Whiskey Rebellion

Bank It Like Beckham

2007-01-11T20:53:00.000-08:00

Amidst the frisson that coursed through my network of soccer-loving friends upon news of David Beckham's impending move stateside, one killjoy wondered whether the signing might spark the kind of escalating arms race that torpedoed professional soccer's initial attempt at conquering America.

There's always the chance that the Beckham signing will spark a drunken orgy of spending, but I think MLS Management is mindful of the errors that doomed the NASL and other American soccer leagues. The MLS is essentially a centrally managed corporation that allows its individual units (the franchises) limited autonomy to conduct their business and in their pseudo-socialist way they've done a pretty good job at distributing players and capping spending, so I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Basically, I look at the Beckham signing as a marketing expense and at $250 million a fairly reasonable one for an organization with the ambitions that MLS maintains. When you're a league without a significant TV contract, you have to take extraordinary steps to generate publicity and sizzle, because an American sports league without a viable TV deal is hardly a league at all, ask the NHL.

Beckham is almost an industry unto himself and will attract more attention alone than the entire MLS did before his arrival. And that's before you consider the run-off publicity sure to appear in all the non-sports related venues on account of his massive celebrity (Vanity Fair, People, US Weekly, etc).

The biggest problem with American soccer (aside from its relative lack of success making inroads into working and lower class populations of the non-recent immigrant variety) is that there's a huge disconnect between its popularity as a participant sport and spectator sport. Tons of people play soccer growing up. More Americans play soccer growing up than any other sport. Probably twenty times as many people played organized soccer growing up as played American football. But people who played soccer from the first grade to twelfth without ever setting foot on the gridiron will breathlessly watch a meaningless regular season NFL game while ignoring professional soccer entirely.

They watch football because the culture, the aura that surrounds the sport is greater than the game itself. In this celebrity-obsessed age, a figure like Beckham can provide a measure of glamour that not only attracts attention to soccer but illustrates to kids deciding what sport to pursue that soccer is as sexy, sexier perhaps, than the alternatives.

Of course, the question is whether you can transform that cult-of-personality into appreciation of the sport as whole, or whether it withers away and dies, a la post-Lance Tour de France. Regardless, I think it's worth a shot because star power can deliver a sport into the national consciousness, in fact, it's practically the only thing that ever has.

A lot of people don't realize that before Bird and Magic burst on the scene, the NBA was a dying league where the championship finals games were shown on tape delay and its games pulled worse ratings than bowling. I don't know if Beckham can have the same effect, especially without a counterpoint (maybe an aging Latin stud (Ronaldo?) to recapture the whole racial subtext that helped fuel Bird v. Magic), but I think it's clear that for a sport to succeed it America it has to rise from the level of athletics to the level of spectacle. If anyone can help do this, it's Beckham. Now, if only we could get Posh Spice into cheerleading...

Germany, I'm Sorry

2006-07-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Germany,

I apologize. Really. This is not one of those half-hearted apologies born of cowardice, convenience or diplomacy. This is an honest-to-goodness, get down on my knees, "baby-will-you-please take me back" apology. I must admit - I was wrong.

I wish I could erase all the skeptical glances, the awkward moments and the jealous thoughts, but really all I can do is apologize. It's not that I didn't find you attractive at first. In fact, I admired you from afar, marveling at your form, your intellect and resolve. But I must admit, I was also a bit intimidated by your strength and occasionally suspicious of your checkered past. I never mentioned this to anyone because it seemed a bit unfair. From what I could tell, you'd turned over a new leaf and everyone deserves a second chance, right? But sometimes you have to find out for yourself. Well, I finally did, and now I have a new secret to confess. Germany, you vixen, you've stolen my heart.

The last time I left my heart somewhere, it was in San Francisco, where both it and I have resided for the better part of a decade now. Yet as I set out for Germany on the eve of the World Cup, I was unsure what to expect me upon my arrival in Dusseldorf. Come to find out, what awaited me was a trip that was both incredibly entertaining and full of the following epiphanies:

1. "Ein pils bitte" are three of the sweetest words in any language and also three of the most efficient. One of the glories of drinking in Germany is that you can go into any establishment and simply say "Ein pils bitte", secure in the knowledge that you'll receive an excellent brew, generally of the local variety. (Of course, don't completely neglect the weissbeer). If this were true of American pubs, the sanity of bartenders everywhere would be preserved and you wouldn't have to wait for a small eternity while the woman ahead of you debates the merits of Heineken and Amstel Light.

2. Weltmeisterschaft and Weltmeterschaft are two different things. Both things to be proud of, but very different. Weltmeisterschaft means World Cup in German. Weltmeterschaft, doesn't mean anything really, except, maybe, world's long shaft. If you're going to confuse the two, as I did, it's best to avoid doing it at high volume in a German restaurant.

3. With a sufficient amount of trial-and-error, I am capable of reading a train schedule, in a foreign language no less. The day I caught the train in Nuremberg, and successfully switched at Frankfurt (twice) Dortmund and Dusseldorf was one of the proudest days of my life. If only my mama could have seen me.

4. A man can't live on beer and brats alone. You have to toss in a donor kebab every now and then, preferably around 3 o'clock in the morning. Nothing, I mean nothing on God's green earth hits the spot at 3 AM better than a donor kebab. The first person to open up a donor kebab stand in my neighborhood will die a wealthy man.

