Do you remember your first friend? I mean, your first real friend. My brother has been my best friend for my entire life- but I guess for this exercise he doesn't really count. My second blog entry here was an old post from 2005, about my first real friend. I suppose everyone has done the old friends search with Facebook or Myspace before out of sheer curiosity- "Oh, I wonder how so and so is doing? Where did they end up?" Most of the time though, you're only curious for a second. I know that most of the people I looked up I didn't really want to contact, and even if I did "friend" it was just a formality to get my numbers up during my early Facebook days. He was different though, I actually wanted to contact him. Maybe not to rebuild a friendship, but definitely just to know that he was alive and doing well, that he maybe even remembered me.
But I couldn't find him on Facebook couldn't find him on MySpace. That's okay, I thought, he probably just didn't have a computer. My sister suggested that I try looking in the Department of Corrections; I'd seriously thought about that but didn't want to admit that it'd have the possibility of bearing fruit. But sure enough I ended up fiding him on the Penn DOC website; I knew it was him because he had a very unique name and I could still remember his birthdate. He was doing an undetermined bid in a medium security prison outside of Philadelphia, but I didn't know what for. I found out yesterday though. I was trying to write a post about something else entirely when he popped into my head again, I'm not really sure why. So I went through the online Pennsylvania court papers; it didn't take me long to find him. Turns out, he's in prison on a gun charge, but he's set to stand trial in May for first degree murder. Between his arrest for the gun charge and the trial date he shot an 18 year old kid, in a grocery store, over an argument. And it's not like he's a first timer; his rap sheet is two miles long. Guns, dope w/ intent, guns, aggravated assault, burglary, dope w/ intent, and more guns. Like I said before, it was always likely that he was going to go to prison for something. When I saw his name in the system I thought it would only be dope and guns, at worst assault. I couldn't imagine something like this, his picture in the paper like one of the men from America's Most Wanted, looking just like I remember him only older, grimier, as if he was bred to do what he did.
The question I keep asking myself is, why do I care so much? He was my first friend yeah, but we haven't been friends in a LONG time. I don't know who he is, I only know who he was. On a certain level, I care on moral grounds, because two lives and two families were forever ruined on that February day in 2007. Two young Black men, one did not live to see his 19th birthday and the other (if the evidence is as strong as it seems to be) will spend his 23rd and every subsequent birthday for the rest of his life behind bars. I read an article describing the birthday party that the victims mother was throwing for her now deceased son. It's hard to keep from crying as she describes the hurt that her family has gone through. It's tough to think that a person I knew when he was a little boy could cause all of that harm.
On another level, I care about it from an intellectual point of view. It's just an example of the violence that plagues so many inner city Black neighborhoods- the police call that section of South Philly "Little Beirut." It's something that is hard to come to grips with, even in the abstract, as the death of that young man and the imprisonment of my old friend becomes nothing more than another data point belying the hopelessness under which so many people live. My friend was a sociological stereotype- absentee father, welfare/addicted mother, older brother already doing time, lived in the projects, substandard public school. Yeah, we went to the same shitty South Philly public school, but even at 8 it was easy to tell the difference. It was the way the teachers treated us, what they expected from us, and what we expected from ourselves. There were two classes of kids that went to that school, the navy kids and the project kids and it was always easy to tell the difference- from the reading class that you were in to the simple fact that you came to school with clean clothes. (there was also the occasional Italian kid whose parents were too poor to send them to Catholic school but thats another story). Us Navy kids certainly weren't rich- to put it in perspective, I make $14,000 more in inflation adjusted dollars than my father did after 20 years of service in the Navy, and he had to support a wife and three children. But compared to the kids from Passyunk, we might as well have been Warren Buffett. I'm not trying to reduce what happened to some case study about young Black men in the ghetto, but I can't help of think of it in those terms. Because I knew him so long ago, in many ways my friend has morphed into a silohuette, a piece of anecdotal evidence for improvements we need to make in our society.
But I think mostly, I care because he was one of my best childhood friends. Thinking about all of the places I lived growing up, all the friends I had to make and remake, there are four that I remember vividly, four that were part of my life the way no one outside my family was. Three of them were Navy brats like me, our lives were pretty much the same. As I've gotten older (because of college and work mostly), my friends have tended to be more and more like me, a larger percentage of my friends are Black or at least minorities, and as whole they are much better educated. I guess it speaks to the innocence of childhood that he and I could be best friends, even though our worlds were so separate.
A man who murders, particularly in the manner in which he did, is a monster to the outside world, and I can't dispute that. But he wasn't always one. He was a good kid while I knew him. At school we were inseparable, we were always on the same team in kickball, always partners on field trips, always sat together at lunch. We lived too far away to hang out much outside of school but we talked on the phone nearly every night. Usually to play MASH or talk about which girls looked good and which ones were ugly, but also about what we thought middle school would be like and which lunches tasted the nastiest in the classroom. All dumb kid stuff at the time, but I felt so adult because my mom let me talk on the phone for hours.
And he was always there for me. I didn't get made fun of for "talking white," or not cursing a lot, at least not nearly as much as I might have. But I was still a Black nerd at a bad school, and there were more than a few occasions where he protected me, fought for me. I remember one time, I'd gotten into a fight the previous day with some kid over being a doorholder at the end of the day. When my friend found out, the next day he bloodied the kids lip in the auditorium during an assembly. At the same time though, he followed me too. We met because I had to tutor him in science at the beginning of the year and pretty soon he was actually interested in school- getting all A's and B's on every report card for almost the entire school year. My mother told me, years later, about how our teacher would let our youthful shenanigans slide a bit because of the "positive effect" we had on each other. When we moved away it was my first experience ever missing someone.
