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The Happy Halladay/Holliday Edition*

November 20, 2009 Leave a comment

Having recently re-subscribed to the “Less is best” school of life grad program, here is my burn out—I mean — burnt offering for the coming holidays. These are the things which can still make me laugh out loud, long and so hard, I risk a ruptured gut. Pretty sure you’ll agree.

My life is finally one with the universe. Well, the universe as I perceive it anyhow. Spike Lee, peanut head film auteur & Knicks fan, spoke out recently—no breaking news there, he does it a lot. That he called the works of Tyler Perry buffoonery, suggesting it was setting the cause of African-Americans back faster than Oprah can load a dish at an all you can eat buffet, is the shocker. Not sure I can live in a world where Spike Lee and I agree, so I’ll add the following—Tyler Perry is setting the entire human race back. Now that’s a race problem!

Perry’s partner in a recent movie release, Winfrey, has announced she’ll be ending her TV show in 2011. This one made me laugh so hard I might have to sue her for the sutures my sides required. 2011?!… Hold on, maybe she knows something! [see below] Regardless, she’ll no doubt pull a Leno and turn up on a night time version. Let’s see, I bet it will be called O! What a Night. I like O! What a Load.

The 2009 Major League baseball season ended the way it always should, so no gloat-fest here. Two things do need addressing. One is the phrase “bought players.” Teams sign players to contracts—- often for huge money. Yes, they all have the option to do so. While the jaded fan may choose to esteem that process as “buying,” they are morons. Abe Lincoln freed the slaves with that old Emancipation Proclamation. Nobody ain’t buyin’ nobody no mo’. To claim the Yankees bought C.C. Sabathia is racist. BTW did I mention THE YANKEES WIN! THE_UHHHHHHHHH YANKEES WIN!!

As for Bud Selig, 80 year old used car salesman/baseball commissioner (@ $20 million per annum). He just noticed the time lag between playoff games is a bit extreme. Wow! 20 mil doesn’t buy the quality brains does it. Of course, LA of A Angels manager of the year Mike Scioscia complained about it. Mainly due to the Angels losing. If Yankees mgr. Joe Girardi had bitched, a fresh round of anti-NYY sentiment would have filled the airwaves in red hot parallel pinstripes to the yowls of “Yankees bought another World Series” bullshit. Those fellas need some new slogans. I have one for them — STFU.

Read some history you a-holes. Sports has always been this way. You can’t sit around smugly saying life ain’t fair – deal with it to people having a rough time of it now- and then cry when your team gets whupped. Mainly because they are cheapskates. Why doesn’t Selig donate 18 or 19 million of his take, to the team with the worst record each year, so they can S I G N a big time free agent. AS if that alone assures anyone of positive results. MLB needs a major league overhaul, with a tier & rewards system for team performance. They won’t do it, because suits like Pud & his cronies like it the way it is-stoopit. Don’t blame the Yankees, blame the owners of all the other teams. But you won’t.

Nobody cries but NYY fans when tyro low payroll teams like the Florida Marlins & Arizona Diamondbacks beat the Yankees on a fluke & their owners bank the cake for trophy wives and ocean front property in Palm Springs. Oh! then it’s David v. Goliath and if it’s like a story in the Bible, it’s good enough for Joe Redass. When did douche baggery start ruling the world?

Which dovetails, in an un-dove like way to a socio-religious aspect of the current flick 2012. Seems they are ecumenical in their destruction of world religious symbols. Oh wait, they forgot to blow up any Islamic sites. Wouldn’t want to offend those clowns. Now I think of it, they do a pretty good job of blowing up the world themselves, literally and figuratively. If somebody told them the truth about the virgins (actually it’s a box of raisins – you could look it up), do you think they’d do that reprehensible shameful Bombing for Allahs trick? Still, all that doesn’t excuse the P.C. pandering of the film makers. Weak. Very.