5. Speaking of which, 3 AM is basically the crack of dawn in northern Germany. There'll be no sleeping in late here, unless you're from Stockholm, Alaska, or have curtains made of lead.

6. "Vie Geits Alter" is apparently a viable translation of "What's up, Gangsta?, at least according to a Turkish-German hip-hop fan we stumbled into on the streets of Cologne. Exactly how this topic came up remains clouded in a pilsner-induced haze, but this translation was confirmed at a later date by a German with a degree in North American studies. It's always good to have an academic weigh in on 50 Cent.

7. Attending football matches dressed as superheroes is a great, self-deprecating way to the edge off anti-Americanism. Consider it Justice League diplomacy. It will, however, mean a three-hour walk to the stadium as you're stopped every ten feet to pose for photos and conduct interviews with foreign fans and international news organizations.

8. In continental Europe, ATMs are not always precise when assessing how much money remains in an American checking account. So, if you ever find yourself hard up for cash in a foreign country and think there's no money left to withdraw, well, you may not want to admit defeat so easily. Just know that there will be a reckoning when you return to the States.

9. The German penchant for innovative design extends into the bathroom. While most toilets in the western world operate under the same basic principle: that your deposit either lands directly in a small pool of water at the bottom of the bowl, or make its way there after sliding down a sloped surface, German toilet technology is decidedly different. Here, your offering lands on a completely dry horizontal shelf positioned just beneath your posterior. Repeated flushings and vigorous use of the toilet brush are then required to dispose of the evidence, although these measures do little to extinguish the olfactory traces of your dirty work. Noting the German reputation for exceeding practicality and design excellence, I knew there must be a logical reason for this. As it turns out the design is meant to facilitate examination of one's stool, the better to preserve gastrointestinal health. Apparently the expression "ignorance is bliss" doesn't translate into German.

10. It never hurts to get a second opinion on the validity of national toasts. After hearing us hoist beers to a chorus of "Prosts", one native prankster intervened to tell us that while most foreigners believed this to be the standard German toast, the traditional saying was not "Prost", but "Prost-ta-ta", which we subsequently discovered means absolutely nothing or "hooray for boobies".

The mischief of this one prankster not withstanding, it should be noted that the Germans were unfailingly helpful during our visit despite the fact that our rather large traveling party - which peaked at 14 members - boasted a cumulative four years of high school German, all of which rested in the cranium of one Greg Nelson, the erstwhile leader of our merry band. Besides acting as the organizational dean of the group, Greg, a.k.a. "American Schumacher" also acquitted himself exceptionally well on the roads of Germany, negotiating the Autobahn with a car packed so full the passengers were nearly immobile and the rearview mirror was nothing but a useless ornament.

Greg was no doubt aided by the fact that our rental car was a Mercedes station wagon, a gem of a car for which the clerk at the rental agency actually felt compelled to apologize. Apparently they were all out of Ford Tauruses and late model Chevy Impalas. For our part, we were quite happy to tour in style through the German countryside, which was pleasant in a comforting, non-exotic way surprisingly reminiscent of Central Pennsylvania. We were less pleased by the hip-hop on German radio, which was surprisingly reminiscent of the Clear Channel hegemony we're subjected to back home. Sometimes, even when you get away, you can't really get away.

Fortunately, our friend, Christian Manders, had the foresight to bring along an iPod adapter that plugged neatly into the car stereo, allowing us to insulate ourselves in a cocoon of carefully constructed playlists. As we sped along to the nostalgic sounds of old school rap, the freshly minted warblings of indy rockers and the reassuring strains of all-time road trip classics like "Country Roads", I couldn't but help but notice the contrast between the crisp organization of our impromptu sing-alongs and the ragged, if spirited, chants belted out by US supporters at the matches we attended.

While the sizable number of US fans in Germany, a contingent that dwarfed the turnout for Korea 2002, was a promising indicator of the sport's growth stateside, development of the game's cultural component is lagging far behind fan interest. This much is clear: we need a new song. Actually, we need a song, period. Really, we need three or four, but as the wise man said, long journey begins with first step.

The old standby U-S-A, U-S-A conjures up fond memories for the 35-and-over "Miracle on Ice really means something to me crowd" and is suitably militant for international misadventures. However, it is also decidedly unmelodic and lacks the creativity befitting a country that was the birthplace of bluegrass, jazz, show tunes, rock-n-roll, hip-hop and Ashlee Simpson. It's times like these when the US could benefit from the type of cultural commission that prevails in countries like France. If the French were in this predicament, they would simply authorize a taskforce to oversee the creation of a catchy new national tune.

On the other hand, similarly bureaucratic measures in America would most likely result in something completely inoffensive and absolutely unlovable. The US requires an organic, rousing national song - one of the people, by the people and for the people. Given this, there is only place to turn: You Tube, the last untrammeled bastion of democracy and grassroots expression. Start a contest for the best song, toss a few dollars and the promise of fleeting celebrity into the mix and let the Internet hordes have at it.