As I got older, after his phone got disconnected and we lost contact, I started to realize just how perilous his situation really was. But I always held out hope. Yeah, the statistics say this and that. But it was going to end differently for him, I just knew it. I knew that he would get out of Passyunk, maybe out of Philadelphia, and expand his world in ways that wouldn't be imaginable to most young men in his situation. I just knew that he would get a good job, maybe even get a chance to go to college, break the cycle of poverty, start a newer one, a better one. Deep down, and it's entirely my selfishness and foolishness talking, I knew that he would be a better person and have a better life simply from knowing me.
I shake my head now thinking about how foolish and egotistical I was. Thinking that his success would be a referendum on how good my friendship was, my 8 to 11 year old friendship. That somehow just because he became a vegetarian like me, and made the honor roll at some crappy elementary school and some crappy middle school that it actually meant something more than just two kids from different worlds being friends. That it could overcome every male example that was set for him and the environment he lived in his entire life. You can't save someone from what they're going to become, I suppose, especially when you're just a long forgotten ghost from the past. But damn if I didn't wish it could be that way.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Melange
Except for Valentine's day dinner (at the exquisite Christo's Steakhouse) I haven't eaten any red meat or chicken for two weeks. It hasn't been as hard as I thought it'd be, mostly because I have the money to not worry as much about the cost of food. Throughout college, as I ate excessive quantities of Taco Bell, Jack in the Box, Rally's, and numerous other fast foods, I told myself that I would change my ways as soon as I got a job. I just didn't have the money to buy things like fruits and vegetables and groceries. After paying bills and putting gas in the car, I was lucky to have five dollars a day, let alone enough money to buy groceries at one time (looking back it was mostly laziness). And then I graduated, and got a job, and made a little money. Even still the transition came much more slowly than I thought it would though. There's just too much good fattening food in New York and I have to get to most of it before I move away. But then this recession hit, or rather I just got tired of spending the money. I still wild out a little bit on the weekends, but weekdays, at work, I try and bring in some leftovers. Just makes more sense, and like I said, it's usually not hard.
Tonight though, tonight it was hard not eating red meat or chicken. Not that I couldn't have gone out and gotten something, it's just that I didn't get hungry until it was late and the closest spots don't have fish. To get the amount of protein required for a strapping young gentleman such as myself, I've resorted to eating a lot of fish- tilapia mostly. It's cheap, goes well with just about any fish seasoning, and the store next to the train station keeps it heavily in stock. But I'd forgotten to leave it out to thaw and I hate how things taste after thawing in the microwave. Suppose I could have thawed it in a pot of water- but I didn't think about it. Instead, I decided to make
a melange, just throw a bunch of crap lying around and hope that it tastes good.
A quarter tub of rice:
I'd made some rice to take to work with me last night. Didn't really add anything, it was just some plain white rice. But that's how I like it- I want my rice to be bland and just a little al dente. Rice isn't meant to be the star of the show, merely a template, a sturdy foundation on which you can improvise. In a melange, the rice is like the drums or the offensive lineman, rarely the star but absolutely essential to the success of the team.
3...6....3 stalks of Asparagus (asparagi?):
It's funny, but we rarely buy vegetables that don't come in a can. As three immature bachelors living under one roof, we are not the most practical grocery buyers, although we've improved leaps and bounds from when we first started living together. Sometimes I wish I had a child just so it'd force me to start shopping smarter; it'd be a shame to put him or her through the trial and error process though. Anyway, I said all that to say this, for some strange reason on the day that I bought the asparagus my roommate just happened to buy some too. What are the odds of both of us buying a healthy green vegetable on the same day when we rarely even went to the produce section before? I orignally bought it because I thought it would go well with tilapia- I love the taste of fish with a hint of asparagus. I also like it the other way around- asparagus with a smattering of fish flavor. There were a few stalks left and they were making that far turn into the realm of the spoiled. So at first I chopped three stalks up and heated them in the microwave. The first dice went really well, chopped it like a cross between Malto Mario and Nino Brown, and heated it until it was both firm and tender. If there was some kind of national recognition for chopping and heating up almost bad asparagus stalks in the microwave, I'd probably do pretty well in it. I guess I got a little cocky after that because I didn't fare to well on the second one. Like an idiot, I forgot to put water into the bowl and when I microwaved it.... Just so you know burnt asparagus smells really bad. I didn't even know asparagus could burn. Anyway, in this melange food band, the asparagus is like the bass- understated and not as overpowering as the other ingredients, but it adds some much needed texture to the festivities.
1 can of Chicken of the Sea
Because I still need some protein. And it has Omega fatty acids. And about 36 days worth of sodium, but I'm starting to drink a lot of water so it's okay. Chicken of the Sea.... after years as living as a Black man and feeling like I had to love chicken because I was supposed to I reached a pretty startling conclusion. I could live the rest of my life without ever eating chicken again. It's just not that good. It doesn't have the flavor of beef or pork (not disgusting, slimy ass ham mind you, but pork of the chop and loin variety) and it's not as healthy as fish. Chicken is certainly versatile, I'll give you that. And versatility is definitely a virtue, but not enough of one for it to replace beef, pork, or fish. From now on, I'm calling chicken Fish of the Ground. As in most meals, the meat is the star here, providing the most prominent flavor and getting most of the credit if the meal is successful. It's just natural that the tuna is the lead singer here; although I'm not sure if he writes his own songs.
A couple slices of Muenster Cheese
My roommate got me hip to this. I'm pretty sure I've tried muenster cheese before, but it wasn't until I moved to New York and tried the ungodly turkey sandwiches at the corner deli next to the apartment that I truly knew how good it could truly be. It was more than a revelation, it was like Saul falling off the donkey, forever to be known as Paul. The true power of muenster cheese was revealed on a night me and my roommate came home drunk as hell; the turkey sandwich hit the spot and the tryptophan put us straight to sleep. But I woke up thinking about the cheese- just zest and flavor, every bite as refreshing as the last. It melded perfectly with the turkey, augmented it, damn near stole the show really. Besides my brother and my girlfriend, my roommate is my best friend- and if he wasn't already, he secured that spot with thse turkey and muenster sandwiches. The muenster is the final piece of this band; because it adds so much spice it's definitely the lead guitar; a little crazy, posesses the most flavor, great solo but much better as part of the ensemble.