Continuing on in the weak dept., there is a sports talk host on WFAN, New York City. The guy is a man of the people type, he speaks English natively, but he mangles it grammatically. He can barely speak a sentence without stammering and repeating words. Was this a pity hire? Hey! that’s fine on some small radio station in the sticks, not on the seminal sports powerhouse, in the world’s largest and most influential media market. The worst part is, a typical sports talk show attracts limited intellect callers. This guy’s audience takes it to a new low, the mouth breather boxing fans are the most virulent. He’s on now like 8 nights a week. Can anyone say—video of suits with donkeys?

It’s obvious, I’m thankful for all the laughter this has all brought me. I’m looking forward to all the swell things 2010 will bring. After all, we’re at the 2 year warning—the Mayan Calendar ends in 2012. Anybody else notice it’s “the Calendar?” My @#%&*! calendar ends every year. My only hope is every year would end with-

THE YANKEES WIN! THE_UHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

YANKEES WIN!!!!!!

…and to all a good night.

* its a baseball thing, if you don’t know

Leaving the House. . ..

August 22, 2009 4 comments

Avoiding the news is a preoccupation of mine. This will not be an exegesis, satirical, tedious or otherwise on that subject. But it is a quick factoid, explaining that the Internet has virtually made it impossible for me to not see the headlines in some side bar. Even when I’m only reading the @#%&*! comics! That’s how I read the news today (August 20). Oh boy. . ..

While I often allude to a boyhood in the Bronx, NY, where I was born ( the hospital a block from Manhattan—which made all the difference ), for purposes of being clear about one point in this piece, I admit I graduated high school in New Jersey. That’s why I will now tell you about Stevie Butler. I went to high school with him and his older brother Brian—Brian and I were born a few days apart in the same year. Their parents had a general store, maybe a football field’s distance away from the school. See, if it were in the Bronx, it would have been called a candy store.

Due to the vagaries of life & my incredible smarts ( mostly incredible for the fact each year I seemed to lose an IQ point ), even though Brian and I were identical in age, I was a Senior, he was a Junior & Stevie was a freshman, as was my sister. The year after I graduated, I was in a band & the times they were a changin’. Their mother was my boss for two summers I worked for the Parks & Recreation Dept. Sadly, there was no colleague the equal of Rashida Jones.

So, there was a connection. Two years after high school, Brian & I went to sign up at the US Armed Forces Draft Board in New Brunswick together. Despite the well intentioned advice from Arlo Guthrie, we did not walk in holding hands & sing a chorus of Alice’s Restaurant, and then walk out. One, because we didn’t want them to think we ” were both faggots ( sic )”. Two, I couldn’t sing harmony to save my ass. Literally. The thread which ties my life to others is so unbelievable, it’s more suited for the novel I never intend to write. I can’t do it here. Which spares us all. For now.

In that era, most guys I knew had grown their hair long, mustache and/or beard optional. For authority figures, it was believed to be a solid tipoff that person was doing some kind of drugs. It may strain credulity, but at 18 ( some of this ground covered in a previous episode ) I chose not to smoke, drink or do dope. Maybe it was the Catholic training or maybe it was I just wanted to save all my resources for girls & music. This was also the year I met another person who played a major part in my music history. His name was David Sutch–he was larger than life, and his did not end well.

I’d see Stevie at gigs & parties, he was affable, generous and blunt. He did have an annoying habit of busting me for not going out into the world & examining every possibility, in every corner. My retort was I didn’t need to, I had an imagination. The irony of my relationship with him will show up later in this. Despite what my so called other friends & acquaintances, family too, thought then, I was out doing other things. It just wasn’t with that old bunch. As a new decade opened, I jointly started a unisex clothing shop in Flemington N.J. with a college buddy, and I’d met several girls from that Hunterdon County area.