I think it's fair to say that the US will not have arrived as a true soccer power until we have a repertoire of songs that fans know by heart and can belt out effortlessly. When that day comes, we'll know that a true soccer culture has taken hold in the US. Until then, we'll have to make do with fumbling attempts at musicality that fizzle after one or two verses. This is a shame, because there's no shortage of music in the American sporting heritage. True, most of the songs are inspired by college football and not the international kind, but taking a traditional art form and adapting it to suit our current needs is a grand old American tradition, so why stop now? Couldn't we all put aide our partisan differences once every four years and agree on a re-working of "Hail to the Victors", "The Notre Dame Victory March" or "Fight On (USC)" as our national football/soccer song? Just change a few select words and you're good to go. Or, in the case of "Hail to the Victors", you can leave in choice lines like "leaders and best" and "conquerors of the west". Our Mexican friends will appreciate that.

One of the great things about these songs is that they provide an easy way to bond, but also a means of inspiring your side without taunting the other. This is important because it's extremely difficult for an American sporting crowd to celebrate the home team without demeaning the opposition. There's an undercurrent of antagonism to most chants in the US - even our songs are called "Fight Songs", which I suppose neatly captures the unlikely blend of friendliness and aggression that is so characteristic of America. While that doesn't matter so much when Browns fans are slashing the tires of Steelers faithful outside of Cleveland Stadium or whatever they call it since they were awarded an expansion franchise, it takes on broader implications at the world's most eagerly anticipated and widely-watched event.

As I took to telling to the group in my rare sober moments, "At the World Cup, we are all diplomats". This pronouncement inevitably preceded some act of boorishness that did more to reinforce the Ugly American stereotype than 20 years of foreign policy fiascos, but at least my heart was in the right place. Being an American soccer fan abroad puts you in the precarious position of the prettiest woman at the bar, or the celebrity dining at a restaurant in some mid-sized American city. Everyone else has already formed an opinion about you and one false move - even in the face of a hundred good deeds - will serve to reinforce their negative impression. Fail to return the glance of the lush who has been staring you down for the past half-hour, or honor the 137th autograph request of the evening and that pretty much confirms your status as Grade-A jag-off. Similarly, all it takes is one ill-advised comment to stoke the fires of anti-American sentiment and erase the efforts of hundreds of your compatriots who are struggling mightily to find the right mix of bonhomie and humility.

Thus, supporting the American team can at times be a delicate balancing exact between passionate embrace of the national team and whatever concessions to diplomacy sports fanaticism allows. Or, alternatively, you can just adopt the old English football chant "No one likes us and we don't care", as one group of supporters did before the US-Italy clash in Kaiserslautern. These fans were, however, decidedly in the minority. For the most part, the American contingent managed to offer spirited, yet inoffensive support of the national team. You'd hope someone would notice favorably, but there's just no pleasing some people.

Two days after the US-Italy match, the Guardian, one of the UK's most prominent papers, managed to identify some of the most brain-dead American fans, interview them and highlight their quotes in an extraordinarily derisive column headlined: "Overexcited, Overweight and Over Here". As your humble, and relatively slender (some might say scrawny) correspondent, I must object to the title. Overexcited - very likely. But, overweight - I don't think so. I found American supporters to be a rather svelte lot on the whole. Of course, horizontal red-and-white stripes aren't exactly flattering to the figure, but you do what you can for your country.

Americans have never been shy about flying the flag , or wearing it, but the same can't be said of Germans, who have taken an understandably muted approach to patriotic displays - until now that is. Walking around a German city during the World Cup was to bear witness to a national coming-out party. Everywhere you turned, the red, black and gold of the German flag was in evidence and the air was filled with the boisterous chants of "Wir gehen nach Berlin" ("We're going to Berlin") - the site of the World Cup finals. The exuberance of the Germans was infectious and completely in contrast to their somewhat undeserved reputation for severity. As we traveled from Munich to Dusseldorf to Dortmund to Hamburg to Cologne to Berlin to Hanover to Nuremberg and many places between, we had the good fortune of seeing an entire country on an extended holiday of sorts. These are not people who don't know how to have fun. It wasn't exactly Carnivale in Rio, but then I doubt the pilsner is as good on Ipanema.

Still, even though the mood was decidedly festive, there was also an undercurrent of feeling that suggested the celebration was more than just a party. It was as if the entire populace was throwing off the shackles of restraint and enforced humility and joyously announcing, "We've arrived and we're not going to hang our heads or speak in hushed tones any longer." For a few weeks, it was almost like the American fans and the Germans switched places. A fan in Hamburg summed it up best. The man, who was in his early-to-mid forties, recalled the discomfort he sometimes felt when traveling abroad as a youth, noting that years ago, "People would ask where we were from and we would say "Oh, we're German (in a whisper), now we say "We're German!" (booming voice and emphatic fist pump).

From my perspective, Germany has good reason to shout: bars that stay open to all hours, liberal open container laws (or the complete lack thereof), a plentitude of good, cheap beer, attractive women, friendly, helpful citizens, a wealth of inviting outdoor cafes, good, cheap beer, attractive women, an amazing mix of architecture that artfully and successfully weaves daring new buildings amongst structures hundreds of years old, good, cheap beer, the Autobahn, attractive women, marvelously efficient public transportation, a thriving art scene, some of the best graffiti I've ever seen anywhere and good, cheap beer. It's true, the toilets could use a little work, but when that's the worst thing you can say about a country, you know it's doing something right. Prost, Germany, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

Character Revealed

2005-08-25T01:11:00.000-07:00

I'm back from a brief sabbatical in Tahoe for the wedding of the most lovely Becky Webster and Aaron Dolberg and return bearing the fantastic news- from my completely biased, nepotistic perspective - of my grandfather's induction into an Ohio sports Hall of Fame. Yours truly was tapped to write the induction text, which I have enclosed here for your eyes only ....

