remake of a Sequel (of "Tora, Tora, Tora"); but lost to Tom Green's truly awful "Freddy Got Fingered" on all cards.


The spirit of the movie was later immortalized in the Team America World Police song "The End of an Act."

I miss you more than Michael Bay missed the mark
When he made Pearl Harbor

I miss you more than that movie missed the point
And that’s an awful lot
And now, now you've gone away

And all I'm trying to say

Is Pearl Harbor sucked and I miss you


The successful attack lulled the Japanese Empire into a sense of self confidence and soon it turned its power towards making giant-monster-movies. America seized the initiative and struck back. In less than four years the Pacific had been re-secured and the war culminated in Bay-like flair with the total incineration of two Japanese cities by the A-bomb.

And that's the story of how the good ol' US-of-A won World War Two. The Big One. W-W-I-I. Even after being sucker-punched America went on to become the richest, most powerful country in the world, with the movies to prove it. And today Japan provides her with cars, cell phones, and robotic vacuum cleaners, in a tight-knight symbiotic relationship. But it all started with Pearl Harbor.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Happy Hanukkah from President Bush

I send greetings to all those celebrating Hanukkah, the festival of lights.

Hanukkah commemorates a victory for freedom and the courage and faith that made it possible. More than 2,000 years ago, the land of ancient Israel was conquered, its sacred Temple was desecrated, and the Jewish people were forbidden to practice their faith. A patriot named Judah Maccabee and his followers rose up against their oppressors to take back Jerusalem.

He did this because this is what patriots do. They rise up against tyranny and oppression where ever it may be found, no matter what form it takes. We fight our war on terror because we're patriots, patriots who have been desecrated. Desecrated patriots who have come to kick ass and spin the dradle, and we're all out of dradles.

I just got a dradle the other day. I thought I should practice a little bit since I'm wishing so many a Happy Hanukkah. Spinning the dradle is a game. The dradle is a four sided toy. On each side is a letter which correspond to instructions. You spin it and it tells you what to do.

I have a litle dradle
I made it out of clay
And when its dry and ready
With dradle i shall play


You see? It's a lot like how I make decisions here in the Oval Office. Sometimes I flip a coin. Sometimes I play rock-paper-scissors. Sometimes I consult the Magic 8 ball. Most of the time I just ask Cheney. heh-heh-heh.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, when the Maccabees returned to reclaim and purify their Holy Temple, the oil used for dedication should have lasted only one day but burned for eight. Every year since then, Jews have celebrated this victory of light over darkness and given thanks for the presence of a just and loving God.

You see, oil was important even way back then. It's just as important today. That's why we're in Iraq. No, not for the oil, to preserve freedom. But did you really want all of that oil in Saddam's hands? I figured while we were there introducing democracy we should at least secure the oil. I know through extensive data mining and NSA wiretapping that most of my supporters drive big, beefy Texas sized SUVs. Well now your oil is in safe hands and it will burn for a thousand years or more at least. By then American automakers should have some of those newfangled Lithium-Ion powered cars for sale. And maybe in a thousand years those cars will fly. Flying cars. That's crazy.

Anyway, as Jewish Americans prepare to light the Hanukkah candles, we are reminded of the many blessings in our lives. The candles' glow has the power to lift our souls, put hope in our hearts, and make our Nation a more compassionable and peaceful place. We pray that those who still live in the darkness of tyranny will someday see the light of freedom. We're certainly going to do all we can to bring that light to you. Have you ever seen a cruise missile drop down a ventilation shaft from 200 miles out after being launched from an AEGIS destroyer? That's the light I'm talking about. We're ready to bring that kind of light to our friends over in Iran if they don't come clean. That will put a nice glow into their night sky. The rubble burns for days.

We ask for God's continued guidance and boundless love and His protection of all those in need during this holiday season.

Laura and I wish all people of the Jewish faith a Happy Hanukkah. And for the rest of you, be patient, Christmas is coming.

GEORGE W. BUSH

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Happy Repeal Day

Today, December 5, is known as Repeal Day in drinking circles. On this day lovers of alcohol toast the anniversary of the Twenty-first Amendment's ratification in 1933, which repealed the Eighteenth Amendment's prohibition on alcohol.

Prohibition began in 1920 and quickly sank the country into a pit of sin and debauchery. Awakened, America never looked back. Prohibition lasted for thirteen years and is widely seen as a failed social and political experiment and an example of what happens when the government attempts to legislate private behavior. But, in fairness, how much can you really expect from a movement that had the enthusiastic backing of the Klu Klux Klan?

Society in the 1920s was divided up into two camps: dries and wets. Dries would march home after work, tense and stressed out, while wets would stumble out of speakeasies after a night of jazz music and dancing. Word got around. Soon even the dries were begging to get wet, screaming at FDR to repeal the damned Eighteenth amendment. Meanwhile, gangsters such as Al Capone, lived in opulence above the law, presiding over a complex distributing network, laying the foundations for modern day organized crime.