A life long habit of personal high impact-short lived jobs began with that store. About a year after leaving the store in a clash over business styles, I heard one of the girls Rita, had been hit by a car, while walking. Her injuries were extensive, but by the time I got the news, she was home and slowly mending. Rita had been a friendly and attractive girl, who came into the shop a lot and any ulterior motives aside, I went to visit her, hoping to cheer her up. She had some bad physical scars, all over. Though she was in decent spirits when I visited, one of her friends told me, she was good day, bad day. Something about her made me think Steve Butler could help bring back a healthy spark to her wounded psyche. He had a way with chicks.

I promised Rita I’d come back and I did. This time I took Stevie, he was up for it too, and because I was interested in one of her friends, Jaye, it was only natural for Steve to hang with Rita. I just knew Steve & Rita would like each other. I was right. Somehow I lost track of Steve after he got involved with her—my attachments to girls sometimes as short as my jobs. Their relationship lasted awhile, and I know he helped her recovery.

Next thing I knew about him, he was traveling with another girl, his hair down to his waist, and according to Brian, they were in Los Angeles. Everybody got excited when word was out, Stevie was going to appear on a popular television game show To Tell the Truth. The hook—lame, but tailor made for that era— He and the girl were placed, standing with their backs to the audience, the panel had to guess who was the boy or the girl. Yikes! We laughed, we cried–my pals got high, I didn’t. I was envious of Stevie being on TV. I can’t recall, but I think he & his gf made it onto the original Price Is Right that same week. It might even be on YouTube now—I don’t know and I don’t want to either.

Steve lived in a cave for a phase, on one of the Hawaiian Islands. Mostly he traveled the world. I’d get picture postcards from all over the planet, many with the same message— ” have you left the house yet?” I resented it after a while. But he wasn’t wrong. Experience had made me even more solitary, writing songs & collaborating with several others. My body lived locally—my mind traveled globally. Then I’d write a song. One made a sentimental reference to a friend like Stevie and a guy like me & a girl. I was sure it would be a hit. Just like me, it didn’t go too far. But it did leave the house, winding up no doubt in circular files from NYC to L.A. with a stop in Nashville.

In 1986 I was doing a thankless gig at a street fair in Frenchtown N.J. I’d invited an old friend, but he had not shown up. Much to my happy amazement, another, very unexpected person, did— Stevie. He’d just come back from Tibet (!), spoken with our friend Dennis ( the no-show ) & decided he’d try to sell some of the items ( no! not drugs ) he’d brought back from Asia. Doing my usual, “ I’d like to buy something, man , but I’m doing this gig free ” act, I shook his hand. Being Stevie, he said—“…just pick out a few things, they’re yours. It’ll be your pay for playing.” Chambers of Commerce could learn from guys like him. Ex-cave dwellers being more giving than say, fat white blowhards. I chose a great cap & a scarf, which I subsequently employed as gifts for two women. I’d told him I might do just that & he smiled. But the third thing, a small wooden slide whistle, resides just a foot away from this keyboard.

That was the last time I saw Steve Butler. Two years later, he boarded a plane in London for NYC. It was Pan Am Flight 103 and it blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland. The story doesn’t end there. That’s why I’m stopping this one. And for the moment, I won’t be leaving the house.


The Artless Dodger…

May 8, 2009 2 comments

It seems Manny being Manny was aided and abetted by performance enhancing substances†[please see below]. All those clutch, drop the Yankees hits while with the Boston team, were bullshit. Now, while that city and its players enjoy the rewards their envy and hypocrisy continue to provide them, they need to admit they are phonies. If they can hate on and gloss the NYY as the evil empire, riddled with cheaters, then they themselves are surely the Weasel World of sports. Yankees suck? you m*****r f****rs suck and blow.

I have been watching, and for a short youthful period, playing baseball since 1956. I steeped myself in the game via what media was available then— TV, radio, books, magazines and baseball cards. It never seemed enough—sure baseball was talked year round—with friends. Nothing like the current media, carpet bombing 24 hours a day, seven days a week; pervasive and invasive coverage. Really, it’s too much. It encourages excesses and it gets them. From everyone involved.