Basketball’s most successful coach, the great John Wooden, professed that “Sports do not build character … they reveal it.” Similarly, football’s most revered leader, the legendary Vince Lombardi, once remarked that his game “is like life, it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work and sacrifice.”

It is fitting then, that Percy Squire’s accomplishments on the athletic fields of the Mahoning Valley are reflective of the same great character he has demonstrated both as an exemplary family man and as a pillar of the Youngstown community for more than 80 years. Perseverance, hard work, denial and sacrifice … these are the critical, if unglamorous and often undervalued traits required to excel on the hardwood, on the gridiron and on the baseball diamond.

More importantly, these are the same attributes required of a man whose childhood was set against the backdrop of the Great Depression and an era of institutionalized discrimination. These are the same values required of a man who labored inside the hot, fiery belly of a blast furnace for more than 40 years. Most of all, these are the qualities that have defined the life of Percy Montgomery Squire – both inside and outside the lines.

This extraordinary life, remarkable not for its exotic or unusual nature, but for its honest persistent, upright dignity, began on the First of November, 1921 in the tiny hamlet of Garysburg, North Carolina. Two years after the birth of their second child, however, the Squire family departed this Appalachian village for opportunity; opportunity that went by the name of Youngstown, Ohio, the booming steel town Percy would call home for the rest of his life.

The early years of that life were spent on the family’s west side homestead, where Percy was reared under the watchful eye of his mother, Florence, and his father John, and where he played with his older brother John P. and his sister Ethel McMullen, née Squire. Time would soon carry young Percy onto Stambaugh Elementary school, and later to Chayney High, where he lettered in football and basketball, starring at right halfback on the gridiron and at guard on the hardwood.

Immediately after receiving his diploma from Cheney, Percy underwent a rite of passage common to men of the Mahoning Valley at that time – he exchanged his graduation cap for a hardhat at the Carnegie-Illinois plant that would later become known by a more familiar moniker – US Steel. Percy gave 40 years of blood, sweat, tears and toil to the company, turning in his hat only when the company pulled stakes from Youngstown in 1981, while offering him a new job at its Cleveland facility. A Mahoning Valley man to the last, Percy refused the offer, opting instead to spend more time with his family, which by this time included his wife Ruth, whom he married in 1943; two daughters, Florence and Cheryl; one son, Percy; and a quartet of grandchildren: Joy, Troy, Reva and Deidre.

In the years between his first Carnegie-Illinois paycheck and his final blast furnace shift, Percy gave of himself ceaselessly, both to his family and to the community. His was a regular face at Price Memorial A.M.E. Zion Church; he was a stalwart member of McGuffey Center; a volunteer with Hospice; saxophonist with the VFW Marching Band, a member of Youngstown’s Northeast Homeowners’ Association and the East High Boosters’ Association; and a beloved leader and Institutional Representative for the Boy Scouts, Troop 18.

Those civic accomplishments indicate a love of life and an appreciation for the ethos of sacrifice and teamwork that carried over to the Youngstown playing fields where Percy distinguished himself as a stellar performer on numerous softball and baseball teams. Whether he was starring in the Cisco Playground or Double-A softball leagues, claiming the championship of the West Federal Street YMCA Industrial League, taking the field for The Whale Inn, or representing Local 1330 in the Tri-State Softball League, Percy’s feel for the game, fast bat, quicksilver speed and silky fielding allowed him to ably man that most demanding of all positions, shortstop. His skills were so undeniable that even legendary professional franchises came calling on his services.

In 1943, the Birmingham Black Barons, former employer of the incomparable Satchel Paige and future employer of the man often cited as the greatest player in the history of baseball – “Say Hey” Willie Mays - invited Percy to tryout for their team. This was no mediocre squad, as evidenced by the fact that, later that very same year, the Black Barons advanced to the Negro World Series, where they faced the mighty Homestead Grays. Yet, even an illustrious outfit such as this one, stocked with future Hall of Famers, thought it could benefit from the addition of one more special talent.

In characteristic fashion – we are reminded once more of those core values – self-denial, hard work and sacrifice – Percy declined the invitation in order to further his career at the mill and devote himself to his new wife, Ruth Squire, formerly Ruth Gatewood. So, it is entirely appropriate that, on this day, Percy receives his long overdue reward and joins the likes of Mays and Paige by earning entry into the Hall of Fame - not the one in Cooperstown, but the one in Youngstown - the city that shaped the timeless, priceless values that define the man and his legacy.

Bushwacked!

2005-08-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

So, I’m attending a wedding in Tahoe this weekend and making my final preparations for the big event, which include a visit to the barbershop for a quick trim. The trip was the source of some anxiety, because after rocking the bald dome for the past seven years, I recently decided to embark on the quixotic mission for the perfect ‘fro, no matter how long it takes.

