In my lifetime, a few things have changed not at all, or barely, and a few things have changed a great deal. The quality and safety of cars and planes has changed, but the speed of transportation has about held constant. A long-distance drive usually rounds out to a mile per minute, a cross-country flight is four hours.
Wait, let me start over. What has changed in my lifetime--the greatest and most comprehensive change I have known--has been in the area of communication. I can remember when there were six television stations on my hometown of Phoenix: the three networks, PBS, KPHO (one of the leading independent stations in the country) and Channel 15.
(Wait, while I'm writing here, I should pause and mention the Channel 15 of the late seventies and early eighties. This is a station that deserves a sliver of Phoenix history, a station reknowned for allowing 60s-70s TV shows a last blaze of glory before consignment to the dustbin: "Room 222," "The Partridge Family," and so on. It was also slightly known for its mid-day feature, "Good News Only," during which an anchor, "Jovial" Jack O'Reilly, sat in a swivel chair and read from a sheef of typescript he held in one meaty hand. There was also the case of the Channel 15 helicopter, the Bluebird of Happy News, piloted by a fellow whose name escapes me. We were treated to reports from the helicopter, and shots of the pilot climbing the building stairs to the helicopter, all of which--I think--was designed to obscure the fact that the Bluebird of Happy News, the helicopter, did not, in fact, exist. Finally: For awhile, every night at seven, Channel 15 would give way to a pay-movie station called ON TV, which my friend Bobby Paoletti's house had until it went out of business in 1982. Okay, back to the post.)
It is hard to explain to people about the march of technology in the last thirty years. Until I turned twenty-two or so, I would watch two baseball games a year on TV: NBC's Game of the Week, with Joe Garagiola and Tony Kubek (and, later, Vin Scully with Garagiola, and Bob Costas and Kubek in the B game), then Al Michaels with Tim McCarver and Jim Palmer on ABC's Monday Night Baseball. For a Yankees-Red Sox or Yankee-Oriole game, especially for NBC, my family would plan a day in advance, would actually shopfor hot dogs and chips to enjoy with the game. What else was there? Middle of the week, Catfish v. Spaceman, and we would have to rely on--maybe--the local news getting the score. There was no ESPN, no sports radio, no internet. Here we were, the last quarter of the twentieth century, and communication was blocked off to us. We had no way of knowing the score.
Now? Twelve gsmes a night on our package. Instant scores on the internet. Fifteen outlets providing updates. Amazing, man.
Just one example.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
The World Around Us, Part 1
From Scottsdale Arizona comes this from our most loyal reader: No more office memos! Stick to the news of the world!
Just finding my way here. Blogs seem to exist on a continuum, from soxblog,(who not only shies away from personal commentary, but sneers at people--see Sullivan, Andrew--who indulge in it) to The Irish Trojan, who cheerfully, unapologetically shares the X-Rays of his broken arm and the progress of his finals studies at Notre Dame Law School. (I'll say this for Irish--he is perhaps the only person on earth who could sell tickets to a slide show of his family's trip to Yellowstone.) Me, more of a middle line. Little bit of my life, much more of the world around us.
(I re-read the above paragraph and realized I should throw in a full disclosure, which used to be known as "name-dropping": I've gone in with Irish Trojan and three others in the rental of some bandwidth, something Irish apparently knows everything about and me next to none, other than what the final product will look like, but I'm witholding all queries until he finishes his finals and drives to his summer clerkship at a law firm in my boyhood hometown in Phoenix. See: read Irish Trojan, and you get to know him that well.)
Three stories about the world around us. Part One: George Bush and his Fish. I saw a small headline on Huffpost Monday, in which President Bush counted as the greatest moment in his Presidency the occasion of catching a 7.5-pound perch in his Crawford ranch lake. This seemed, at the moment, no more than a sneer by the Huffers, who seize upon every possible moment--no matter how small, no matter how juvenile--to expose the President as Chimpy McHitler. Anyway, I looked at the headline, forgot about it and moved on with my life.
Until this morning, where via the left-wing (but sensible) Daily Howler I learned that this had become a big story, at least one of the top five, according to Keith Olbermann. Howler picks it up, by quoting Olbermann (Howler quotes in bold):
I'm supposing that, if sworn to oath, Bush would list as his finest moment either 1) his presence in the weeks (as opposed to the hours) after the 9/11 attacks, or 2) the capture of Saddam Hussein. Agree or disagree with his policies, one must concede that boasting is simply not Bush's way. One could plausibly accuse him of being flip about a serious question--though I'd argue both ends of that statement.
But to brood over an offhand statement like you see above is to engage in stark, utter madness. Every time I think the GOP is finished, along comes another event like the Alito filibuster or this, and I'm heartened.
Though the principals mentioned above are not Democrats per se, they are part and parcel of the one thing that might mean trouble for the Dems in November. At least a half-dozen times I've heard the Tim Russert wannabes ask a Dem what they would do about Issue X (Iraq, Iran, gas prices, immigration, the deficit), and the jaw-dropping response has been, "We don't need an agenda. We're the opposition."
All throughout the nineties, the GOP kept ignoring Rush Limbaugh's pleading not to bring their face to a knife fight. Too many GOPers felt that Bill Clinton could be beaten simply by pointing at him and saying, "Will you look at that guy?" Similarly, every time someone on the Left points at W and screams, "Will you look at that guy?", I'm reassured.
Just finding my way here. Blogs seem to exist on a continuum, from soxblog,(who not only shies away from personal commentary, but sneers at people--see Sullivan, Andrew--who indulge in it) to The Irish Trojan, who cheerfully, unapologetically shares the X-Rays of his broken arm and the progress of his finals studies at Notre Dame Law School. (I'll say this for Irish--he is perhaps the only person on earth who could sell tickets to a slide show of his family's trip to Yellowstone.) Me, more of a middle line. Little bit of my life, much more of the world around us.
(I re-read the above paragraph and realized I should throw in a full disclosure, which used to be known as "name-dropping": I've gone in with Irish Trojan and three others in the rental of some bandwidth, something Irish apparently knows everything about and me next to none, other than what the final product will look like, but I'm witholding all queries until he finishes his finals and drives to his summer clerkship at a law firm in my boyhood hometown in Phoenix. See: read Irish Trojan, and you get to know him that well.)
Three stories about the world around us. Part One: George Bush and his Fish. I saw a small headline on Huffpost Monday, in which President Bush counted as the greatest moment in his Presidency the occasion of catching a 7.5-pound perch in his Crawford ranch lake. This seemed, at the moment, no more than a sneer by the Huffers, who seize upon every possible moment--no matter how small, no matter how juvenile--to expose the President as Chimpy McHitler. Anyway, I looked at the headline, forgot about it and moved on with my life.
Until this morning, where via the left-wing (but sensible) Daily Howler I learned that this had become a big story, at least one of the top five, according to Keith Olbermann. Howler picks it up, by quoting Olbermann (Howler quotes in bold):
OLBERMANN (5/8/06): I`ve got 33 questions about Hayden, but let`s get the fish thing out of the way first. The president obviously wasn’t serious, but he wasn’t misquoted either, it wasn’t mistranslated. He answered seriously about his worst moment as president. Why didn’t he answer seriously about his best moment? And why does this weird joke seem to have resonated so strongly on the Web and on talk radio?
Really? It was “obvious” that Bush was joking? In fact, we would have thought that was obvious too. But it hadn’t seemed obvious at Digby’s own site, where Tristero, quaking with rage at this outrageous statement, worked his way inside a Bold Leader’s head. We’re sure that Tristero is a fine dude. But what follows is utterly foolish. And increasingly, this is who we’ve become:
TRISTERO: There are, [in my opinion], only three ways to understand this comment, assuming it's true. Quite possibly it's the pathetic whine of a deeply, perhaps clinically depressed man who believes himself a total failure. Or maybe this is a man so uninterested in his job, let alone in serving his country, that he has no business whatsoever being president. Or perhaps this is simply an arrogant bastard who holds in utter contempt anyone who dares to ask him a question, so he responds with the stupidest thing he can say. (Obviously, nothing precludes all three or some combination of two.)