Too much and yet the magpies who pass for talk show hosts on all sports radio outlets, discrete team owned tv, and networks like ESPN & Fox, turned a sycophantic blind eye to some tried and true practices. Amphetamines before games and shopping trips after—lining up groupies for stars. AND the last 20 plus seasons of slowly unfolding revelations of anabolic steroids and human growth hormones (HGH)usage by the big names of the big leagues.

It has resulted in the breeding of hack writers such as Selena Roberts (Sports Illustrated) who indicted the Duke Lacrosse team for party fouls at the rapist level before they were found NOT guilty*, to her present exposé book of Alex Rodriguez. These jock sniffing carrion eaters turn on you faster than a whirling dervish and they care not a whit if they are subsequently off the mark. The bullshit “court of public opinion” is the demographic they court. The lowest common denominator, once the exclusive stained and chawn turf of the National Enquirer, a newspaper no self respecting journalist would’ve been employed by when I was in J school, is catered to via sensationalism passing for reporting and writing.

It has also grown the barely literate radio talk host, most of whom have never read a book. If they have, it was about sports and no doubt, at the level of a fifth grader. Video games began cutting into the sports dollar heavily during the eighties and in some cases supplanted it for youth recreational time and bucks. The spawn of gamers are the announcers of today’s media. Dumb as rocks without the charm and personality. The majority of athletes, even less so. Easy to see how in this environment a clownish thug such as Manny Ramirez can thrive and pull the double-knit polyfiber over the eyes (and the limited intellect within their heads) of the feral media. One moment they are sucking up, the next, sucking the life out of their prey—the superstar, over paid and undereducated.

Major league baseball itself is led by a septuagenarian former team owner and used car salesman. He needs to step down; he never should have been there to need to do so. Baseball needs restructuring, it is at once archaic and contemporary, the new parts grafted on top of its decay, an aging Hollywood actor made of plastic. A Joan Rivers face, attempting to deceive the world into thinking she’s Megan Fox. A world moving so fast, it almost works—one because even if they had attention spans, most humans own the observational skills of two year olds.

No Boston fan will ever own up**—Manny ain’t theah prawblem anymore. I’m sure they’ll say he never got caught copping ‘roids down by the Charles River. He is however, the true face of the MLB, smug and bloated, and they only suspend him for 50 games? ha ha ha. Manny loves a vacation, he comes back well rested (pumped full of some new undetectable designer dope) for the stretch run and leads a slumping LA to the playoffs again. This is almost a strategic gift! Blow up baseball and bring the Dodgers back to Brooklyn—if you rebuild it they will come. But you won’t, you’re too fucking stupid. And so are your ugly, dumbass friends.

Did I mention beam me up, Simon? Simon! Theodore? ALVIN!!!**

__________________________________________________________________________

†  Ramirez tested positive for a  female(!) fertility drug HCG, or human chorionic gonadotropin. HCG is popular with some steroid users because it can mitigate the side effects of ending a cycle of the drugs. Going off steroids can stop testosterone production, decreasing sperm count & shrinking testicles. Manny apparently wants to maintain those big balls as well as cheat…

* Niether Roberts nor SI printed a retraction—creeps.

** Denis Leary, Doris Kearns Goodwin & Jonathan Schwartz might, but they are exceptions because they are exceptional.

** Simon Pegg appears as Scotty in the new Star Trek movie—Alvin & the Chipmunks reference 110% gratuitous, though a nuts connotation is implicit

Parallaxatively 4th Street

March 31, 2009 Leave a comment

My life has always been lived in parallel lines. The geometrical manifestation of that which runs side by side, destined to never meet. Here’s an example or two.

When I was 20, I was a teacher aide in an inner city school, troubled by a lack of student discipline, due to drug use. Mostly marijuana, some of it heroin. This was before crack was cool & ecstasy was only a dream of getting Susie Q to third base in the back seat of the Ford.