This decision has sent me on a thankless quest for a “good, reliable” barber. Since I’m growing my hair out, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find an acceptable choice, seeing as all I require is that he clean up the hairline every few weeks – none off the top, mind you. Alas, victory is elusive.

With that in mind, I ventured over to The Fillmore to check out a new place and get cleaned up for the nuptials. After a half-an-hour wait (not bad for a Thursday evening), I was called on by one of the twentysomething barbers and happily settled into the chair. He said he would just be a minute and disappeared into the back room where he remained for about 15. Upon his reemergence, he yapped on his cell phone for another ten minutes or so, periodically telling me he’d be “just one more second”.

He then went outside to engage in a pathetically obvious drug buy. Very sloppy. I’m not objecting, but at least keep it clean, boys. A little discretion is warranted here. So, my man gets the goods, tells me to “hold on for one more minute” and heads into the back room to blaze. He returns in a cloud and finally gets down to business after another (blissfully) brief phone call.

At this point, I’ve been in the chair around 40 minutes and the shop is about ready to close. Still, I’m cautiously optimistic. I figure the kid just got his puff on, he’s in the zone and he’ll take his time to do it up lovely. So, I tell him, “I just want you to line it up. I’m growing my hair out, so don’t take anything off the top, just edge it up and make it clean.” Pretty straightforward.

So, after just a few minutes I feel him going up in the hair line and when I ask what he’s doing, he tells me he wants to taper it just a bit to make it look better, adding “Don’t worry, I know it feels like I’m taking a lot off, but I’m not.” Deprived of my glasses and reduced to blind-as-a-bat vision, I can’t verify this without causing a major production, so I give myself over to the Lord.

Who abandons me.

When the bushwhacking is finished and I’m presented with the mirror, its apparent the kind bud did not help his creative juices. My budding ’fro is gone – butchered beyond repair. I look like the off-brand version of Ron DeVoe, circa 1987.

This, just a day before I’m reunited with friends I haven’t seen in years. The hack job is so bad, I can’t even play it off like I’m going for the retro look. It’s criminal and I feel like I should be able to file some sort of professional malpractice suit.

Would anyone object to the creation of a governing board for hair stylists - sort of a Supreme Court, Star Chamber-type committee that could banish the worst offenders to the nether regions of the universe? These are the type of improvements in our everyday lives that politicians should be working toward to keep the public some recourse when they’ve been wronged. Instead, it’s off to find a hat store. Anyone know of one on the road up to Tahoe?

SnooperBowl

2005-08-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

Man, to be young again. I know if was playing youth football and Snoop tapped me for his squad, I'd be down with the clown.

Money quote: “The rapper and sometime actor also made personal phone calls to draw in top talent, and last year his Rowland Raiders went undefeated en route to a league championship.”

Can you imagine picking up the phone and getting a personal pitch from the D-O-Double-G asking you to join his team? Oh, and did I forget to mention custom-made Tiffany trophies? For shizzle, my nizzle.

I'll Be Home By 9:00 - I Promise!

2005-08-17T18:10:00.000-07:00

This is why you ask Mom to borrow the getaway car before you break-and-enter:

So, This Is What The Gold Rush Is Reduced To?

2005-08-17T18:07:00.000-07:00

I’m sure there are more nuanced economic readings of this story, but when 11, 000 people apply for 400 jobs at Wal-Mart, it’s probably not a great sign for the economy.

Relevant quote: "It's not about Wal-Mart -- it's about the rest of the labor market," Levy said. "If the rest of the labor market was strong, you wouldn't have 11, 000 people applying for 400 jobs."

Wal-Mart is the outfit that, perhaps more than any other American corporation at the moment, is condemned for providing low wages and meager benefits. Yet, people are beating down the doors like they’re giving away free Cabbage Patch Kids.

To be fair, a $10.82 average wage – “average” not always being the best measure in these kind of studies - is not too shabby for retail. That works out to $1,731.2 a month which should, you know, allow you to rent an apartment, pay a car note and maybe keep the light on in Alameda County. What you were hoping for more?

“Woooooo Pig! Sooey!

2005-08-15T16:38:00.000-07:00

For all those who like to gnash their teeth, pull their hair and lament over America’s cultural inferiority, we humbly recommend this item.

I suggest we get a team of rabid Razorback fans together and fly them over to southern France for a pig-calling clash of the titans. It’ll be like Rocky V. Drago - except with pork rinds served ringside. Ok, that’s wishful thinking. Maybe a nice Bordeaux – and pork rinds.

A Small Price to Pay for History

2005-08-15T16:28:00.000-07:00

… but then again, $182,000 buys a LOT of Jameson’s

Don't Fear the Reaper

2005-08-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

Uninspired by the presumed candidates for president in 2008? “More Cowbell” may provide just the inspiration a beleaguered nation needs to emerge from the doldrums.

An elaborate hoax, naturally, but it begs the question. Is Walken more “presidential” then John Cusack? WhiskeyRebllion says yes! (He just has more gravitas.)

Jimmy Conway woulda wacked somebody for this ...

2005-08-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

All right, so this is exactly what you DON'T do after you successfully pull off one of the biggest bank heists in history. Sheeesh, didn't these guys ever watch Goodfellas?