The fourth possibility—that Bush was joking—doesn’t seem all that “obvious” here. But wait a minute! Tristero may have considered that option, although it isn’t clear:T
RISTERO (continuing directly): To be all pre-emptive about it, someone's bound to comment that maybe this just shows how much of a down-to-earth regular guy Bush is.
Yeah? All the down-to-earth regular guys I know don't have their own lake, fer chrissakes. Those people are filthy rich, even if they wear jeans on their estates. But there's a character thing here, too. The down-to-earth people I know who hold important jobs are mighty proud of of what they do and mighty happy with their achievements. And they can tick them off without thinking too hard about what they might be. And, even as a joke, they don't talk about catching a big perch when a newspaper asks them to name their best moment in more than five years. They name their accomplishments. Or, if they're trying to play up the down-to-earthiness, they name their children or something they did with their spouse.
Soon, Tristero was transmitting insight from another source—and debunking the thought that it would have mattered if Bush had been joking:
TRISTERO: One of the trackbacks informs us that Bush was laughing when he boasted of this. As if that makes it any less bizarre a statement—that's just the old "I'm jes' regular folks" nonsense Bush pulls, to distract people from the fact that he's a rich prick who has an artificial lake stocked with sport fishes on his private estate.
Well actually, it would be much less bizarre if this statement was meant as a joke—except in Dumb Loud Pseudo-Liberal Land, where we increasingly live, hatching our feel-good but born-loser strategies, just as we did in the past.
I'm supposing that, if sworn to oath, Bush would list as his finest moment either 1) his presence in the weeks (as opposed to the hours) after the 9/11 attacks, or 2) the capture of Saddam Hussein. Agree or disagree with his policies, one must concede that boasting is simply not Bush's way. One could plausibly accuse him of being flip about a serious question--though I'd argue both ends of that statement.
But to brood over an offhand statement like you see above is to engage in stark, utter madness. Every time I think the GOP is finished, along comes another event like the Alito filibuster or this, and I'm heartened.
Though the principals mentioned above are not Democrats per se, they are part and parcel of the one thing that might mean trouble for the Dems in November. At least a half-dozen times I've heard the Tim Russert wannabes ask a Dem what they would do about Issue X (Iraq, Iran, gas prices, immigration, the deficit), and the jaw-dropping response has been, "We don't need an agenda. We're the opposition."
All throughout the nineties, the GOP kept ignoring Rush Limbaugh's pleading not to bring their face to a knife fight. Too many GOPers felt that Bill Clinton could be beaten simply by pointing at him and saying, "Will you look at that guy?" Similarly, every time someone on the Left points at W and screams, "Will you look at that guy?", I'm reassured.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Office spaces, part II
Why are faculty fights so venomous?
The stakes are so low.
Old joke. But true. Yesterday, this e-mail was forwarded to me from our Senate Delegate. It concerned someone who went after my job four years ago when our two departments merged. He crashed and burned in the process, has been nursing his wounds ever since. A few of the references make by obscure, but you can pick up the tone.
His letter:
I recently obtained a listing of all class assignments for this Spring Semester at NE with the five course headings that fall under A & H. The section count, which includes regular and second start classes that made, is as follows: ENGL, 77; ESOL, 24; ARTS, 10; SPCH, 10; PHIL, 4.
I had been told that there were several Assistant Chairs in our Arts and Humanities Department. Since ESOL never has had one, I suggested that Jeff Kamm apply for next year. When Jeff wrote to Joe, he was told that Melinda Payne is an unofficial Associate Chair, a position previously held by John Harvey, who now directs the honors program. That title does not match the position described on p. 19 of “Department Chair Guidelines.” Joe added that Darryl Lauster and Linda Amadon are “Lead Instructors” for their respective disciplines, Arts and Speech. According to “DC Guidelines” (19), that term was supposed to be completely eliminated from organizational charts and vocabularies. Joe seemed to indicate there are no “Assistant Chairs” in A & H.
As you know, full-time professors must teach between 13.5 and 15 equated hours unless released to perform other official duties. According to the above list of assigned classes, there are several full-time faculty who appear to be teaching less than 13.5 eq. hrs. I would like to know what other assignments these faculty have that account for their reduced teaching assignments.
I understand that a full-time ENGL professor normally teaches five 3-hour sections. The following faculty appear to have less than five: James Langston (2 sections), Cynthia Williams (4), John Harvey (3), and Darryl Lauster (1). Joe seems to be teaching three sections, two of which are “off campus.” I guess he is paid two overloads. Melinda Payne and Linda Amadon are both teaching at least 15 hours. Do they receive overload pay as well?
As FAC chair from NE, are you able to ascertain what “release time” the above faculty have and why? I would think that such information is available to everyone.
If you would like to review the class assignment list or Joe’s response to Jeff, let me know. I know this is a busy time of the semester, but please respond at your earliest convenience.
Thanks,
"Hank"
There is no better example of petty, mealy-mouthed smallmindedness than the above. My response here.
The stakes are so low.
Old joke. But true. Yesterday, this e-mail was forwarded to me from our Senate Delegate. It concerned someone who went after my job four years ago when our two departments merged. He crashed and burned in the process, has been nursing his wounds ever since. A few of the references make by obscure, but you can pick up the tone.
His letter:
I recently obtained a listing of all class assignments for this Spring Semester at NE with the five course headings that fall under A & H. The section count, which includes regular and second start classes that made, is as follows: ENGL, 77; ESOL, 24; ARTS, 10; SPCH, 10; PHIL, 4.
I had been told that there were several Assistant Chairs in our Arts and Humanities Department. Since ESOL never has had one, I suggested that Jeff Kamm apply for next year. When Jeff wrote to Joe, he was told that Melinda Payne is an unofficial Associate Chair, a position previously held by John Harvey, who now directs the honors program. That title does not match the position described on p. 19 of “Department Chair Guidelines.” Joe added that Darryl Lauster and Linda Amadon are “Lead Instructors” for their respective disciplines, Arts and Speech. According to “DC Guidelines” (19), that term was supposed to be completely eliminated from organizational charts and vocabularies. Joe seemed to indicate there are no “Assistant Chairs” in A & H.
As you know, full-time professors must teach between 13.5 and 15 equated hours unless released to perform other official duties. According to the above list of assigned classes, there are several full-time faculty who appear to be teaching less than 13.5 eq. hrs. I would like to know what other assignments these faculty have that account for their reduced teaching assignments.
I understand that a full-time ENGL professor normally teaches five 3-hour sections. The following faculty appear to have less than five: James Langston (2 sections), Cynthia Williams (4), John Harvey (3), and Darryl Lauster (1). Joe seems to be teaching three sections, two of which are “off campus.” I guess he is paid two overloads. Melinda Payne and Linda Amadon are both teaching at least 15 hours. Do they receive overload pay as well?
As FAC chair from NE, are you able to ascertain what “release time” the above faculty have and why? I would think that such information is available to everyone.
If you would like to review the class assignment list or Joe’s response to Jeff, let me know. I know this is a busy time of the semester, but please respond at your earliest convenience.
Thanks,
"Hank"
There is no better example of petty, mealy-mouthed smallmindedness than the above. My response here.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Cinco Paul
Allow me to take a moment to wish a happy birthday to a special friend of mine.
There are many things I could say about Cinco Paul, a screenwriter and father of three, husband to a brilliant and wonderful doctor, and all-around great guy.
His website, by the way, is here.
What I'll say is this. When I was young and stupid, when we both were on our high school debate team, I messed him over worse thn I've ever messed anyone over in my life.
I don't know how many people could supply a ready answer to the following question: What was the worst decision you ever made in your life? For me, it is easy. Messing Cinco Paul when I did. Worst thing.
And how did he respond? He was my enemy for six months. Then, neutral. And finally, he took me in as a third to the friendship he had with his friend Marty Sliwinski, and a world I had no right to enter. This was a world of movies, of books, of plays--something tht had always been a rumor.