Having just failed ( then )as an entrepreneur in the burgeoning head shop business, due to a personal ethos that dictated never selling drug paraphernalia, I got the aide gig. That was my first cosmic/ironic clue I’d have troubles making ends meet ( see parallel lines above ). But even by age 20, I’d had experience in spotting a doper. After all, most of my so called friends were—they required it, they told me, so they could be better musicians.

Eventually, after having my heart broken by girls and the music business, I succumbed one party night to trying some mushrooms, or organic mescaline, as approved by Castaneda’s Don Juan. Administered by the drummer. What fun! I almost got busted first time out of the gate. Not content with a good beer high or even a doobie buzz, I went straight—OK wrong word—directly to tripping.

It was yet another portent— I saw God—(who looked remarkably like a much older version of me!), seemed like a good guy. At the time. . .. Then, with my antennae, abnormally sensitive on a regular day, way up high, I heard the inner voice say—look out the window dude. I saw a blinking red light in the dark street, coming from next door, in the suburb we were partying.

A devotee of Sherlock Holmes, I instantly deduced — police. Ran up stairs, announcing it room to room. Much flushing took place & on cue, the door bell rang. One officer, very polite, told the kid whose parents were out of town for the Memorial Day weekend (natch), there had been a complaint about drums. Yes, he had been playing them loud + long, earlier, but he promised the cop, he was done for the night.

As he was a clean cut young man, and the back windows had been open, the cloud of cannabis was wafting points due west, away from the officer’s nose. Case closed. Me, still trippin’, I dodged bullet one. Much praise from the rest. Sadly, with one exception, they were male, the lone girl, was taken. No grateful girl to, well, you know, for saving her ass. Oh well. I did get to meet God. By the way, God told me I was going to be all right. Still waiting. . ..

Back to school. So, I knew a drugged out kid when I saw one. But after having been threatened ” I’ll cut you up Mod Squad! ” by a sister ( possibly Tyler Perry’s ) with a nail file, whose smacked out boyfriend told her–“he’s cool” I started rethinking the gig. About the same time I learned one of the students (girl) was having sex with a teacher (male). Now, I was not a teacher, I was a 20 year old aide. The reason I found out about those two though, was because I had formed a Platonic palship with the bff of the girl in question. If you knew me, you’d know when I say Platonic (paltonic?*), I mean it.

I was more flex then. Not to mention, active. I was into being monogamous and sincerely wanted just one good chick. In retrospect or in a time machine, I’d likely moderate that position. A lot. Using the Kama Sutra as a primer. Any way, when a work/study girl propositioned me in the hall one day, I closed my eyes and thought of England. It was a What Would John (Lennon) Do moment. Yeah, yeah, yeah. And I still remember all their names too.

What I really wanted to say though is, any given school day I ‘d be sashaying down the hall. One conversation I’m criticized for using “college” words. The next, I’d go off in a blue cloud about junkies with sharp implements and get the worn out “using profanity is the sign of a small vocabulary,” lecture. Well, I was pissed off at the fucker who. . .oh, never mind.

It’s always been that way. I’d walk down the street in a small town and one person would comment—“you look so much better now you’ve shaved off your beard.” The very next would say ” grow your beard back.” What was most disconcerting is the former observer was male, the latter a female. Have I mentioned I’m a devout heterosexual? Well, unless the only way to get a threesome with Bridget Regan & Abbie Cornish is to go through Hugh Jackman. Tina Fey & Katrina Bowden? Sigh.

This special edition is brought to you by Norfolk-Southern Railroad. Here in Bubbadoon, I live a mile from the railroad track (more parallel lines). When I first moved here, the people in the community immediately adjacent to the tracks, voted to ban train whistles from midnight to 6 AM. The train suits ( standard issue fat white guys ) had much more clout and were able to have the legal voice of the people vote overturned. That’s why I am awake and filing this, two train whistles, 10 minutes apart at 2:30AM.