Spread the Love

2005-08-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

The aftermath of this fiasco must have made the triple bypass seem like a day at the beach. One bypass for each wife - coincidence? On the bright side, the fine was only the equivalent of $126. I paid $115 for a jaywalking ticket once, so I think he got off pretty cheap there.

In fairness, though, there were probably late fees added on to the fine because the check was late. I thought I could get away without paying being that I don’t have a car and it wasn’t really a moving violation, well, I was moving, but you know what I mean – not in a vehicle. The court was not persuaded evidently, because they threatened to suspend my license. I still remember that when the officer wrote the ticket, on the line where you indicate the speed the offender was traveling, he put 4 MPH. And people say cops don't care about their jobs.

Honey, I'm Sooooo Sorrry

2005-08-11T22:10:00.000-07:00

And if you can't hack the marriage until you're 104, there's always this option:

Shut up, Harold! There's Nothing Good About Getting Old!

2005-08-11T21:58:00.000-07:00

I like how the husband in this story spouts the typical platitudes about love, hope commitment and devotion that one expects from an old – extremely old – couple when explaining how they have survived for so long.

Then his wife chips in with the “Life is Hell” sentiment. Way to tell it like it is, grandma. That reminds me of how, when we were twenty or so, my good friend Christian (C.D. Manders) used to comment on how we couldn’t wait until he aged so he could say whatever he wanted and wear loud-ass plaid pants and no one could do anything about it because he was so old. There’s not much to embrace about aging, but being resolved of the obligation to match and make sense when you talk is some consolation.

Hey, Will You Let Go of the Controller Already?

2005-08-11T17:22:00.000-07:00

OK, so this qualifies as an ignoble death. But the question is, did he make it to Level 35 and unlock the code of invincibility?

Barbara at the Bat

2005-08-11T17:14:00.000-07:00

Not that making fun of old ladies is cool or anything, but Whiskey Rebellion will entertain a chivalry break in order to bring you our Photo-of-the-Day (scroll down to the main pic) Note: this is what happens when you bean the opposing batter. And he’s big. And he voted for Kerry. Or his brother was Willie Horton.

Tired of all that Inspirational Crap?

2005-08-11T17:04:00.000-07:00

Did you feel like the movie Office Space was written for you, specifically? Are you tired of the trite, motivational posters adorning conference room walls? Does the rah-rah speech and slap on the back from your boss feel like an ice pick through your shoulder blades? Well, then, we have just t he site for you.

The above link comes courtesy of the one-and-only Mr. C.D. Manders. Say hello if you’re ever in the ’Burgh.

"So, Who Are You Voting For?"

2005-08-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

The other night at Kate O’Brien’s, a brief argument - inspired by political fervor, sociological inquiry, copious amounts of Jameson’s and the odd mind eraser - broke out over black Republicans: who are they, how many are there, what is the nature of their motivations, etc.

Predictably, the discussion degenerated into a shouting match, a series of off-color jokes and another round of shots, but as I stared up at the ceiling the next morning, replaying the previous night’s events and bemoaning my throbbing head, I gave the subject some more reflection. In the process I recalled that while growing up I only knew two non-born again black Republicans - although that's not something people admit to readily, so who knows what goes on after they enter the voting booth.

An amusing story from my long-lost youth in Pittsburgh illustrates that point. When I was maybe 13 or so, I attended a national high school all-star basketball game at the Pittsburgh Civic Arena (check out Neil Diamond on August 26^th) with my Aunt and Uncle and their son, who was probably about 9 years old. These weren't blood relatives, but close family friends who had earned the honor of the title.

So, we get to the game and settle into our seats which happen to be in front of two men who are what we know in Pittsburgh as "yinzers". They are wasted, but friendly, and my cousin, being young and not yet fully invested with the reflexive fear/distrust of poor white people makes fast friends with them. The good ole boys are yukkin’ it up, having a grand old time with the Cosby kid.

Then, at one point they ask my cousin "who are you voting for?" - a Pittsburgh way of saying "who are you rooting for?" Cous, not being fully versed in the local dialect, misinterprets the question and proudly and immediately responds "Bush! Go Bush! Bush, Bush, Bush!" I cast a sideways glance and see my Aunt and Uncle's faces absolutely stricken with terror as they realize it's now obvious to me they have been indoctrinating their son with traitorous, house nigger Republican doctrine - a development that could, conceivably, make itself known to the entire black community of Pittsburgh.

I, of course, saw only humor in the situation – particularly the look of abject horror on my relative’s faces over a child’s innocent remark – about a basic right – the right to cast your vote for whomever you see fit. But I’ll always remember how they reacted as if a family scandal had been let loose into the open; the incident really underscored the stigma attached to voting Republican. Sometimes, no matter how much you strive for objective analysis, the most evocative moments remain the anecdotal ones.

No Free Trade for You

2005-08-08T15:57:00.000-07:00

When CNOOC, the Chinese oil giant - under heavy pressure from the US Government - recently withdrew its takeover bid for the American oil firm Unocal, it was simply the latest in a series of events inspired by hysteria over the rising yellow menace. While the Bush administration can, in most cases, be counted upon to reliably bang the drum of free trade, the threat of a largely state-owned corporation – fueled by the Chinese economic juggernaut – derailed its stated commitment to a relatively unrestrained global economy. And this, in the same week where the US House of Representatives approved the Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) despite the strenuous objections of many Americans, labor unions and protectionist politicians of all stripes.