And that was my meal, doesn't sound too appetizing, but it was actually pretty good. Arranged like I love life, a mixture of all kinds of disparate parts that somehow fit.
Tonight though, tonight it was hard not eating red meat or chicken. Not that I couldn't have gone out and gotten something, it's just that I didn't get hungry until it was late and the closest spots don't have fish. To get the amount of protein required for a strapping young gentleman such as myself, I've resorted to eating a lot of fish- tilapia mostly. It's cheap, goes well with just about any fish seasoning, and the store next to the train station keeps it heavily in stock. But I'd forgotten to leave it out to thaw and I hate how things taste after thawing in the microwave. Suppose I could have thawed it in a pot of water- but I didn't think about it. Instead, I decided to make
a melange, just throw a bunch of crap lying around and hope that it tastes good.
A quarter tub of rice:
I'd made some rice to take to work with me last night. Didn't really add anything, it was just some plain white rice. But that's how I like it- I want my rice to be bland and just a little al dente. Rice isn't meant to be the star of the show, merely a template, a sturdy foundation on which you can improvise. In a melange, the rice is like the drums or the offensive lineman, rarely the star but absolutely essential to the success of the team.
3...6....3 stalks of Asparagus (asparagi?):
It's funny, but we rarely buy vegetables that don't come in a can. As three immature bachelors living under one roof, we are not the most practical grocery buyers, although we've improved leaps and bounds from when we first started living together. Sometimes I wish I had a child just so it'd force me to start shopping smarter; it'd be a shame to put him or her through the trial and error process though. Anyway, I said all that to say this, for some strange reason on the day that I bought the asparagus my roommate just happened to buy some too. What are the odds of both of us buying a healthy green vegetable on the same day when we rarely even went to the produce section before? I orignally bought it because I thought it would go well with tilapia- I love the taste of fish with a hint of asparagus. I also like it the other way around- asparagus with a smattering of fish flavor. There were a few stalks left and they were making that far turn into the realm of the spoiled. So at first I chopped three stalks up and heated them in the microwave. The first dice went really well, chopped it like a cross between Malto Mario and Nino Brown, and heated it until it was both firm and tender. If there was some kind of national recognition for chopping and heating up almost bad asparagus stalks in the microwave, I'd probably do pretty well in it. I guess I got a little cocky after that because I didn't fare to well on the second one. Like an idiot, I forgot to put water into the bowl and when I microwaved it.... Just so you know burnt asparagus smells really bad. I didn't even know asparagus could burn. Anyway, in this melange food band, the asparagus is like the bass- understated and not as overpowering as the other ingredients, but it adds some much needed texture to the festivities.
1 can of Chicken of the Sea
Because I still need some protein. And it has Omega fatty acids. And about 36 days worth of sodium, but I'm starting to drink a lot of water so it's okay. Chicken of the Sea.... after years as living as a Black man and feeling like I had to love chicken because I was supposed to I reached a pretty startling conclusion. I could live the rest of my life without ever eating chicken again. It's just not that good. It doesn't have the flavor of beef or pork (not disgusting, slimy ass ham mind you, but pork of the chop and loin variety) and it's not as healthy as fish. Chicken is certainly versatile, I'll give you that. And versatility is definitely a virtue, but not enough of one for it to replace beef, pork, or fish. From now on, I'm calling chicken Fish of the Ground. As in most meals, the meat is the star here, providing the most prominent flavor and getting most of the credit if the meal is successful. It's just natural that the tuna is the lead singer here; although I'm not sure if he writes his own songs.
A couple slices of Muenster Cheese
My roommate got me hip to this. I'm pretty sure I've tried muenster cheese before, but it wasn't until I moved to New York and tried the ungodly turkey sandwiches at the corner deli next to the apartment that I truly knew how good it could truly be. It was more than a revelation, it was like Saul falling off the donkey, forever to be known as Paul. The true power of muenster cheese was revealed on a night me and my roommate came home drunk as hell; the turkey sandwich hit the spot and the tryptophan put us straight to sleep. But I woke up thinking about the cheese- just zest and flavor, every bite as refreshing as the last. It melded perfectly with the turkey, augmented it, damn near stole the show really. Besides my brother and my girlfriend, my roommate is my best friend- and if he wasn't already, he secured that spot with thse turkey and muenster sandwiches. The muenster is the final piece of this band; because it adds so much spice it's definitely the lead guitar; a little crazy, posesses the most flavor, great solo but much better as part of the ensemble.
And that was my meal, doesn't sound too appetizing, but it was actually pretty good. Arranged like I love life, a mixture of all kinds of disparate parts that somehow fit.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Style for Style's Sake
Tired at work this morning. I was up late last night discussing the merits of Cowboy Bebop with my roommates. People who know me well know that I absolutely love Cowboy Bebop- it's the only anime I watch. But, and I'm putting this as mildly as I possibly can, my roommates think that it blows, fully, hardly, and unconditionally. They think that it's corny, boring, superfluous, and ultimately, style for the sake of style alone. I tried to argue that it wasn't style alone that made the series compelling; that it had an enjoyable (although sparse) storyline, gritty minimalism, the interaction between the characters. And it's true that I enjoy all of those aspects- but I realized that it wasn't the right ground to be arguing in favor of the show; because ultimately I don't think it was what the creators were going for, and it's pretty tough to defend a show on grounds where it's not necessarily trying to step. But I have to admit that my primary reason for liking Cowboy Bebop was indeed it's style, and that I fell into the same bias that I'm about to argue against. Namely, that liking or enjoying something primarily or solely because of its style is lazy for an intellectual person; that it somehow needs defending. But that's not necessarily the case.