Tem years ago this month I achieved my PhD, an honor I would not have achieved if not for Cinco pushing me to be the person I could be. Cinco, God love you.
There are many things I could say about Cinco Paul, a screenwriter and father of three, husband to a brilliant and wonderful doctor, and all-around great guy.
His website, by the way, is here.
What I'll say is this. When I was young and stupid, when we both were on our high school debate team, I messed him over worse thn I've ever messed anyone over in my life.
I don't know how many people could supply a ready answer to the following question: What was the worst decision you ever made in your life? For me, it is easy. Messing Cinco Paul when I did. Worst thing.
And how did he respond? He was my enemy for six months. Then, neutral. And finally, he took me in as a third to the friendship he had with his friend Marty Sliwinski, and a world I had no right to enter. This was a world of movies, of books, of plays--something tht had always been a rumor.
Tem years ago this month I achieved my PhD, an honor I would not have achieved if not for Cinco pushing me to be the person I could be. Cinco, God love you.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Office Spaces
In a perfect world, I suppose I would never have an office--at least not one in a work space. Have an office, you have a place you're supposed to be, a phone you're expected to answer--in short, you cease to be a moving target. Day after day, I sit in my office and ask myself: why do people call me? Why do they come by?
Answer: There is something to be done. And my visitor or caller can either not do it, or doesn't know how to do it, or would rather I did it. And, quite frankly, I'm just as clueless and lazy as my visitor. Or caller.
So: to have an office, with working hours--not so good. It is the jealousy I have for my faculty, who teach their classes, meet with students as needed, go home at noon and take Fridays off. More than anything, it is the elusive nature of their professional lifestyle that has persuaded me to join them next year, when my term as Department Chair expires.
In essence I'm reverting back to graduate school, during which--if I didn't want to talk to anyone--I would pull my Irish tweed walking cap down over my eyes as I walked to class.
I came to my job through a couple of flukes. When I was hired in 1994, there were three other English teachers in the department: two women nearing retirement, neither of whom wanted the aggravation; and another woman, who had proved herself so manifestly incompetent for the job that I was the choice by default.
I was 29 years old. I was still in graduate school. When the Dean held her senior staff meeting I was the youngest person in the room by a dozen years. But I had an office--with a door that locked. And my own phone line. The ultimate prestige, right?
Or so I thought at the time. In eleven years doing essentially the same job, I've been in four offices. They are as follows:
1. The office on the second floor of my campus-in-the-mall, a windowless little number so completely out of the way for anyone that I wuld sometimes lay my swivel chair on its back, turn the lights off, lay down, use the back as a cushion for my head, and take a nap. Next door was cosmetology, and at night when I came home I could smell hair oil in my clothes.
2. An office I shared with the chair of Social Sciences, a not-bad work space save for two elements. First, there was a single phone and a single phone line, which meant that anyone could reach us, but we needed to take turns reaching anyone. Became a hassle during adjunct staffing, that two-day run-up when we figured which scheduled classes we would run and which not, then call up professionals with Master's Degrees and ask them to teach a class for ninety dollars per week. Second, the social sciences chair had a theory that fluorescent lighting caused brain cancer, and so she insisted we light our offices with lamps only. This office was windowless as well, with the result that, lamps or no, we spent our workday essentially in darkness. Still, she brought a TV, so all was forgiven, though our mornings required a rough compromise: she could watch "The View" from 10-11 and I could turn my radio to the Jim Rome Show.
3. The campus way out there. When our college expanded, we had some land grant or write-off or whatever place our campus in the middle of an industrial park. It was here we moved, with the hope that our student population would follow. Didn't happen, in part because no student live nearby. Meanwhile, one of the offerings of this campus are large windows facing west, so that in the afternoons, habitation is done at one's risk. The sun came in through the windows in Monetesque rectangles and the sunbeams burn the computer screens.
4. The classroom for nine people. Discussed here, a room with me with me in the middle, surrounded by collapsing cubicle walls and several dozen concentrations.
5. Starting at the end of next week: an office shared with the latest social sciences chair. This may be the best of all. Two desks, three-sided, with drawers and things rising to six feet high--high enough, once I claim the back desk, for me to hide behind, should I not want to talk to people. Fifteen more months, then no desk at all. And no phone. And try to find me on a Friday.
Answer: There is something to be done. And my visitor or caller can either not do it, or doesn't know how to do it, or would rather I did it. And, quite frankly, I'm just as clueless and lazy as my visitor. Or caller.
So: to have an office, with working hours--not so good. It is the jealousy I have for my faculty, who teach their classes, meet with students as needed, go home at noon and take Fridays off. More than anything, it is the elusive nature of their professional lifestyle that has persuaded me to join them next year, when my term as Department Chair expires.
In essence I'm reverting back to graduate school, during which--if I didn't want to talk to anyone--I would pull my Irish tweed walking cap down over my eyes as I walked to class.
I came to my job through a couple of flukes. When I was hired in 1994, there were three other English teachers in the department: two women nearing retirement, neither of whom wanted the aggravation; and another woman, who had proved herself so manifestly incompetent for the job that I was the choice by default.
I was 29 years old. I was still in graduate school. When the Dean held her senior staff meeting I was the youngest person in the room by a dozen years. But I had an office--with a door that locked. And my own phone line. The ultimate prestige, right?
Or so I thought at the time. In eleven years doing essentially the same job, I've been in four offices. They are as follows:
1. The office on the second floor of my campus-in-the-mall, a windowless little number so completely out of the way for anyone that I wuld sometimes lay my swivel chair on its back, turn the lights off, lay down, use the back as a cushion for my head, and take a nap. Next door was cosmetology, and at night when I came home I could smell hair oil in my clothes.
2. An office I shared with the chair of Social Sciences, a not-bad work space save for two elements. First, there was a single phone and a single phone line, which meant that anyone could reach us, but we needed to take turns reaching anyone. Became a hassle during adjunct staffing, that two-day run-up when we figured which scheduled classes we would run and which not, then call up professionals with Master's Degrees and ask them to teach a class for ninety dollars per week. Second, the social sciences chair had a theory that fluorescent lighting caused brain cancer, and so she insisted we light our offices with lamps only. This office was windowless as well, with the result that, lamps or no, we spent our workday essentially in darkness. Still, she brought a TV, so all was forgiven, though our mornings required a rough compromise: she could watch "The View" from 10-11 and I could turn my radio to the Jim Rome Show.
3. The campus way out there. When our college expanded, we had some land grant or write-off or whatever place our campus in the middle of an industrial park. It was here we moved, with the hope that our student population would follow. Didn't happen, in part because no student live nearby. Meanwhile, one of the offerings of this campus are large windows facing west, so that in the afternoons, habitation is done at one's risk. The sun came in through the windows in Monetesque rectangles and the sunbeams burn the computer screens.
4. The classroom for nine people. Discussed here, a room with me with me in the middle, surrounded by collapsing cubicle walls and several dozen concentrations.
5. Starting at the end of next week: an office shared with the latest social sciences chair. This may be the best of all. Two desks, three-sided, with drawers and things rising to six feet high--high enough, once I claim the back desk, for me to hide behind, should I not want to talk to people. Fifteen more months, then no desk at all. And no phone. And try to find me on a Friday.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
More Keystone State Fun
On the subject of Pennsylvania, more:
1. Despite its role as the cradle of liberty (See: Independence, Declaration of) Pennsylvania has produced but one President: James Buchanan, notable for being the only bachelor President, and of being in that seven-decades long string of mediocrity between Jackson and Teddy Roosevelt, a slump interrupted only by the sainted Lincoln (though Polk had his moments, as did Hayes).
2. The above fact was delivered by another native Pennsylvanian, John Updike, during a Q & A that followed a reading this past January at Houston's Alley Theatre.