The main problem with Prohibition was that it was extremely hard to enforce in the private lives of people. The desire to have a drink was never addressed, and suppliers found a way to meet it. In the end hard working citizens grew tired of having to sneak around for a a nip here and there. But the movement was not without it's positives. Had we never attempted to outlaw drinking we never would have had the Roaring Twenties, the rise of gangsters, rum running, hooch making, and, of course, the super cool speakeasy.

Speakeasies were underground bars that discreetly served patrons liquor, along with food and music. The term speakeasy originated from bartenders telling patrons to “speak easy” when ordering so as not to be overheard. Speakeasies were often unmarked establishments. Sometimes they were behind or underneath other businesses. Often the only way you could get in the door was with a secret password. How cool is that? On top of this, speakeasies were often funded by organized crime and could be very elaborate and upscale. By the end of the 1920s Al Capone controlled every speakeasy in Chicago.

Prohibition was repealed with the ratification of the Twenty-first Amendment on December 5, 1933. The amendment clearly stated that 1) the Eighteenth Amendment was hereby repealed and 2) happy hour hereby begins at 5:00 and runs until 8:00, closing time will be 2:00 am and not 2:05.

Today Repeal Day is gaining popularity among the drinking public, not just as a celebration of the right to drink but as a toast to freedom. Those who don't like it can just stay home. Soon Repeal Day will take its rightful place among other great American drinking days: St. Patrick's Day, Cinco de Mayo, and Halloween. So, if you'll be out tonight, toast one for Repeal Day and freedom of choice.

Stay wet, people!

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Stuck in the Past

My first real job was working as a dishwasher at Robin's Restaurant in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. I was sixteen and they paid in cash. I hated every moment of that job. The busboys, who back then they were called busboys, now they're called buspersons, or food reduction engineers, would place trays on a conveyor belt and I would grab the plates of half-eaten food, wipe them down, and run them through the dishwasher. Then I would move down to the end of the line and grab a clean batch coming out. This went on at a maddening pace for hours. It was my first taste of the maniacal, Orwellian, clock-punching world awaiting me after high school graduation. I forged two decisions next to that dishwashing machine. One, I would quit this job by faking a broken leg. Two, I promised to go to college.

Oh, but I remember my first pay day. It came from the manager's very own hand, a wad of cash wrapped in an envelope with my name on it. I knew just what I was going to do with it too. I rode the bus downtown to the now defunct Park Plaza Mall, went to the computer game store, and bought Sid Meier's Civilization for $40. It would go on to become one of the greatest computer games of all time. I was riding high. Later that week I went down to The Exclusive Company, a discount electronics store on main street, and bought a pair of floor standing speakers for $80. At home I coupled these speakers with an old turntable receiver I had unearthed in the basement and I ran audio inputs to a five disk CD changer. I joined one of those CD clubs (remember those?) and soon had eight CDs in the mail for only a penny.

Those CDs were:

Billy Joel - Greatest Hits
The Red Hot Chili Peppers - Blood Sugar Sex Magik
Tom Cochran - Life is a Highway
Pearl Jam - Ten
Mr. Big - Lean Into It
Blind Melon - Blind Melon
Nirvana - Nevermind
Bryan Adams - So Far So Good

My God, what a mix! Those CDs started, in earnest, an inauspicious, winding, complex love affair with rock music. Soon I was borrowing every album my friends had. I listened to Metallica's Enter Sandman and Megadeth's Countdown to Extinction. I bought Simon and Garfunkel and pilfered my dad's tape collection. Then I found The Beatles.

Two of my friends seemed to own every Beatles album between them. I sampled each one and then went out and bought them all, one at a time. I remember how odd Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band sounded to me the first time I listened to it. John Lennon's voice sounded like he had inhaled far too much circus balloon helium. All of the songs were ludicrous. The album was disconcerting and daring and made no sense. But then I re-visted it months later and I realized that was the point of it all, and I loved it. My musical mind was expanding.

That feeling was recreated when I listened to Abbey Road. I can still remember listening to the opening track, "Come Together," as the Ringo tumbled his way around the drum kit, Paul's bass poured through the speakers, and John clapped and hissed an inaudible message ("shoot me") into the microphone.

Here come old flat-top he come grooving up slowly
He got joo-joo eyeball he one holy roller
He got hair down to his knee
Got to be a joker he just do what he please


And then Paul's last bass note just hangs in thin air...

He wear no shoeshine he got toe-jam football
He got monkey finger he shoot coca-cola

He say "I know you, you know me"

One thing I can tell you is you got to be free

Come together
Right now
Over me


It was that chorus that floored me: with the rhythm guitar playing a B minor chord, crashing in through the speakers, moving down to a G and then ending on an A only to vanish into the haze, leaving John all alone to sing "over me." It was amazing. I listened to that song over and over. I can still remember how those notes sounded through those speakers. The song felt smoky, it crept around the room, it boomed into the chorus only to pull back. Like a joker, it did what it pleased. I'd never heard anything like that before.