While it's okay to like something because of it's style, there's a stigma attached to loving something primarily because of it's style. In the world of criticism, I think, that stigma- and it's certainly not an unjustifiable one- comes from a kind of intellectually sophisticated cynicism. Accordingly, something that is too stylish, too slick, inherently lacks any meaningful substance. When applied to people it makes a lot of sense. Con-men, pimps, criminals, they all hide their true intentions behind a stylish sheen that implies that something else is there. But when it comes to entertainment? The primary value of entertainment of course is to entertain, and different combinations of style and substance can suffice, as long as it's done well. I don't think it truly matters where exactly the components of value come from, just as long as they're there.
Being me I just have to use a baseball analogy. In baseball, the worth of an individual player is comprised of his offensive and defensive value. Because offense is individualized, the vast majority of the average players value comes from offense, what they can do with the bat in their hands. To accumulate an equivalent value defensively is much harder, simply because there is so much randomness on the trajectory of a batted ball. So it's certainly harder to accumulate enough value on defense to offset offensive deficiencies, but it's not impossible. It's how someone like Ozzie Smith is in the Hall of Fame (and deservedly so), but it takes an awful lot of style to mitigate deficiencies in substance. I agree with the basic premise that most of the value in entertainment is in its substance, and that most forms of entertainment (at least) that I think are classic are heavy on substance, their ability to make me think long after they're over. But it doesn't have to be that way- I can enjoy a book primarily because of the way it is written and not for the story itself (Kenzo Kitakata's Ashes), I can enjoy a rapper primarily because of his rhyme schemes and not what he says in them (Papoose), and I can enjoy an anime primarily because of its aestetic pleasure (Cowboy Bebop).
And Cowboy Bebop has an awful lot of style to spare. It's not just the animation, although it was certainly ahead of its time. It was the breadth of music, the fight scenes, the endless popular culture homages (blaxploitation, sci-fi, and film noir being the best) that were, for the most part, tastefully and hilariously incorporated, a minimalistic grittiness that was; and an attitude that was a little Clint Eastwood circa "Fistful of Dollars," a little Bruce Lee from "Enter the Dragon," and a whole lot of the late 50's early 60's bebop coolness that the show gets its name from. Not to mention incredible efforts by the American dubbed voices. It's a style that combines so much of what I like, a style that I wish I had.
(more on this later)
While it's okay to like something because of it's style, there's a stigma attached to loving something primarily because of it's style. In the world of criticism, I think, that stigma- and it's certainly not an unjustifiable one- comes from a kind of intellectually sophisticated cynicism. Accordingly, something that is too stylish, too slick, inherently lacks any meaningful substance. When applied to people it makes a lot of sense. Con-men, pimps, criminals, they all hide their true intentions behind a stylish sheen that implies that something else is there. But when it comes to entertainment? The primary value of entertainment of course is to entertain, and different combinations of style and substance can suffice, as long as it's done well. I don't think it truly matters where exactly the components of value come from, just as long as they're there.
Being me I just have to use a baseball analogy. In baseball, the worth of an individual player is comprised of his offensive and defensive value. Because offense is individualized, the vast majority of the average players value comes from offense, what they can do with the bat in their hands. To accumulate an equivalent value defensively is much harder, simply because there is so much randomness on the trajectory of a batted ball. So it's certainly harder to accumulate enough value on defense to offset offensive deficiencies, but it's not impossible. It's how someone like Ozzie Smith is in the Hall of Fame (and deservedly so), but it takes an awful lot of style to mitigate deficiencies in substance. I agree with the basic premise that most of the value in entertainment is in its substance, and that most forms of entertainment (at least) that I think are classic are heavy on substance, their ability to make me think long after they're over. But it doesn't have to be that way- I can enjoy a book primarily because of the way it is written and not for the story itself (Kenzo Kitakata's Ashes), I can enjoy a rapper primarily because of his rhyme schemes and not what he says in them (Papoose), and I can enjoy an anime primarily because of its aestetic pleasure (Cowboy Bebop).
And Cowboy Bebop has an awful lot of style to spare. It's not just the animation, although it was certainly ahead of its time. It was the breadth of music, the fight scenes, the endless popular culture homages (blaxploitation, sci-fi, and film noir being the best) that were, for the most part, tastefully and hilariously incorporated, a minimalistic grittiness that was; and an attitude that was a little Clint Eastwood circa "Fistful of Dollars," a little Bruce Lee from "Enter the Dragon," and a whole lot of the late 50's early 60's bebop coolness that the show gets its name from. Not to mention incredible efforts by the American dubbed voices. It's a style that combines so much of what I like, a style that I wish I had.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Thoughts on A-Rod and Steroids
Imagine you're at work one day, sitting at your desk pouring over a spreadsheet with various cash flow models. You're tired, pulling long days with a hard-ass boss breathing down your neck. While at lunch a co-worker comes up to you tells you about this substance that some other guys at work have been taking. It helps them get through the long-hours with incredible ease, relaxes their eyes muscles so they don't develop strain staring at the computer screen, enhances concentration so all of your models are more accurate. That last round of promotions; all of the people on the list were using. The guy who got the biggest bonus? Him too. And further more nobody cares if you use; in fact, there's tacit approval from the people on high. Under those circumstances; where there is seemingly no downside but a tremendous upside, what do you do?
I just want to contrast Michael Phelps and Alex Rodriguez for a second. First, a few admissions. I think marijuana should be legalized; I don't think it's harmful to society, certainly not any more harmful than cigarettes or alcohol. And I also think that there should be testing for steroids in sports, and that players caught using steroids are subject to whatever penalties the organization comes up with. If there were tests and clear rules before 2004, then there wouldn't be a problem.