I bet there are more deaf drivers at 3:10 AM then say, BLIND ones. There are with certitude a greater amount of people sleeping than drivers crossing those fucking tracks. Why can’t these assholes just employ a few more flashing red lights. Shit, those warn even humans who might be tripping for the first time. AND that’s why I hate the South.

*©2009 Jukeofurl Prod LTD.

Blog is Blog

March 5, 2009 Leave a comment

Though it is said there are no absolutes in life, I’m pretty sure this is one: I don’t know everything. I used to have a favorite line I coined for just myself. It went like this: There are entire buildings devoted to all the things I don’t know. They are called libraries.

The Internet has made the library a bit less trafficked. Though many have adapted, DVD loans are always up. AND most also let you access the net there too. When I am homeless, I intend to spend a lot of time at the library. I have no faith in the Tyler Perry Plan and/or I’ll need the net to check how my SAG & AFTRA residuals are flowing, until I can buy my own island.

But that’s not why I’m here today. Today, I’d like to point out to readers of blogs a salient fact. Web logs are like columns. In the olden days, when newspapers & magazines meant something, having a column was something a writer earned. Sure, maybe they were getting it on with the editor. Maybe they actually went to Journalism School ( really a department in a college or university ). They spent their days & nights, doing scut work, getting a beat, and pounding it for years, while eating as many free press buffets as possible. One day, they write something that gets them noticed. If it happens a few more dozen times, if sales went up & you were[deleted] the editor, you probably got a column. Or fired, because they refused to give you more money. I was a Journalism major. I quit it.

Columns express the point of view & opinion of that writer and are set on or near the editorial section, that’s why they are called Op/Ed. Some people who read columnists & blogs don’t understand that distinction. While no one suggests any writer ever has carte blanche—editors still edit—columnists are not reporters. They don’t need to have facts or quotes. They may choose to use them to avoid libel suits—a good practice. Hey! even the NY Times had a reporter ( or 2 ) fabricating stories. Those were purportedly fact based. Had he or she been a columnist, it wouldn’t have been the same ethical issue. I’m not erudite or knowledgeable enough to do a full tutorial on journalism fine print, but readers do need to know the difference.

Yes–some bloggers are in the business of disseminating facts. They can also be reporters. For example Rick Reilly is a columnist, Selina Roberts is a hack, erm, reporter cum author. If I were working for say, Sports Illustrious or ISPN, I can’t say Manny Ramirez is a poophead. Mostly. Here I can. This is because Manny isn’t going to find me & knock me down. This is for a few reasons—one: though I am old, I don’t have any game tickets he needs. Two: he can’t read. See! that’s probably not true ( cough-yes it is ). But I don’t have to answer to anyone when I’m a jerk. Kind of like Manny! Again, not nice. Peter Gammons can get away with some stuff now because he is in the Hall of Fame & 2 years ago his brain blew up & he recovered. That aside, as a guitarist, he’s meh. But as a rule Pete won’t stoop to name calling. Yes, because he has integrity. And he doesn’t need a lawsuit after all those hospital bills.

So, if some blogger disses your team or your school or your mama, they might not fact check it. Well, maybe not your mama. Don’t expect the person to have three verifiable sources. Or even a source. Unless Mountain Dew Voltage ( I like it ) counts. Meanwhile I heard this awesome rumor about Tyler Perry & Dame Edith. I’d like to tell you, but I am waiting on 12 solid ( albeit fluid ) sources. When I get back from WalMart with my 12 pack, you’ll be the first to know. That’s if it’s still on sale.

Something in a 48 and long

February 20, 2009 Leave a comment

I am so worn out with people pontificating, who have never read a book, much less studied history. Even in their own ( and only ) area, of so called expertise. Yet, they look at everything through a toy microscope, while seemingly observing nothing beyond the obvious at the macro level, around them. They do have a name—they are the sports talk hosts, sports writers & the majority of sports fans. There is an old saying: If you can’t be a sport, at least wear a sport’s coat. Sport’s coat collection keeps getting pilfered by the aforementioned. AND they are ill-fitting.