3. The mountains known as the Southern Tier lie at the northen portion of Pennsylvania. Their virtual mirror image, the Northern Tier, combines with the Southern to form the Twin Tiers, whose east-west bisect is roughly the New York-Pennsylvania border. (I can remember one local Binghamton news broadcast, the CBS affiliate; at the start of its broadcast a legend representing the aerial view of the tiers would appear behind his head. The anchor (curly hair, triangular face) had a mannerism he would employ every weeknight: teasing us with two lesser stories and then saying, "But the BIG story this evening . . .")
4. It was on the above-mentioned station that ESPN stud Trey Wingo got his start. Two things stand out. First, he would sometimes run a trivia contest, but caution the viewers not to call until ten-thirty, because he needed time to get back to his office and answer the phone. He was, in other words, asking the contestants to call his office number. One night, I thought I had an answer: for what NFL team did Richard Nixon draw up a play in the Super Bowl? I called in at 10:31. Wingo answered.
The following morning I went to the top of my closet and brought down The Red Smith Reader , a compilation of some of the greatest columns by the greatest sports newspaper columnist of all time. And there it was: Smith's account of the Dallas-Miami Super Bowl, with a description of Nixon's words (see above) to Miami coach Don Shula. All that day, I entertained thoughts of driving to the television station and confronting him (kind of like that ESPN phone guy does in the current commercials), but reasoned he would let himself off with a technicality. Okay, so Nixon didn't draw it up for Shula. Big whoop. And who knows what he did for Allen? Red Smith (at least as far as The Red Smith Readeris concerned) was silent on the question.
"Fine," I said to an imaginary Trey Wingo, as I drove to my summer job as a security guard at Binghamton General Hospital. "You win this time. But we'll meet again."
Over the next few months, I took whatever satisfaction I could by smirking at the televison ad that played in the afternoon, during commercials for "As the World Turns." The ad showed a baseball game featuring a succession of Trey Wingos: Trey pitching to Trey hitting to Trey fielding. The truly hysterical (to me) part was that, instead of standard baseball gear (something, I thought, a sports anchor should be able to acquire without undue difficulty), Wingo instead wore a baseball undershirt (white shirt, long colored sleeves) and sweatpants. No, wait, this was the hysterical part: on both the shirt and pants was stencilled, in big letters, "CORNELL." This was truly rich, one step up from saying, "My roommate at Harvard had a tie like that" to a new acquaintance.
So I smirked, albeit alone. Trey Wingo, I thought, I feel sorry for you.
Anyway, that's enough about Pennsylvania for today.
1. Despite its role as the cradle of liberty (See: Independence, Declaration of) Pennsylvania has produced but one President: James Buchanan, notable for being the only bachelor President, and of being in that seven-decades long string of mediocrity between Jackson and Teddy Roosevelt, a slump interrupted only by the sainted Lincoln (though Polk had his moments, as did Hayes).
2. The above fact was delivered by another native Pennsylvanian, John Updike, during a Q & A that followed a reading this past January at Houston's Alley Theatre.
3. The mountains known as the Southern Tier lie at the northen portion of Pennsylvania. Their virtual mirror image, the Northern Tier, combines with the Southern to form the Twin Tiers, whose east-west bisect is roughly the New York-Pennsylvania border. (I can remember one local Binghamton news broadcast, the CBS affiliate; at the start of its broadcast a legend representing the aerial view of the tiers would appear behind his head. The anchor (curly hair, triangular face) had a mannerism he would employ every weeknight: teasing us with two lesser stories and then saying, "But the BIG story this evening . . .")
4. It was on the above-mentioned station that ESPN stud Trey Wingo got his start. Two things stand out. First, he would sometimes run a trivia contest, but caution the viewers not to call until ten-thirty, because he needed time to get back to his office and answer the phone. He was, in other words, asking the contestants to call his office number. One night, I thought I had an answer: for what NFL team did Richard Nixon draw up a play in the Super Bowl? I called in at 10:31. Wingo answered.
"Miami," I said.
"No, Washington," he replied.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "He told Shula that Griese could hit Warfield with a down-and-in."
"Washington," he insisted. "He drew it up for George Allen."
"Fine," I said.
The following morning I went to the top of my closet and brought down The Red Smith Reader , a compilation of some of the greatest columns by the greatest sports newspaper columnist of all time. And there it was: Smith's account of the Dallas-Miami Super Bowl, with a description of Nixon's words (see above) to Miami coach Don Shula. All that day, I entertained thoughts of driving to the television station and confronting him (kind of like that ESPN phone guy does in the current commercials), but reasoned he would let himself off with a technicality. Okay, so Nixon didn't draw it up for Shula. Big whoop. And who knows what he did for Allen? Red Smith (at least as far as The Red Smith Readeris concerned) was silent on the question.
"Fine," I said to an imaginary Trey Wingo, as I drove to my summer job as a security guard at Binghamton General Hospital. "You win this time. But we'll meet again."
Over the next few months, I took whatever satisfaction I could by smirking at the televison ad that played in the afternoon, during commercials for "As the World Turns." The ad showed a baseball game featuring a succession of Trey Wingos: Trey pitching to Trey hitting to Trey fielding. The truly hysterical (to me) part was that, instead of standard baseball gear (something, I thought, a sports anchor should be able to acquire without undue difficulty), Wingo instead wore a baseball undershirt (white shirt, long colored sleeves) and sweatpants. No, wait, this was the hysterical part: on both the shirt and pants was stencilled, in big letters, "CORNELL." This was truly rich, one step up from saying, "My roommate at Harvard had a tie like that" to a new acquaintance.
So I smirked, albeit alone. Trey Wingo, I thought, I feel sorry for you.
Anyway, that's enough about Pennsylvania for today.
Email from a stranger
From Pennsylvania comes this:
I live in PA. and the best congressman we ever had was named Joe McDade.
You must be related because you have a great blog.
Me: Well, thank you very much. A great group of McDades (Mostly Scots, some Irish) emigrated to both the Northeast and Louisiana between 1750 and 1945. Though not related in any discernable way to Congressman Joe McDade (R-PA), I feel a bit of kinship with him that goes deeper than our similar names. My family, and I assume his, both settled in the Northeast. Furthermore, when I pursued my Master's Degree at Binghamton University in New York State, the campus was a short drive from the Pennsylvania border and the upper reaches of Rep. McDade's district.
It is said that, per voter, New Jersey is the most expensive state to run a statewide political campaign. Most people who live in the northern part of the state get their local television from New York City, and most in the southern part of the state get their local television from Philadelphia, so anyone running for statewide office (or in a presidential primary) must buy airtime in both expensive cities. On a much smaller scale, most people the norhern portion of Pennsylvania close to Binghamton (Susquehenna and thereabouts; the region is called the Southern Tier)get their local TV from Binghamton, and so it was that in the run-up to election day, 1988, the televisions of my students and classmates were bombarded with "Re-elect Joe McDade" ads. It made for some gentle teasing.
On election day I drove down to Susquehenna, hoping to find a placard to steal, but couldn't find a one.
Me, I'm named for my father, Joseph Skelton McDade. He was named for his maternal grandfather, Joseph Skelton. Incidentally, my dad emailed and stated that he wanted to comment, but that Joe McDade commenting on Joe McDade's blog felt unseemly. Basically, that's all you need to know about him.
I live in PA. and the best congressman we ever had was named Joe McDade.
You must be related because you have a great blog.
Me: Well, thank you very much. A great group of McDades (Mostly Scots, some Irish) emigrated to both the Northeast and Louisiana between 1750 and 1945. Though not related in any discernable way to Congressman Joe McDade (R-PA), I feel a bit of kinship with him that goes deeper than our similar names. My family, and I assume his, both settled in the Northeast. Furthermore, when I pursued my Master's Degree at Binghamton University in New York State, the campus was a short drive from the Pennsylvania border and the upper reaches of Rep. McDade's district.