But there wasn't any testing regime in baseball before 2004. And marijuane still is illegal. You mean to tell me that it's okay for someone to use an illegal drug for recreation but it's not okay for someone to use an illegal drug to make them better at their job? What kind of sense does that make? Now, there are plenty of reporters out there who are going hard at both Michael Phelps and Alex Rodriguez- most of them are tired old blowhards who love to talk about how great the old days of baseball were (like the coked-out 80's or speed-junky 60's). But there are other people, people I'd categorize as more liberal in some respects, who are cool with Michael Phelps smoking weed at a party but are getting all self-righteous because Alex Rodriguez somehow ruined the sanctity of the sport. They want it both ways I suppose. Part of it is that most of the commentators have smoked weed before, know that it's not some nefarious substance that's undermining our national morals, and thus can sympathize with Michael Phelps. Most people who have commented on the subject have not taken steroids; I'm sure they see it as the rich getting richer in some respect. Shoot, I see it as the rich getting richer. But we're being more than a little disingenuous if absolve Michael Phelps completely while piling extra hard on Alex Rodriguez.
I think it's pretty safe to say that baseball (as well as track, football, and pretty much all athletics) had a steroid culture. It wasn't just a couple of rogue players; there were 104 players on that list, or a quarter of the people who qualified for the batting or ERA titles, 9% of the people on 40 man rosters. And those were just the people who tested positive on the test date. Certainly, the amount of people using steroids solely to recover from injuries was higher still. There was no actual testing until 2004; no specific rule against it's use in baseball. There were all the incentives in the world to use it and virtually none not to. Yeah, it's illegal- that doesn't stop people from smoking weed or snorting coke. And what were the chances of getting caught? If something has all kinds of benefits and few forseeable downsides.. well, I mean people smoke crack just to get high, what makes you think someone won't inject some stanazol to make more money?
I guess that most of the outrage stems from the fact that somehow the achievement of Alex Rodriguez has somehow been dampened. I can see that, we want to believe that athletic achievement is completely derived through hardwork and dedication. When people realize that many (most?) athletes use some kind of chemical enhancement it makes them cynical. But does anyone honestly believe that Alex Rodriguez is not a tremendous baseball player, one of the very best of his or anyones generation? Does anyone think that the only thing that made him a great player was using steroids? If the use of performance-enhancing drugs was as ubiquitous as I believe (and circumstantial evidence suggests) then I think that A-Rod's achievements relative to his peers is pretty much where the numbers suggest. Roided up pitchers vs. roided up hitters competing with roided up minor leagues for jobs. All with the tacit approval of ownership.
One final note. Gene Orza needs to fall on his sword as quickly as possible. How could the players union possibly let all of this come out? The tests should have been destroyed as soon as next years testing determination was made. Orza wanted to fight the subpoena that the Feds had for the BALCO players records (Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, etc.) which left the door open for all of the records being subpoenaed if the Feds so wished. And god-damn does our government leak like a broken faucet, sealed grand jury testimony, anonymous test results, it's all getting out there if it's connected to a high-profile baseball fan. Now if they'd only leak about important things- like say the oh-so-important "state secrets" in the Biyam Mohamed case, where the Obama adminstration is using Bush style tactics to dismiss an entire case connected to the torture and rendition of the previous administration. More on that later. The players union, after talking to their members, might want to preemptively release the other 103 names on the list instead of letting all of the star players get leaked first, followed by a bunch of no-names who will get even further lost in the crowd. Then maybe people will finally understand that it's not just the guys chasing records who are using, but the bench players too. I mean, if Neifi Perez; this NEIFI PEREZ, was on the juice, how helpful could it have been?
I just want to contrast Michael Phelps and Alex Rodriguez for a second. First, a few admissions. I think marijuana should be legalized; I don't think it's harmful to society, certainly not any more harmful than cigarettes or alcohol. And I also think that there should be testing for steroids in sports, and that players caught using steroids are subject to whatever penalties the organization comes up with. If there were tests and clear rules before 2004, then there wouldn't be a problem.
But there wasn't any testing regime in baseball before 2004. And marijuane still is illegal. You mean to tell me that it's okay for someone to use an illegal drug for recreation but it's not okay for someone to use an illegal drug to make them better at their job? What kind of sense does that make? Now, there are plenty of reporters out there who are going hard at both Michael Phelps and Alex Rodriguez- most of them are tired old blowhards who love to talk about how great the old days of baseball were (like the coked-out 80's or speed-junky 60's). But there are other people, people I'd categorize as more liberal in some respects, who are cool with Michael Phelps smoking weed at a party but are getting all self-righteous because Alex Rodriguez somehow ruined the sanctity of the sport. They want it both ways I suppose. Part of it is that most of the commentators have smoked weed before, know that it's not some nefarious substance that's undermining our national morals, and thus can sympathize with Michael Phelps. Most people who have commented on the subject have not taken steroids; I'm sure they see it as the rich getting richer in some respect. Shoot, I see it as the rich getting richer. But we're being more than a little disingenuous if absolve Michael Phelps completely while piling extra hard on Alex Rodriguez.
I think it's pretty safe to say that baseball (as well as track, football, and pretty much all athletics) had a steroid culture. It wasn't just a couple of rogue players; there were 104 players on that list, or a quarter of the people who qualified for the batting or ERA titles, 9% of the people on 40 man rosters. And those were just the people who tested positive on the test date. Certainly, the amount of people using steroids solely to recover from injuries was higher still. There was no actual testing until 2004; no specific rule against it's use in baseball. There were all the incentives in the world to use it and virtually none not to. Yeah, it's illegal- that doesn't stop people from smoking weed or snorting coke. And what were the chances of getting caught? If something has all kinds of benefits and few forseeable downsides.. well, I mean people smoke crack just to get high, what makes you think someone won't inject some stanazol to make more money?
I guess that most of the outrage stems from the fact that somehow the achievement of Alex Rodriguez has somehow been dampened. I can see that, we want to believe that athletic achievement is completely derived through hardwork and dedication. When people realize that many (most?) athletes use some kind of chemical enhancement it makes them cynical. But does anyone honestly believe that Alex Rodriguez is not a tremendous baseball player, one of the very best of his or anyones generation? Does anyone think that the only thing that made him a great player was using steroids? If the use of performance-enhancing drugs was as ubiquitous as I believe (and circumstantial evidence suggests) then I think that A-Rod's achievements relative to his peers is pretty much where the numbers suggest. Roided up pitchers vs. roided up hitters competing with roided up minor leagues for jobs. All with the tacit approval of ownership.