ESPN is purportedly a sports and entertainment network. Most of their program content panders to the NFL and the Boston Red Sox. They have all the instincts of piranha with blood in the water. The current Alex Rodriguez story of steroid abuse, is right in their wheelhouse. They are tracking down A Rod cousins with the pit-bull tenacity of a yenta trying to get a match for an unmarried Hasidic woman pushing 30.

Only a lead with a heavy anti-Yankee angle could drag ESPN kicking & screaming from sucking up to the NFL. The National Football League—where 104 players guilty of steroid use would be the results for just two of their teams. Admittedly, it would be believable if an NFL player had no idea what substance he was shooting up. Baseball players are not all that bright, but compared to football & the other sports ( tennis the one exception ), they are virtual MENSA members.

Oh yes, ESPN is having a field day with A Rod’s downfall. Every move is analyzed, every facial expression critiqued. I can’t help but wonder how they’d have handled this, had Rodriguez become a Boston Red Sox player. Something which almost happened, but for the greed of the Major League Players Association.

Here’s how I imagine ESPN handling the same story—only A Rod is on the A Sox, er I mean Red Sox. . ..

Sports Center — A MLB player, whose anonymity is legally protected, has allegedly tested positive for a substance. This is ESPN Sports Center. Now back to Mike, Mike, Mike, plus Mike with special guest—Other Mike.

Mike: Wow. That’s some story. Hey Mike! You know Sports Illustrated has that swim suit issue coming out.

Mike: Yeah, my wife won’t let me see it. I made a doctor appointment, hoping he’ll have a copy in the waiting room.

Mike: Ha ha ha well, I bet what happened is the player was struggling and maybe had a protein shake right before the test any way.

Mike: Absolutely. And the SI reporter—isn’t she the one who got that Duke Lacrosse rape story all wrong? I’m trying to wrap my head around that.

Mike: That’s her all right. Hmmmm and also I’m guessing she’s not in the swimsuit issue too.

Mike: Ha ha ha ha ha. OK going forward. The NFL Draft is coming up in a few months. I hear this season they’re drafting Junior High kids. Smart move!

Mike: For sure Mike. I bet they have training programs especially set up for them. Lots of juice and running!

Mike: You bet. Lots of healthy juices.

Mike: I guess we should mention baseball spring training Mike.

Mike: Yep. Red Sox look awesome of late. Especially A Rod. What an ath-ah-lete!

Mike: You got that right Mike. Madonna sure looks awesome for 50. She’s un-compare-able. Probably in the Top 100 or at least 1000 for her age.

Mike: Mmmm SHE could be in the swim suit issue!

Mike: Great Mike. But I really can’t wait to see some of those 12 year old boys run the 440 at the Combine.

Mike: I’m not the Mike who said that!

Mike: Me neither!

Mike: Not me I’m married.

Mike: How ’bout that swimsuit issue!

______________________________________________________________________

I wish they’d all just go to Texas. AND take all those bad sportscoats with them.

A is for A non. . ..

February 8, 2009 2 comments

Alex Rodriguez aka A Rod aka A-Fraud aka A Roid * tested positive for anabolic steroids in 2003, according to a story in Sports Illustrated. He was a then member of the MLB franchise Texas Rangers ( now a New York Yankee ). Yankee haters have all ready jumped on the NY organization, as if they needed another excuse. This because Roger Clemens, Jason Giambi & Andy Pettitte, past & present NYY, are also tainted by purported juice use. Barry Bonds, who may actually walk on his charges, missed being a Yankee because he didn’t like the way they treated his father Bobby, who by all accounts swung to his own beat.