It is said that, per voter, New Jersey is the most expensive state to run a statewide political campaign. Most people who live in the northern part of the state get their local television from New York City, and most in the southern part of the state get their local television from Philadelphia, so anyone running for statewide office (or in a presidential primary) must buy airtime in both expensive cities. On a much smaller scale, most people the norhern portion of Pennsylvania close to Binghamton (Susquehenna and thereabouts; the region is called the Southern Tier)get their local TV from Binghamton, and so it was that in the run-up to election day, 1988, the televisions of my students and classmates were bombarded with "Re-elect Joe McDade" ads. It made for some gentle teasing.
On election day I drove down to Susquehenna, hoping to find a placard to steal, but couldn't find a one.
Me, I'm named for my father, Joseph Skelton McDade. He was named for his maternal grandfather, Joseph Skelton. Incidentally, my dad emailed and stated that he wanted to comment, but that Joe McDade commenting on Joe McDade's blog felt unseemly. Basically, that's all you need to know about him.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Best of the best of the Web!
Anyone who follows the internet with any discernment knows that James Taranto's blog, (via Best of the Web , via the Wall Street Journal.com) is the best blogsite online. Also, anyone who notices must understand that Taranto is pretty much the best punster since Shakespeare. And he encourages submissions.
So here's mine.
First, the article: Hicks punished.
Get it? Hicks punished. Like white trash. So I pounced on it.
Ah, I'm a living joke.
So here's mine.
First, the article: Hicks punished.
Get it? Hicks punished. Like white trash. So I pounced on it.
Ah, I'm a living joke.
More on the copyer, page 2
I followed more of the Harvard plagiarist for two reasons:
1. How the Hell did she get a book deal?
2. How would Huffpost deal with it?
Well, in keeping with my new theorum, as a Huffpost response chain lengthens, its chances of becoming a criticism of George W. Bush approach one:
This is just her preliminary, exploratory effort for the 2008 presidential campaign.
She's a chip off the old Bush.
By: TDoff on May 02, 2006 at 12:56pm
1. How the Hell did she get a book deal?
2. How would Huffpost deal with it?
Well, in keeping with my new theorum, as a Huffpost response chain lengthens, its chances of becoming a criticism of George W. Bush approach one:
This is just her preliminary, exploratory effort for the 2008 presidential campaign.
She's a chip off the old Bush.
By: TDoff on May 02, 2006 at 12:56pm
Monday, May 01, 2006
The critics rave
Good Lord, I hope I'm wrong.
DJ Gallo of ESPN's Page Two
F-minus: Houston Texans
Picking Mario Williams over Reggie Bush? Wow, wow, wow. Unbelievably awful.
And, to follow up, Skip Bayless of ESPN.com Page 2 :
And now Vince and LenDale are teammates in Nashville? With chips on their shoulder pads larger than Dolly Parton's famed attributes? Vince says he'll make it "tough" twice a year every year on his hometown team, the division rival Houston Texans, for not even considering him with the No. 1 pick. LenDale says he'll run with a "32-team chip" on his shoulder.
People tend to forget how important LenDale White was to USC's success.In 10 years, the Texans won't look nearly as idiotic for passing up Reggie Bush. But they'll live in greater infamy for ignoring the Jordanesque Young and letting him fall to Bud Adams, who moved the beloved "Love Ya Blue" Houston Oilers to Tennessee and renamed them the Titans. Oh, the pain for Houston fans.
DJ Gallo of ESPN's Page Two
F-minus: Houston Texans
Picking Mario Williams over Reggie Bush? Wow, wow, wow. Unbelievably awful.
And, to follow up, Skip Bayless of ESPN.com Page 2 :
And now Vince and LenDale are teammates in Nashville? With chips on their shoulder pads larger than Dolly Parton's famed attributes? Vince says he'll make it "tough" twice a year every year on his hometown team, the division rival Houston Texans, for not even considering him with the No. 1 pick. LenDale says he'll run with a "32-team chip" on his shoulder.
People tend to forget how important LenDale White was to USC's success.In 10 years, the Texans won't look nearly as idiotic for passing up Reggie Bush. But they'll live in greater infamy for ignoring the Jordanesque Young and letting him fall to Bud Adams, who moved the beloved "Love Ya Blue" Houston Oilers to Tennessee and renamed them the Titans. Oh, the pain for Houston fans.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Episode Last minus two
This week, my old friends (less C.J. and Margaret) took a "West Wing" week off. Be that as it may. My TV.com review is short enough, so here it is:
Alexander Haig, historians recall, was Richard Nixon's last Chief of Staff, and stayed in the position for Gerald Ford until Dick Cheney was appointed. When Nixon resigned and returned to San Clemente, he fell into the habit of calling the White House and demanding to be put through. After five days of this, Haig put out the word: The next time President Nixon calls, put him on hold.
Message received.
This phenomenon, of Vinick rambling through his offices, facing nothing to do, dealing with aides who realize he will run again, who are desperate to dissuade him, was about the only really good thing about tonight--the last breather before the sprint to the finish. Alan Alda was wonderful, as always; never as Hawkeye Pierce or one of Woody Allen's movie characters did he have to deal with his own irrelevancy. The sad fact is that his aides are right, and John Kerry's presumptive 2008 bid will bear them out. (70,000 votes--does this sound familiar?)
The rest of the episode was the equivalent of an author publishing his notes before his death. Once again the hand of O'Donnell filled out the historical analogs:
1. The public school--Amy Carter of course, and a school (of course) run by a hyperintelligent African-American woman.
2. "Sullivan won't run if I do." Vinick. Echoes of Joementum, ay?
3. The SecState offer to Vinick=SecDef to William Cohen via Clinton. Ergo, bravo Clinton.
This was the week the old gang (less C.J. and Margaret) got a rest. A good filler episode.
Alexander Haig, historians recall, was Richard Nixon's last Chief of Staff, and stayed in the position for Gerald Ford until Dick Cheney was appointed. When Nixon resigned and returned to San Clemente, he fell into the habit of calling the White House and demanding to be put through. After five days of this, Haig put out the word: The next time President Nixon calls, put him on hold.
Message received.
This phenomenon, of Vinick rambling through his offices, facing nothing to do, dealing with aides who realize he will run again, who are desperate to dissuade him, was about the only really good thing about tonight--the last breather before the sprint to the finish. Alan Alda was wonderful, as always; never as Hawkeye Pierce or one of Woody Allen's movie characters did he have to deal with his own irrelevancy. The sad fact is that his aides are right, and John Kerry's presumptive 2008 bid will bear them out. (70,000 votes--does this sound familiar?)
The rest of the episode was the equivalent of an author publishing his notes before his death. Once again the hand of O'Donnell filled out the historical analogs:
1. The public school--Amy Carter of course, and a school (of course) run by a hyperintelligent African-American woman.
2. "Sullivan won't run if I do." Vinick. Echoes of Joementum, ay?
3. The SecState offer to Vinick=SecDef to William Cohen via Clinton. Ergo, bravo Clinton.
This was the week the old gang (less C.J. and Margaret) got a rest. A good filler episode.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
The graveyard
There is no better place to measure the pulse of the Houston sports scene than the Buffalo Wild Wings sports bar in Rice Village. BWW had been planning its draft party for weeks. Special “Vince or Bush” pint glasses were made up. An ad read that “parties of 8 or more” would receive specials on wings.
For a big event–a UT football game or an Astro post-season game–you can barely get in the door there. Clearly a mob was anticipated for today. Instead, the place was a graveyard; only ten people in the dining area, maybe double that in the bar. The bar itself should have been three deep; instead, two people sat silently and stared ahead.
Back in the dining room, the extra staff lined against the wall and looked at rows of empty tables. When Mario Williams’ name was called, the booing was half-hearted, almost obligatory. Why pick on the kid? Some cheering from the Longhorn faithful when Vince was chosen, some “Oooh”ing for picks four through nine (translatins: Matt’s still on the board!), then when Matt went everyone turned their attention to the Astros game.
Houston has become a baseball town, and pro football here is officially a joke. I honestly didn’t think that was possible.
For a big event–a UT football game or an Astro post-season game–you can barely get in the door there. Clearly a mob was anticipated for today. Instead, the place was a graveyard; only ten people in the dining area, maybe double that in the bar. The bar itself should have been three deep; instead, two people sat silently and stared ahead.