One final note. Gene Orza needs to fall on his sword as quickly as possible. How could the players union possibly let all of this come out? The tests should have been destroyed as soon as next years testing determination was made. Orza wanted to fight the subpoena that the Feds had for the BALCO players records (Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, etc.) which left the door open for all of the records being subpoenaed if the Feds so wished. And god-damn does our government leak like a broken faucet, sealed grand jury testimony, anonymous test results, it's all getting out there if it's connected to a high-profile baseball fan. Now if they'd only leak about important things- like say the oh-so-important "state secrets" in the Biyam Mohamed case, where the Obama adminstration is using Bush style tactics to dismiss an entire case connected to the torture and rendition of the previous administration. More on that later. The players union, after talking to their members, might want to preemptively release the other 103 names on the list instead of letting all of the star players get leaked first, followed by a bunch of no-names who will get even further lost in the crowd. Then maybe people will finally understand that it's not just the guys chasing records who are using, but the bench players too. I mean, if Neifi Perez; this NEIFI PEREZ, was on the juice, how helpful could it have been?
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Thing Done Well: A Literary Fan Bids Updike Adieu
When I was 13 years old my godmother/violin teacher bought me a book for my birthday; "The Greatest American Sportswriting of the Twentieth Century." She knew that I loved sports, particularly baseball, so I guess she must have thought that I would love reading about them just as much as I liked playing them. (Sports was always a contentious subject with my godmother, sports were manly and the violin, particularly when you're a pre-teen, seems kind of wimpy. She knew I'd eventually be pulled in that direction.)
I can't say that I wasn't a little disappointed. I mean, I was grateful that she had gotten me something for my birthday. But I was 13 years old, barely out of my Matthew Christopher phase. And although it makes me happy to know that my godmother thought I was intelligent enough to truly appreciate the artistic merit of America's best sportswriters, you don't instantly jump from "The Kid Who Only Hit Homers," to Dick Schaaps musings about his time in a hotel room with Tom Seaver and Muhammad Ali or feature length pieces in Esquire magazine about the legendary Dick Butkus. Not to say that "The Greatest American Sportswriting of the Twentieth Century," didn't eventually find it's rightful place in my life. It functioned wonderfully as a book I could use to bear down on when I did my homework on the floor of my room, or as a surprisingly heavy doorstop. Overtime, it got wrinkled and started to fall apart at the seams. Not from being read too much, but from being misused and neglected by a careless 13 year old who didn't have much use for what was inside.
But there's a very long distance between 13 and 14. It's partially because of the set-up of American schools.(to put it in perspective, when you're 13 you go to school with people who might still be playing with action figures. When you're 14 and went to a high school like I did, you're going to school with some people who are 20 and have families.) Between that, my propensity to pretend that I'm older than I am, and other more personal circumstances, I probably did enough growing up to actually take a second look at my godmother's gift. A lot of the book I still didn't get, and the topics, which ranged from baseball to NASCAR and horseracing, held my interest to varying degrees. But to even my young untrained mind, the writing was gorgeous. I laughed at the picture of Ted Williams as the Florida Keys curmudgeon painted so brilliantly by Richard Cramer in "What Do You Think of Ted Williams Now?"- the image of a lonely Joe DiMaggio sitting by the Bay, carrying so much weight in his heart haunted me. But my favorite piece took me on a little jaunt to Fenway Park, before it became baseball's yuppie Mecca, on a sunny September day, to watch the last game of a legend, Boston's bitter institution, Ted Williams. I don't know what it is about Ted Williams, maybe it's the contemptuous personality combined with the rugged Greatest Generation charm, but he brought out the best in the sportswriters who covered him. He wasn't immune from the venomous sportswriter cliches of the day of course, (ones that plague players like Alex Rodriguez to this day) and Updike manages to cast them aside as the intellectually shallow arguments that they are. All while turning a beautiful phrase about two college students sitting on the third base side of the diamond- just as effortlessly as a veteran middle infield turns a 6-4-3 double play. Yes, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu" might be pound for pound the best writing in the non-fiction sports genre.
The entire essay is dazzlingly understated, he comes as close as possible to recreating the feeling of a lazy, meaningless September game, interspersed with sharpest insights and the small fact that it's the last game of the "greatest hitter who ever lived." What I loved about Updike was his astonishing vocabulary that somehow never seemed out of place or presumptuous. It's like he knew that under normal circumstances (i.e. when you weren't reading something written by him) the reader would be hard pressed to figure out just what he meant- in the hands of a less gifted author bestowing the term of "dowagers" on grizzled old sportswriters would have seemed excessive. While reading Updike though, it felt just right.
There are several famous passages in his eassy, most of them have been quoted endlessly by understandably grateful sportswriters. There's his dismissal of the writers who tried to dismiss Williams achievements because of a handful of games at the end of the season, putting the idea into words better than us sabermetric folks put into numbers. "The correspondence columns of the Boston papers now and then suffer a sharp flurry of arithmetic on this score; indeed, for Williams to have distributed all his hits so they did nobody else any good would constitute a feat of placement unparalleled in the annals of selfishness."
And then there's perhaps the most famous passage- after Williams hits his climactic home run in what turns out to be the final at-bat of his career.
Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted "We want Ted" for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.
It's the fatalism in the last sentence that really gets me "Gods do not answer letters." It's certainly sad but not excessively so; it's tempered by a sentence a little bit before, about immortality not being transferable. I guess it's kind of unfortunate that we cannot choose who greatness is given to particuarly objective greatness, the kind that can be quantified, by points and runs and touchdowns. The men and women bestowed with these gifts are saints, sinners, and harlots alike. The best we can do is acknowledge it when it stares us in the face. No matter who they are, even when the leave us wanting as we plead.