All these issues go much deeper than athletes doing drugs to enhance their performance. When the US passed the Volstead Act in 1919 and the Prohibition Era ruled American life, it was with the best of intentions. The negative effects of alcoholic beverage consumption on the family and society was the virtuous ( ? ) impetus. And it failed early and often, creating lots of crime, drunkenness & the Kennedys of Boston, Mass. After 13+ years & a lot of flapper pregnancies, it was repealed and Americans went back to getting a good old legal buzz. I don’t drink alcoholic beverages because I don’t like the taste of alcohol though I have been known to make a few women under the influence, sober magically, once they get a load of my act.

Anabolic steroids are illegal without a doctor’s prescription. This is due to long term effects, one of which is premature death. Even after steroids were against the law, sports entities lagged behind in the rule making department. So, part of many players defense is—it wasn’t against the rules. Then. For the record, the list of players who failed the drug test, was supposed to be sealed information. It’s not the first time the steroid issue provoked an illegal leak; an act much more sinister than a jock abusing a PED. Meanwhile, for many reasons ( mo$tly obviou$ )the National Football League rolls on, laughing up its sleeve while organized baseball weathers the firestorm.

OK enough history. It’s covered better, with more detail and annotation, elsewhere, ad nauseum. I just wanted to show I knew something about the subject, other than, it’s nothing new. Humans always want an edge. Literally, for example, as in the Stone Age case of Ogg v. Grrrn. Ogg objected to the fact Grrrn had honed the edge of his stone knife. Mr. Ogg was fighting fairly, using a blunt stone. The case was never adjudicated, as Mr. Grrrn stabbed everyone in the cave and ran. All survivors agreed Grrrn made his point—he didn’t need an edge. He was just competitive & possibly the first known sociopath.

Alex Rodriguez catches heat for everything. Choking in the clutch, dating strippers, being a numbers hanger & being seen with Madonna. All the former are moot, the Madonna thing might just prove he needs glasses and could explain the need for performance enhancement. . .. Regardless, he’s an easy target, a Golden Idol, who is turning out to be a gilded lily and getting more tarnished with each passing pigeon carrying bad news.

The Jockocracy hopped on a bandwagon ( they love to—for most of them, it’s their only form of exercise ) a few years ago. This one was called Athletes Are Rôle Models. Then some rebels ( ha ha ha ) got on the Athletes Are NOT Rôle Models float. Well, they are and they aren’t, so they got that part right. Uh, some did–never mind. Any way most of them had been hoping Mr. Rodriguez would erase Barry Bonds’ current but tainted homerun total, because in the sports world, A Rod passed for a good guy. Oops.

What I mean is, sports figures are certainly looked up to by young athletes. Guitar godz are looked to by kids with their first six-string. Rappers, by other no talents dreaming of bling & bad fashion statements. But are they models for morality & integrity? Nope. In fact, hardly anyone is. Certainly there are always exceptions. Mainly because they haven’t had their privacy invaded by a voracious media. Or been caught with their pants off in Thailand. Yet.

The true disconcerting thing is the so called Court of Public Opinion. Essentially this means guilty until proved innocent (it used to be the other way around in the US) and likely even after you’re proclaimed innocent, because idiots who go by the CoPO, are too ignorant to form a new opinion. You know what they say about opinions—every one who has one is one (that’s a W quote btw).

I wish athletes never cheated. Or spouses. Or me, and I really didn’t cheat, I just happened to see a copy of a Math test once in 7th grade. Didn’t help my career—QED. I can’t condone it and I do think our culture is going downhill faster than Spanky & Alfalfa in that barrel episode of Little Rascals. That said, it might be the time to reveal Santa isn’t real. The Easter Bunny is not a hot chick who visits good boys on Easter. Though the Tooth Fairy is a fairy ( and that makes his dad sad ).

Still, somebody needs to answer why Bud Selig, Commissioner Of Baseball, makes almost 20 million per annum. Federal fatheads won’t, he’s one of them. For now. As for A Rod? I think Madonna is punishment enough.

©2009 Jukeofurl Prod