Of course, those who opposed CNOOC’s takeover bid would argue that Guatemalan banana farmers offer little threat to America’s national security, something that cannot be said of the Chinese government, which owns 70 percent of CNOOC. This reasoning conveniently ignores the fact that China’s rise as an economic power and a more prosperous society is based largely on the increased export of goods to the West – especially to the United States - and the resulting increase in purchasing power that this has created for the Chinese, or at least for those Chinese living in the country’s major, thriving economic centers. For better or worse, the two economies are too intertwined to ever seriously broach the thought of war, no matter how much diplomatic posturing and chest-thumping they may undertake. Even if I hate my next-door neighbor’s guts, I’m not going to firebomb his house, if only out of concern for my own.

Nevertheless, a lot of otherwise reasonable people are trying to cast China as the new USSR. Yet, what the rhetoric on both sides – American and Chinese – disguises is the fact that the US and China are bound in a way that the US and the Soviet Union never were – or could have been - under their respective economic systems. So, to suggest that the Sino-American relationship will follow a similarly Manichean path is misguided and ignores the realities of the global economy.

It’s often said, erroneously, that no two democracies have ever gone to war. In fact, numerous democracies, unless you take an extremely narrow and until fairly recently – unrealized - view of the term have gone to war. This is true because the relationship that precludes warfare between two countries is not the nature of their political structures, but the relationship of their economic interests.

I am reminded here of the McDonald’s Peace Formula, which holds that no two countries with a McDonalds have ever gone to war. Perhaps that’s because they’re too bloated to get up off the couch and pick up a machine gun, but I tend to think it’s because wealthy nations don’t like to threaten their prosperity by lobbing grenades at countries that buy their products and line their pockets. Military conflict between the US and China is most certainly not in anyone’s economic interests. Well, maybe the EU’s, but that’s a topic for another day.

Moreover, with particular respect to the CNOOC’s proposed $18.5 billion acquisition, even the economic implications were relatively insignificant. Oil is a valuable resource, to be sure, but Unocal accounts for less than 1 percent of global oil production, well below the typical threshold the government uses for anti-competition review. Condemnation of the CNOOC takeover bid is at best myopic and at worst hypocritical. In any case, it is not the type of incident that builds credibility when the US preaches the gospel of free trade around the globe. It does, however, suggest a new mantra: “Free Trade – but Only for the Free”. That has a nice, Rovian ring to it.

Is That Drakkar Noir?

2005-08-08T12:16:00.000-07:00

The Wall Street Journal (subscription required) ran a piece today on security in American shopping malls, which government experts view as plum targets for future terrorist attacks. The upshot of the story is that while the department has issued a slew of stringent security recommendations, mall security firms seem to be opting for easier-to-implement and more subjective enforcement techniques.

As the article notes, the government advised mall security agents to pay special attention to their olfactory sense as would-be bombers often "anoint themselves with perfume, fragrant soap or rosewater in preparation for what they believe will be their martyrdom."

So do a lot of 16-year old boys trying to get a date for the prom. Still, just to be on the safe-side, I’d post a guard and bomb-sniffing dog outside of Perfumania.

British Bulldogs

2005-08-05T17:16:00.000-07:00

Whiskey Rebellion returns, a little worse for wear, from a two-day hiatus courtesy of Seamie’s birthday celebration and the associated recovery/hair-of –the-dog day. Special thanks to the staff at Swig and Kate O'Brien's for their stellar work this week. Stars, all of you.

It occurred to me after the first London bombing that the terrorists had seriously miscalculated in their choice of targets. Subsequent developments have only served to reinforce that belief.

I am about to engage in the dodgy – and admittedly imprecise – practice of generalizing about national character, but I think that history shows you cannot cow or intimidate Anglo-Saxon or Celtic people into backing down on matters like this. The English have a long history of resolve in foreign affairs, violent and otherwise, that indicates they will not knuckle under. You can shame them into concessions (a la Gandhi), but you can't bully them.

That may work with some other countries, perhaps Spain or France or Italy. This is not a slight against them, just an acknowledgement that in Europe, Latin countries tend to be more pragmatic about this sort of thing and will give up the ghost when it no longer seems practical or productive to fight. For whatever reason, England just isn't wired that way. At times this British Bulldog mentality can be maddening (see: N. Ireland). But right now, just as in World War II, it is a source of great comfort.

Droppings ...

2005-08-02T22:47:00.000-07:00

Some scattered thoughts while taking solace in the fact the liver regenerates every 300 to 500 days.

* When John Bolton presented his credentials at the UN, did his CV include the line “was not approved by the United States Congress”?

* If this little dispatch from Colombia is correct in its assessment, I think there will soon be some extremely overworked indepepndent contractors in San Francisco.

*So, not to appear materialistic or anything, but when this happens, do you get reimbursed for the value of your carry-on bags?

* Just in case you haven’t gotten your dose of hypochondria today, here’s a report on the “next AIDS epidemic” of the week. Of course, if this does turn out to be even one-tenth as devastating as AIDS in a few years, this post never existed. I repeat, never existed.