But my favorite passage combines the arguments against the amorphous clutch of the first passage and the vague fatalism of the second. It's one that can be easily overlooked because it's argument against conventional wisdom is not entirely blatant, and it doesn't have a final hook that is instantly quotable. Instead it reads like this.
For me, Williams is the classic ballplayer of the game on a hot August weekday, before a small crowd, when the only thing at stake is the tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill.
That last phrase is especially beautiful, a hidden gem because of its simplicity, because of it's applicability. In most parts of our lives what can be deemed success or deemed failure are as interchangeable as the two sides of a nickel, and ultimately they're just as consequential as the flip of that coin. Most summers don't end in a championship or even in a pennant race, most of the things we do at work will have no effect on the world at large or even on anything, and the largest challenge we might have all day is trying to be nice to the person in the drive-thru who is slow filling our order. Is there any reason to give 100%, under those circumstances, when there is little difference between "a thing done well and a thing done ill?" It's easy to go through the motions, it's very difficult to perform your craft for it's own sake, when the weather is always hot, the crowds are always sparse, and the home team always seems to be down by 5.
I think it's particularly apt that Updike wrote this passage about baseball, and not the sport that had already started to supplant it as the American pasttime, football. Football as an institution is parallel to the life of a celebrity. Every game is played in front of a packed house, the short schedule requires total concentration and places enormous importance on every game. It's a game best represented by it's signature event, the Super Bowl, something so big that it attracts scores of people who couldn't tell you what teams were playing in the game. Contrast that with baseball, which as an institution is much closer to the life of your everyman. The season is as long as the Nile River coming up from Lake Victoria and snaking through the Sahara Desert known as June through September. Teams that are out of it by the middle of May slosh mercilessly through game after game against those who still have a shot- but every team has to cross that Sahara, sometimes just so they can come in last. It's a game best represented by that classic situation that Updike mentioned, that hot August game with nothing at stake, the stands have a good chance of being half empty, and even people who could tell you the on-base percentage of every player on the field probably aren't bothering to watch.
I'm not entirely sure about where it all connects- Updike's ideas on clutch and fate, and Gods not answering letters. But it all reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Wire. During the third season, a character by the name of Cutty who has just gotten out of prison after 15 years is trying to get on the straight and narrow by doing some honest landscaping work. The man he's working for has been out of prison for a while, and he describes to him what his life will be like- getting up early in the morning, standing in the hot sun, back hurting, for only a little pay. At the end of his speech he tells him- "You want to be on the straight, there ain't no big reward. This is it, right here," he says pointing at the ground next to the lawnmower. The "right here" he mentions, that's a person's knowledge of a thing done well, and, in no way am I being pessimistic, that's the only reward most of us are going to get. That tissue thin line between "well" and "ill" IS our reward for a career well spent or a life well-lived. When Updike spoke of the "vulgarity of the clutch player," I think he was getting at those who step over that line only when it suits them. Those that save their best for the lights and crowds are by definition slackers during the regular times that make up the bulk of any athletes career, of any humans life. Actually caring about the difference between the two sides of the line, even when very few people are looking- that's something very close to honor in my book. Not to say, of course, that those who perform in the lights don't deserve special recognition or that they are lacking in honor- but that does not mean that we should underrate those who perform admirably when the stakes are little lower too. With that being said- Well done Mr. Updike- it was honor reading you.
I can't say that I wasn't a little disappointed. I mean, I was grateful that she had gotten me something for my birthday. But I was 13 years old, barely out of my Matthew Christopher phase. And although it makes me happy to know that my godmother thought I was intelligent enough to truly appreciate the artistic merit of America's best sportswriters, you don't instantly jump from "The Kid Who Only Hit Homers," to Dick Schaaps musings about his time in a hotel room with Tom Seaver and Muhammad Ali or feature length pieces in Esquire magazine about the legendary Dick Butkus. Not to say that "The Greatest American Sportswriting of the Twentieth Century," didn't eventually find it's rightful place in my life. It functioned wonderfully as a book I could use to bear down on when I did my homework on the floor of my room, or as a surprisingly heavy doorstop. Overtime, it got wrinkled and started to fall apart at the seams. Not from being read too much, but from being misused and neglected by a careless 13 year old who didn't have much use for what was inside.
But there's a very long distance between 13 and 14. It's partially because of the set-up of American schools.(to put it in perspective, when you're 13 you go to school with people who might still be playing with action figures. When you're 14 and went to a high school like I did, you're going to school with some people who are 20 and have families.) Between that, my propensity to pretend that I'm older than I am, and other more personal circumstances, I probably did enough growing up to actually take a second look at my godmother's gift. A lot of the book I still didn't get, and the topics, which ranged from baseball to NASCAR and horseracing, held my interest to varying degrees. But to even my young untrained mind, the writing was gorgeous. I laughed at the picture of Ted Williams as the Florida Keys curmudgeon painted so brilliantly by Richard Cramer in "What Do You Think of Ted Williams Now?"- the image of a lonely Joe DiMaggio sitting by the Bay, carrying so much weight in his heart haunted me. But my favorite piece took me on a little jaunt to Fenway Park, before it became baseball's yuppie Mecca, on a sunny September day, to watch the last game of a legend, Boston's bitter institution, Ted Williams. I don't know what it is about Ted Williams, maybe it's the contemptuous personality combined with the rugged Greatest Generation charm, but he brought out the best in the sportswriters who covered him. He wasn't immune from the venomous sportswriter cliches of the day of course, (ones that plague players like Alex Rodriguez to this day) and Updike manages to cast them aside as the intellectually shallow arguments that they are. All while turning a beautiful phrase about two college students sitting on the third base side of the diamond- just as effortlessly as a veteran middle infield turns a 6-4-3 double play. Yes, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu" might be pound for pound the best writing in the non-fiction sports genre.