Back in the dining room, the extra staff lined against the wall and looked at rows of empty tables. When Mario Williams’ name was called, the booing was half-hearted, almost obligatory. Why pick on the kid? Some cheering from the Longhorn faithful when Vince was chosen, some “Oooh”ing for picks four through nine (translatins: Matt’s still on the board!), then when Matt went everyone turned their attention to the Astros game.
Houston has become a baseball town, and pro football here is officially a joke. I honestly didn’t think that was possible.
Worser and worser
The Reggis Bush saga becomes more absurd, seemingly with every passing hour. Over at The Irish Trojan, both tracks are being followed: the potential of Bush's ineligibility affecting USC's 2004 BSC championship and the Houston Texans' astonishing decision to draft Mario Williams instead. Via IT, Chuck Klosterman of
ESPN.com's Page 2basically gives voice to my feelings
Obviously, this decision is wolf-face crazy. It’s the kind of decision you make when you are drunk, and on cocaine, and on deadline, and on fire. It’s going to define the future of the Houston franchise, and it will potentially wreck it (at least for a decade). … The Texans talked themselves into picking an inferior player; they created reasonable, intellectual reasons to make a terrible move. And I realize Houston needs help on defense, but remember — they had the first overall pick because they were the worst team in the league. They need everything. And while you can’t get everything at once, the closest singular equivalent is usually the single-best force. But they took the wrong guy.
I believe what I'm supposed to write now is . . . read the whole thing.
ESPN.com's Page 2basically gives voice to my feelings
Obviously, this decision is wolf-face crazy. It’s the kind of decision you make when you are drunk, and on cocaine, and on deadline, and on fire. It’s going to define the future of the Houston franchise, and it will potentially wreck it (at least for a decade). … The Texans talked themselves into picking an inferior player; they created reasonable, intellectual reasons to make a terrible move. And I realize Houston needs help on defense, but remember — they had the first overall pick because they were the worst team in the league. They need everything. And while you can’t get everything at once, the closest singular equivalent is usually the single-best force. But they took the wrong guy.
I believe what I'm supposed to write now is . . . read the whole thing.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Bush League, indeed
Not drafting Reggie Bush is a mistake the Houston Texans will feel for the next ten years.
Time will tell. It says here that this will rank among the most ignoble moves in pro sports history:
Picking Sam Bowie over Michael Jordan--because the Trail Blazers were bringing six guards to camp.
Trading (in essence) Joe Barry Carroll and Ricky Brown for Robert Parish and Kevin McHale.
Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio.
I'm at a loss. The local TV news should take a page from David Letterman and run an ongoing segment entitled, "The Houston Texans--What?!"
I'm basically in agreement with Len Pasquarelli's take on ESPN.com
Time will tell. It says here that this will rank among the most ignoble moves in pro sports history:
Picking Sam Bowie over Michael Jordan--because the Trail Blazers were bringing six guards to camp.
Trading (in essence) Joe Barry Carroll and Ricky Brown for Robert Parish and Kevin McHale.
Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio.
I'm at a loss. The local TV news should take a page from David Letterman and run an ongoing segment entitled, "The Houston Texans--What?!"
I'm basically in agreement with Len Pasquarelli's take on ESPN.com
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Now this
USC quarterback Mark Sanchez arrested for sexual assault. The Irish Trojan has the story.
Los Angeles, and the heir to Heisman heroes Palmer and Leinart, and (Vince Young notwithstanding) the glamour team of college football. Put 'em all together. This may make the Duke imbroglio look like traffic court.
Los Angeles, and the heir to Heisman heroes Palmer and Leinart, and (Vince Young notwithstanding) the glamour team of college football. Put 'em all together. This may make the Duke imbroglio look like traffic court.
Happy Sec . . . er, Admin . . . oh, just take the roses
Today is one of those prickly holidays. This article in Slate touches on a few of the difficulties of The Holiday Formerly Known as Secretaries Day. Who qualifies? And what constitutes an appropriate gift? On the first problem:
One Secretaries Day, a former advertising-sales assistant and co-worker of mine got lovely plants from colleagues who rushed to point out that they'd gotten her a gift even though she wasn't really a secretary. She got the impression they thought she might be offended by being lumped in with the admin staff. The holiday forces workers, like it or not, to evaluate how they stack up. Mail-room guy, copy clerk, typist, receptionist, administrative secretary, executive assistant—are you low enough on the totem pole to merit a gift? Or are you too low?
And on the second:
Some bosses feel compelled to take their secretary, assistant, or whoever out to lunch on Secretaries Day. It's a nice gesture, but who wants to sit through that awkward meal? Anyone who has seen the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode in which Larry David takes his maid on a squirm-worthy lunch date at his country club knows the potential disaster of forced boss-employee conviviality.
My office was, until recently, a classroom. Now, thanks to the imposition of several portable dividers, none of them reaching to the ceiling, the converted space holds the dean, myself and another chair, the office manager to the dean, the office manager the other chair and I share, my associate chair, and the other chair's intern, and two receptionist/assistants. My desk sits in the center of the room, surrounded on three sides by dividers that lean sideways and, when upright, come up to my chest.
This is, of course, an absurd working environment for a college of 10,000 students. I was never one to hold out for the corner office, but as a chair I listen all day to complaints from students and sensitive matters with faculty, and when I really need not to be overheard (for, say, accusations of harassment) my only recourse is to take either my visitor or my cellphone out to the parking lot. Otherwise, all nine of us can hold a conversation in our normal speaking voices without getting up from our seats.
The only good thing about our working environment is the sense of conviviality it has bred. All of us feel underappreciated, shoved into some no-man's land that startles our visitors; and all of us have chosen to feed off our resentment by seeking understanding between one another. Sensing our esprit de corps, the dean has pushed the notion of us as her inner circle, and when a real crisis hit our college earlier in the semester, it was we she chose to confide in, to the exclusion of, say, the other chairs. The office manager I share with the other chair is one I have worked with for 11 years; she and I share nothing in common save following the Astros, but she is marvelously good at her job. Furthermore, as my duties often have me travelling from campus to campus throughout the day, she is a rock of stability.
Sill, as this day approaches, I have a bit of foreboding. Who gets invited, and who does the inviting? Our solution is that the Dean, the other chair and I spring for the rest of the gang: the associate chair, the intern, receptionists, and so forth. Of course, we leave out the campus receptionists, the work study students, and the adjunct faculty, on the grounds that you have to draw the line somewhere.
The second issue has to do with where we go. My office manager is an intensely private woman in her sixties. As she has turned down all lunch invitations extended by anyone over the past decade-plus--all but two per year, her birthday and today--I suspect that she views this as even more of an obligation that I do. But to point that out out loud--ick.
So we have lunch. But I eschew flowers. An Easterner by birth, in the great Eastern tradition, I give money. Money for everyone. At least that part is easy and (I hope) appreciated.
One Secretaries Day, a former advertising-sales assistant and co-worker of mine got lovely plants from colleagues who rushed to point out that they'd gotten her a gift even though she wasn't really a secretary. She got the impression they thought she might be offended by being lumped in with the admin staff. The holiday forces workers, like it or not, to evaluate how they stack up. Mail-room guy, copy clerk, typist, receptionist, administrative secretary, executive assistant—are you low enough on the totem pole to merit a gift? Or are you too low?
And on the second:
Some bosses feel compelled to take their secretary, assistant, or whoever out to lunch on Secretaries Day. It's a nice gesture, but who wants to sit through that awkward meal? Anyone who has seen the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode in which Larry David takes his maid on a squirm-worthy lunch date at his country club knows the potential disaster of forced boss-employee conviviality.
My office was, until recently, a classroom. Now, thanks to the imposition of several portable dividers, none of them reaching to the ceiling, the converted space holds the dean, myself and another chair, the office manager to the dean, the office manager the other chair and I share, my associate chair, and the other chair's intern, and two receptionist/assistants. My desk sits in the center of the room, surrounded on three sides by dividers that lean sideways and, when upright, come up to my chest.