Anyway, I’m not going to summarize the article on “Metabolic Syndrome” because it’s so blatantly alarmist, but it does – inadvertently – raise one interesting point in the following paragraph:

“One of the most alarming results in this study is how many non-smoking teens are being exposed to second-hand smoke. He (Michael Weitzman, M.D professor and associate chair at the University of Rochester School of Medicine) says a shocking 66 percent of teens in the study have a measurable amount of cotinine, a biochemical remnant of the breakdown of nicotine in the liver. Presence of cotinine in the blood indicates exposure to secondhand smoke.”

Is anyone else “shocked by” the things that scientists are “shocked by” when they perform these studies? I know you spend a lot of time in the lab doc, but really, “shocked” that 66 percent of teens have exposure to secondhand smoke? In other news, the American people were “shocked” to learn that 66 percent of scientists don’t get out much. Then again, I’m typing this from a bar which places me pretty high on the dork-out scale, so the glass house rule probably applies here.

* Lastly, just in case you ever wondered what might happen if, instead of immediately deleting those Nigerian investment emails, you kicked the tires a little bit ’cause, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look:

"In the course of a rare crackdown on Nigerian "419"/"advance-fee" scams, a Nigerian court in July sentenced a woman to 30 months in jail, plus fines, in a case in which the victim was not a gullible, e-mail-reading American, but a bank. Brazil's Banco Noroeste S.A. was apparently suckered into advancing money for a nonexistent new airport in the Nigerian capital of Abuja, which ultimately cost it $242 million (much of which it later recovered)." [Reuters, 7-16-05]

Baby's Got Back

2005-08-01T17:59:00.000-07:00

I do a piss-poor job keeping up with the latest TV developments, so this may be a stale item, but … A rare peek inside the tube this weekend served to further fray whatever illusions of youth and cultural relevance I am trying so desperately to maintain. During a break between one of the 357 DVDs I watched on Saturday, I flipped idly through the Craigslist housing classifieds while waiting for my girlfriend to return from the jacks so we could start the next movie. With the TV on in the background, I perused listing after listing of $1,400 apartments that advertise “closets” as if they were some kind of rare perk. Like “hot tubs” or “in-ground pool.”

Before I could become fully absorbed in the search, my attention was grabbed by the unmistakable, driving beat of “Baby’s Got Back” bursting forth from the speakers. I glanced up from the screen in hopes of catching the welcome sight of “one of those rap guys’ girlfriends” workin’ it out something furious to Sir Mix-a- Lot’s signature song. Instead, I was confronted with the unsettling vision of rugrats with knapsacks bopping around to the reconfigured tune, now known as “Baby I’m Back" (at School). And this, only a week after seeing the Woodsman.

Needless to say, I’m still recovering. Is this how baby boomers felt when Nike used “Revolution” in one of its ads? This kind of blatant bait-and-switch cannot be tolerated. I’ll never be able to hear that song again without feeling compromised. To top it off, Mix-a-Lot even contributes alternative lyrics for the Le Targaay Remix.

A choice example:

“We like backpacks and we cannot lie. With a cellphone pocket on the side. Those old backpacks were a fashion risk, but can a cool backpack exist? Check this: tricked out with the flyest look and I’m holding way more than books, baby I’m back. At school, that is.”

I know a brother’s gotta make a living, but sheeesh … Anyway, I couldn't link directly to a place on the Web where the uninitiated can watch the commerical, but pasting this link http://www.dhadm.com/mediaHolder.php?id=2 in your browser might work.

Digable Planets

2005-07-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

So, astronomers have discovered another planet in the solar system and gained more fuel for the movement to demote Pluto from planet to really, really, big asteroid. School kids of America can breathe easy – it seems that Uranus is still safe. Still, it’s kind of disheartening to know that some of the bedrock truths of childhood education – there are nine planets in the solar system, etc. – are already starting to unravel. It was bound to happen, but I was hoping it would be at least another hundred years or so before we started seeming like charter members of the Flat Earth Society.

But bacon tastes good ...

2005-07-28T17:25:00.000-07:00

Not that anyone asked, but you know it was a long night of drinking when, at the office the next day, you reach into your backpack for a notebook only to discover a bag of pork rinds. And you can’t remember how they got there. On the bright side, pork rinds make for a welcome surprise and an excellent snack at 2 PM The Day After.

Of course, the above scenario also presents the dilemma of whether or not it’s appropriate to eat pork rinds at your desk. Potato chips are legit, I think, but somehow fried fat products seem to be pushing the envelope of propriety. I can’t deny that I felt a little bit sheepish when the CEO strolled past my desk, which was littered with rinds. Fortunately, I hadn’t opened that little packet of hot sauce that Snak King so thoughtfully includes in their El Sabroso “pork cracklins” (I did that later). Anyway, if you recall the watermelon scene in Invisible Man, then you have a pretty good idea how I felt.

* While we’re on the topic of food: I love sourdough, but it is legal to make sandwiches with other types of bread. I just wanted to clear up the confusion for Bay Area deli owners.

And to think I meant to write something serious today. I feel shallow, but it's nothing a protracted conversation with my friend Mr. Jameson won't cure. In any event, someone out there in the wilds of cyberspace thinks we're worthwhile here at Whiskey Rebellion. We just received our first link from the esteemed Clareified blog. Must go; I'm all weepy now.