Fifteen years later I decided to try to re-create this experience in my living room. I wanted a new stereo, but I wanted that old-school sound, none of this five bookshelf speaker plus subwoofer crap. In my day we listened to our rock music through two giant kick ass speakers, the windows rattled, and we liked it. And so on Amazon.com I plunked down $300 for a Harmon/Kardon receiver and $150 for two large Sony floorstanding speakers. They arrived at my door in days. Admittedly, it was not quite as romantic as stuffing the equipment into the back of my 1983 Monte Carlo, driving home, and building the stereo from leftover parts in the basement, but it would have to do.

The box the speakers showed up in was laughably huge. It looked like a coffin. It reminded me of that scene in "A Christmas Story" where they lug a giant crate into the living room which contained a "major award" -- the old man's leg lamp. I unpacked the speakers, which stand four feet high. Like the ones I had in high school they are called "three-ways," which means they have a separate speaker for the tweeter, midrange, and woofer. These new speakers actually had two mid-range drivers. I hooked them into the receiver and then connected my CD/DVD player. I calibrated the speakers, selected the digital encoding to use, and popped in a test CD. To start, I opted for Dire Straits.

With a snap of Pick Wither's snare drum "Sultans of Swing" entered my living room. On the next beat he was joined by the Knopfler brothers on guitar, and John Illsey on bass. Mark began to sing:

You get a shiver in the dark
Its been raining in the park but meantime


It sounded glorious. I sat on my couch and closed my eyes. I tried every CD I could find. Eric Clapton, Def Leppard, Led Zeppelin, all sounded fantastic. I was moving back in time. I found my original Counting Crows CD and popped it in. The opening G chord and bass drum thump on "Mr. Jones" was deep and moving. The guitar picking on "Round Here" was crisp. I found my Blind Melon CD and "No Rain" sounded amazing.

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain


Suddenly, all the songs that I once knew, I re-learned through the light of adulthood. The amazing thing about music may be it's ability to move you one way and then another over a distance separated by years.

I just want some one to say to me
I'll always be there when you wake
Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today
So stay with me and I'll have it made


Everything I threw at the speakers came out the other side wonderfully rich and textured. The shaker on "Billy Jean" came alive. Stewart Copeland's snare cracks on "Wrapped Around your Finger" rang through the room like rifle shots. Third Eye Blind's "How's it Going to be" sounded heart wrenching.

Then it was time for the final test: the Beatles.

I put in Love, George Martin's Beatles compilation soundtrack album which was released last year. The first song on the album is "Because," the magnificent track from the B-side of Abbey Road. This time I could hear the subtle chirp of birds in the background, the fluttering of wings, which I had not heard on this version before on Love. Then the Beatles came in with their incredibly harmony:

Ahhh--ah
Because the world is round
It turns me on

I was floored.

I went ahead to track 18, "Here Comes the Sun," also from Abbey Road. On Love it starts with a subtle intro but then George's now infamous opening guitar picking enters the left speaker and instantly you are back on familiar ground with a chill going down your spine.

Here comes the sun
Here comes the sun and I say
It's all right


And then the bass and drums tumble into the song and you are carried off on one of the most incredible musical experiences of the last forty years. How that song can fail to move anyone is beyond me but all of this was not to be outdone by "Come Together." It sounded just as seductive and serpentine as it had fifteen years ago from my $80 speakers. I sat in the middle of the living room and let the whole song wash over me. I could feel every kick on Ringo's bass drum, I could follow Paul's winding bass line, and the chorus was as powerful and troubling as it was on that first listen from my little bedroom.

In my advancing age I tend to romanticize the Beatles, a group which certainly needs no extra heralding. I did not grow up in the 60s, a time of revolution and questioning, a time which the Beatles lent their considerable talents to transforming. I discovered the Beatles on an old cassette tape my dad had stashed away in the garage. But they started a type of revolution for me. Their songs formed a backdrop for my own confusing years, and for my own journey. I am consistently amazed that a group writing in a specific time can reverberate as clearly as they did in their original context.

Sitting down for one last song I popped in my old Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band CD. I skipped to track 13. The subtle strumming of a rhythm guitar. The introduction of a piano, bass, and drums. John's ethereal vocals echoing through the room.

I read the news today oh, boy...
About a lucky man who made the grade

There was a time when everything was a first--your first kiss, your first car, the first time you ever really loved an album. The innocence ushers them in, and you are ushered out. There is a simple pleasure in re-creating, just for a moment, how that all felt. Every morning I try a few new songs, and check out before hauling myself off to work. It is no stretch to say that I have come a long way since sitting in my room at sixteen. I may have changed but those songs haven't. When I dwell in their energy, their joy and sorrow, without apology, like I did years ago, even time has to take a seat and wait.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Poem of the Day

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Skeptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast,
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such
Whether he thinks too little or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

-- Alexander Pope