This is, of course, an absurd working environment for a college of 10,000 students. I was never one to hold out for the corner office, but as a chair I listen all day to complaints from students and sensitive matters with faculty, and when I really need not to be overheard (for, say, accusations of harassment) my only recourse is to take either my visitor or my cellphone out to the parking lot. Otherwise, all nine of us can hold a conversation in our normal speaking voices without getting up from our seats.
The only good thing about our working environment is the sense of conviviality it has bred. All of us feel underappreciated, shoved into some no-man's land that startles our visitors; and all of us have chosen to feed off our resentment by seeking understanding between one another. Sensing our esprit de corps, the dean has pushed the notion of us as her inner circle, and when a real crisis hit our college earlier in the semester, it was we she chose to confide in, to the exclusion of, say, the other chairs. The office manager I share with the other chair is one I have worked with for 11 years; she and I share nothing in common save following the Astros, but she is marvelously good at her job. Furthermore, as my duties often have me travelling from campus to campus throughout the day, she is a rock of stability.
Sill, as this day approaches, I have a bit of foreboding. Who gets invited, and who does the inviting? Our solution is that the Dean, the other chair and I spring for the rest of the gang: the associate chair, the intern, receptionists, and so forth. Of course, we leave out the campus receptionists, the work study students, and the adjunct faculty, on the grounds that you have to draw the line somewhere.
The second issue has to do with where we go. My office manager is an intensely private woman in her sixties. As she has turned down all lunch invitations extended by anyone over the past decade-plus--all but two per year, her birthday and today--I suspect that she views this as even more of an obligation that I do. But to point that out out loud--ick.
So we have lunch. But I eschew flowers. An Easterner by birth, in the great Eastern tradition, I give money. Money for everyone. At least that part is easy and (I hope) appreciated.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
While we're talking about football . . .
A paper I delivered at last fall's Southern Conference of the Modern Language Association (Or "Scum-lah," by common parlance) dealt with the incredible hypocricy associated with the notion of the football "team." No one team has embodied the idea of "the team" as my beloved New England Patriots; but at the same time, no one approaches the Patriots for cold-heartedness once a veteran becomes one step too slow or one dollar too expensive. I thought then (and wrote then) that only Tom Brady and Adam Venitieri's jobs were safe (these two, after all, are the only two Patriots from three Lombardi trophies who will join Brian Belichek in the Hall of Fame), but since then Venitieri has left, over a measly million dollars, and to the hated Colts yet. So I suppose these words, since revised, are as prescient as ever. Here they are .
Bayless: If Bush is guilty, rip his Heisman
Skip Bayless, who is spot-on about three times in five, reaches right to the heart of most Trojan fans' fears. If Bush is guilty, Bayless says, take away his Heisman . Bayless first writes this:
The idea hit me Sunday night. I pushed it on Monday morning's "Cold Pizza." And I was very happy to read Joe Schad's Monday afternoon report on ESPN.com that members of the Heisman Trophy Trust are "doing some soul-searching" about it.
Yes, director Rob Whalen told Schad that the trustees have discussed "revoking" Bush's Heisman Trophy.
Good for them.
The mechanism for such a precendent has been kicked around since yesterday. Bayless implicitly admits the rules supplied by the Downtown Athletic Club would require a stretch, but not an unthinkable one:
After all, the Heisman rules say the recipient "must be in compliance with the bylaws defining an NCAA student." Can't that be interpreted as "student-athlete"? And can't that rule be enforced after the fact?
And how, Bayless wonders, could Bush have been as innocent as he claims? Money quote:
This is not to say Bush is guilty of doing anything wrong. Maybe Bush's parents paid the full rent. His mother has worked as a corrections officer and deputy sheriff. His stepfather works security at a public high school. They have one younger son.
But the family moved into the house before the season began. Surely Reggie would have visited the new house -- it's an easy drive from USC. Surely he would have wondered about the rent. Surely he knew.
If he did know and went along with the scheme, make him an ex-Heisman winner, gentlemen. For the good of the game.
An arguable point, to be sure.
The idea hit me Sunday night. I pushed it on Monday morning's "Cold Pizza." And I was very happy to read Joe Schad's Monday afternoon report on ESPN.com that members of the Heisman Trophy Trust are "doing some soul-searching" about it.
Yes, director Rob Whalen told Schad that the trustees have discussed "revoking" Bush's Heisman Trophy.
Good for them.
The mechanism for such a precendent has been kicked around since yesterday. Bayless implicitly admits the rules supplied by the Downtown Athletic Club would require a stretch, but not an unthinkable one:
After all, the Heisman rules say the recipient "must be in compliance with the bylaws defining an NCAA student." Can't that be interpreted as "student-athlete"? And can't that rule be enforced after the fact?
And how, Bayless wonders, could Bush have been as innocent as he claims? Money quote:
This is not to say Bush is guilty of doing anything wrong. Maybe Bush's parents paid the full rent. His mother has worked as a corrections officer and deputy sheriff. His stepfather works security at a public high school. They have one younger son.
But the family moved into the house before the season began. Surely Reggie would have visited the new house -- it's an easy drive from USC. Surely he would have wondered about the rent. Surely he knew.
If he did know and went along with the scheme, make him an ex-Heisman winner, gentlemen. For the good of the game.
An arguable point, to be sure.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Keep your eyes on your own paper
Dean Barnett is one of the masters of the blogging trade, and the spiffy new look to his Soxblog site has coincided with a wealth of output these past few months. I rate him among the masters of the trade, and divide my favorite bloggers between those who pulled me in via the Dan Rather Memogate fiasco (Powerline, Hugh Hewitt, Captain's Quarters, The Kerry Spot (now TKS), Little Green Footballs, and National Review Online's The Corner) and non-Rather (soxblog, The Irish Trojan . . . gee, that's a lot of blogs via Rather, eh? Well, in fairness, I was reading The Corner before Memogate, aka The Greatest Story In the History of the World. My own less-than-miniscule participation there is a tale for another day). I should add Andrew Sullivan, who demonstrated how the entire genre worked and was so masterful in the weeks following 9/11, and then so erratic starting around Spring of 2004, starting with his obsession with Abu Ghraib and followed by his decision to support Kerry, mostly over the issue of gay marriage.
Look, I'm in favor of gay marriage. To paraphrase Steve Buscemi: Show me a petition and I'll sign it. Put it to a vote and I'll vote for it. But (back to me) I won't use it to choose a Commander-in-Chief in wartime. Sorry.
Back to Barnett. I was careful to paraphrase Buscemi lest I be accused of plagiarism, a serious thing. Barnett gives the details :
I honestly don’t know how stuff like this keeps happening. Some gullible publishing house paid a Harvard freshman $500,000 to write her first novel. That’s the good news. Here’s the bad news – there’s a pretty decent chance it will be her last novel.
According to the Boston Globe, it appears that the frosh-person in question plagiarized significant portions of said-novel for which she was so richly compensated. Still, a half million dollar score for a an 18 year old grifter is nothing to sneeze at.
You can go with this any way you like. For me, before I went through Soxer's link I made three wild guesses:
1. That the Harvard co-ed in question was a babe. I mean, smokin' hot.
2. That she was not white.
3. That she came from the Middle East.
How close did I come? I won't say perfect, but you judge for yourself.
And really, am I really the best person to just such a thing--me, a struggling novelist in my own right, with two unpublished manuscripts on the shelf, someone likely to let my jealousy hamper my reason? Shouldn't I be a little less judgmental toward mistakes of youth? Almost certainly. You see, In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages you've had."
Look, I'm in favor of gay marriage. To paraphrase Steve Buscemi: Show me a petition and I'll sign it. Put it to a vote and I'll vote for it. But (back to me) I won't use it to choose a Commander-in-Chief in wartime. Sorry.
Back to Barnett. I was careful to paraphrase Buscemi lest I be accused of plagiarism, a serious thing. Barnett gives the details :
I honestly don’t know how stuff like this keeps happening. Some gullible publishing house paid a Harvard freshman $500,000 to write her first novel. That’s the good news. Here’s the bad news – there’s a pretty decent chance it will be her last novel.
According to the Boston Globe, it appears that the frosh-person in question plagiarized significant portions of said-novel for which she was so richly compensated. Still, a half million dollar score for a an 18 year old grifter is nothing to sneeze at.
You can go with this any way you like. For me, before I went through Soxer's link I made three wild guesses:
1. That the Harvard co-ed in question was a babe. I mean, smokin' hot.
2. That she was not white.
3. That she came from the Middle East.
How close did I come? I won't say perfect, but you judge for yourself.
And really, am I really the best person to just such a thing--me, a struggling novelist in my own right, with two unpublished manuscripts on the shelf, someone likely to let my jealousy hamper my reason? Shouldn't I be a little less judgmental toward mistakes of youth? Almost certainly. You see, In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages you've had."
"Reggie Bush's House" (is what you're gonna hear)
I'm a USC graduate (class of 1987), and though I have followed USC football since my freshman year, my passion (along with the passion of a few hundred thousand other alums) was restored when Pete Carroll, Norm Chow and Carson Palmer brought the team back to greatness. After Palmer left for the NFL, Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush improved on his pace, culminating one of the great three-year spans of the last 50 years: An AP Championshiop, followed by a an AP/BCS Championship, followed by a heart-ripping 41-38 loss to Vince Young and a great Texas team in the latest BCS Championship game, the 2006 Rose Bowl. The Irish Trojan and Boi from Troy have cornered the USC football market thus far--I'll see what I can add.
With that out of the way, we come to the subject of Reggie Bush's family's house , owned by a California businessman apparently interested in steering the Griffins (Bush's family) toward a particular agent. Unless some kind of reasonable rent was paid by the Bushes, this is probably a violation of NCAA rules. The story in ESPN.com is a part of the second wave, in which the Bushes and the businessman deny any wrongdoing and Reggie denies all knowledge.
The worst case scenario (forfeiture of all 12 2005 victories, loss of the Bush's Heisman) is, at this moment, we are told, probably off the table.
Four thoughts:
1. Any Trojan fan who saw the Vince Bowl would agree with me: going from 12-1 to 0-13 wouldn't hurt half as much as going from 12-0 to 12-1 did, especially if the championship seasons of 2003 and 2004 remain intact.
2. Tucked away in the story, following Bush's profession of ignorance, is this passage: "NCAA rules prohibit student-athletes and their families from receiving extra benefits from agents or their representatives. It can be a violation even if Bush had no knowledge of the transaction."
That is, if Bush neither did anything wrong nor knew of any wrongdoing, both he and the school on the hook for whatever punishment is meted out. Ah: once again, the NCAA demonstrates it runs third to the United Nations and the International Olympic Committee in retrograde, small-minded thinking.
3. The Houston Texans, my local NFL team (though not my favorite; I've been a Patriots fan since--stop laughing--since Jim Plunkett) owns the number one overall pick in this weekend's NFL draft. It is no secret that they have leaned toward drafting Heisman-winner Bush, in preference to defensive stud Mario Williams and quaterback/hometown hero/Rose Bowl MVP Vince Young. (The Texans' presumptive theory is that they already have their quarterback of the future, David Carr, and besides just committed themselves financially to Carr for the foreseeable future.) Five days from the NFL Draft, with Bush's agents in close negotiations with the Houston Texans, this story complicates things. Bush, is, I believe, the best choice for the Texans (I will listen to arguments for Young, Williams, et al, but remain unconvinced). Understand: Young has all but begged the Texans to draft him, and a significant number of Houstonians are huge Longhorn fans coming off maybe the greatest season in team history, in no small part due to Young. If the Texans want Bush, fine: but they will have to sell him, trumpets blaring, to a significant number of people who are dead-set against him. (Some local group cut a song called "Pick Vince," for God's sake). The Texans faced the real possibility of outright booing at dozens of draft parties around the city--and this was before this mess. Now?
4. There is a reason that the silly season in politics (Carter's briefing book in 1983, Cindy Sheehan last year) is August: everyone goes home from DC save the journalists, who have nothing to write about, so they seize and obsess over every crumb that comes their way. The silly season in the NFL is between the Combine and Draft Day, when sports radio jocks and fans bore even themselves to death brooding over things they know nothing about. (Peyton v. Ryan? Remember when that was the hot topic?) Something like this house business, for the moment a matter for concern but not yet a crisis, will--in the absence of any new information, without one shred of a formal charge--be the new thing everyone can roll in, so that by Saturday no one will be able to say "Reggie Bush" without having to say, "trailed by scandal," "the subject of an investigation," or whatnot. Not good for Reggie.
Boi From Troy has his take.
Update:The Irish Trojan chimes in with a ton of links.
With that out of the way, we come to the subject of Reggie Bush's family's house , owned by a California businessman apparently interested in steering the Griffins (Bush's family) toward a particular agent. Unless some kind of reasonable rent was paid by the Bushes, this is probably a violation of NCAA rules. The story in ESPN.com is a part of the second wave, in which the Bushes and the businessman deny any wrongdoing and Reggie denies all knowledge.
The worst case scenario (forfeiture of all 12 2005 victories, loss of the Bush's Heisman) is, at this moment, we are told, probably off the table.
Four thoughts:
1. Any Trojan fan who saw the Vince Bowl would agree with me: going from 12-1 to 0-13 wouldn't hurt half as much as going from 12-0 to 12-1 did, especially if the championship seasons of 2003 and 2004 remain intact.
2. Tucked away in the story, following Bush's profession of ignorance, is this passage: "NCAA rules prohibit student-athletes and their families from receiving extra benefits from agents or their representatives. It can be a violation even if Bush had no knowledge of the transaction."
That is, if Bush neither did anything wrong nor knew of any wrongdoing, both he and the school on the hook for whatever punishment is meted out. Ah: once again, the NCAA demonstrates it runs third to the United Nations and the International Olympic Committee in retrograde, small-minded thinking.
3. The Houston Texans, my local NFL team (though not my favorite; I've been a Patriots fan since--stop laughing--since Jim Plunkett) owns the number one overall pick in this weekend's NFL draft. It is no secret that they have leaned toward drafting Heisman-winner Bush, in preference to defensive stud Mario Williams and quaterback/hometown hero/Rose Bowl MVP Vince Young. (The Texans' presumptive theory is that they already have their quarterback of the future, David Carr, and besides just committed themselves financially to Carr for the foreseeable future.) Five days from the NFL Draft, with Bush's agents in close negotiations with the Houston Texans, this story complicates things. Bush, is, I believe, the best choice for the Texans (I will listen to arguments for Young, Williams, et al, but remain unconvinced). Understand: Young has all but begged the Texans to draft him, and a significant number of Houstonians are huge Longhorn fans coming off maybe the greatest season in team history, in no small part due to Young. If the Texans want Bush, fine: but they will have to sell him, trumpets blaring, to a significant number of people who are dead-set against him. (Some local group cut a song called "Pick Vince," for God's sake). The Texans faced the real possibility of outright booing at dozens of draft parties around the city--and this was before this mess. Now?
4. There is a reason that the silly season in politics (Carter's briefing book in 1983, Cindy Sheehan last year) is August: everyone goes home from DC save the journalists, who have nothing to write about, so they seize and obsess over every crumb that comes their way. The silly season in the NFL is between the Combine and Draft Day, when sports radio jocks and fans bore even themselves to death brooding over things they know nothing about. (Peyton v. Ryan? Remember when that was the hot topic?) Something like this house business, for the moment a matter for concern but not yet a crisis, will--in the absence of any new information, without one shred of a formal charge--be the new thing everyone can roll in, so that by Saturday no one will be able to say "Reggie Bush" without having to say, "trailed by scandal," "the subject of an investigation," or whatnot. Not good for Reggie.
Boi From Troy has his take.
Update:The Irish Trojan chimes in with a ton of links.
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