The entire essay is dazzlingly understated, he comes as close as possible to recreating the feeling of a lazy, meaningless September game, interspersed with sharpest insights and the small fact that it's the last game of the "greatest hitter who ever lived." What I loved about Updike was his astonishing vocabulary that somehow never seemed out of place or presumptuous. It's like he knew that under normal circumstances (i.e. when you weren't reading something written by him) the reader would be hard pressed to figure out just what he meant- in the hands of a less gifted author bestowing the term of "dowagers" on grizzled old sportswriters would have seemed excessive. While reading Updike though, it felt just right.
There are several famous passages in his eassy, most of them have been quoted endlessly by understandably grateful sportswriters. There's his dismissal of the writers who tried to dismiss Williams achievements because of a handful of games at the end of the season, putting the idea into words better than us sabermetric folks put into numbers. "The correspondence columns of the Boston papers now and then suffer a sharp flurry of arithmetic on this score; indeed, for Williams to have distributed all his hits so they did nobody else any good would constitute a feat of placement unparalleled in the annals of selfishness."
And then there's perhaps the most famous passage- after Williams hits his climactic home run in what turns out to be the final at-bat of his career.
Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs—hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted "We want Ted" for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he never had and did not now. Gods do not answer letters.
It's the fatalism in the last sentence that really gets me "Gods do not answer letters." It's certainly sad but not excessively so; it's tempered by a sentence a little bit before, about immortality not being transferable. I guess it's kind of unfortunate that we cannot choose who greatness is given to particuarly objective greatness, the kind that can be quantified, by points and runs and touchdowns. The men and women bestowed with these gifts are saints, sinners, and harlots alike. The best we can do is acknowledge it when it stares us in the face. No matter who they are, even when the leave us wanting as we plead.
But my favorite passage combines the arguments against the amorphous clutch of the first passage and the vague fatalism of the second. It's one that can be easily overlooked because it's argument against conventional wisdom is not entirely blatant, and it doesn't have a final hook that is instantly quotable. Instead it reads like this.
For me, Williams is the classic ballplayer of the game on a hot August weekday, before a small crowd, when the only thing at stake is the tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill.
That last phrase is especially beautiful, a hidden gem because of its simplicity, because of it's applicability. In most parts of our lives what can be deemed success or deemed failure are as interchangeable as the two sides of a nickel, and ultimately they're just as consequential as the flip of that coin. Most summers don't end in a championship or even in a pennant race, most of the things we do at work will have no effect on the world at large or even on anything, and the largest challenge we might have all day is trying to be nice to the person in the drive-thru who is slow filling our order. Is there any reason to give 100%, under those circumstances, when there is little difference between "a thing done well and a thing done ill?" It's easy to go through the motions, it's very difficult to perform your craft for it's own sake, when the weather is always hot, the crowds are always sparse, and the home team always seems to be down by 5.
I think it's particularly apt that Updike wrote this passage about baseball, and not the sport that had already started to supplant it as the American pasttime, football. Football as an institution is parallel to the life of a celebrity. Every game is played in front of a packed house, the short schedule requires total concentration and places enormous importance on every game. It's a game best represented by it's signature event, the Super Bowl, something so big that it attracts scores of people who couldn't tell you what teams were playing in the game. Contrast that with baseball, which as an institution is much closer to the life of your everyman. The season is as long as the Nile River coming up from Lake Victoria and snaking through the Sahara Desert known as June through September. Teams that are out of it by the middle of May slosh mercilessly through game after game against those who still have a shot- but every team has to cross that Sahara, sometimes just so they can come in last. It's a game best represented by that classic situation that Updike mentioned, that hot August game with nothing at stake, the stands have a good chance of being half empty, and even people who could tell you the on-base percentage of every player on the field probably aren't bothering to watch.
I'm not entirely sure about where it all connects- Updike's ideas on clutch and fate, and Gods not answering letters. But it all reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Wire. During the third season, a character by the name of Cutty who has just gotten out of prison after 15 years is trying to get on the straight and narrow by doing some honest landscaping work. The man he's working for has been out of prison for a while, and he describes to him what his life will be like- getting up early in the morning, standing in the hot sun, back hurting, for only a little pay. At the end of his speech he tells him- "You want to be on the straight, there ain't no big reward. This is it, right here," he says pointing at the ground next to the lawnmower. The "right here" he mentions, that's a person's knowledge of a thing done well, and, in no way am I being pessimistic, that's the only reward most of us are going to get. That tissue thin line between "well" and "ill" IS our reward for a career well spent or a life well-lived. When Updike spoke of the "vulgarity of the clutch player," I think he was getting at those who step over that line only when it suits them. Those that save their best for the lights and crowds are by definition slackers during the regular times that make up the bulk of any athletes career, of any humans life. Actually caring about the difference between the two sides of the line, even when very few people are looking- that's something very close to honor in my book. Not to say, of course, that those who perform in the lights don't deserve special recognition or that they are lacking in honor- but that does not mean that we should underrate those who perform admirably when the stakes are little lower too. With that being said- Well done Mr. Updike- it was honor reading you.
What's Up With the Senate Dems
This will be pretty quick cuz there really isn't too much explanation for this.
So after the stimulus bill passed the House with nary a single Republican vote, it looks like the bill will stall in the Senate. Not that the Democrats don't have the votes, they do. As it stands, all the Republicans will balk as will Ben Nelson from Nebraska and Kent Conrad from North Dakota, which means the vote would be 56-42 (Republican Judd Gregg would recuse himself during his consideration for Commerce Secretary). But the Dems do not have the 60 votes necessary to block a filibuster, they're backing off for now. Instead of making the Republicans actually filibuster though, they're just going to let them bluff the filibuster, like they always do. Wouldn't it be great politics if the Dems actually made the Republicans look foolish by having them stand on the floor, literally stand in the way of the stimulus bill passing while they read various lists and poems into the Congressional Record.
It would be different if the Republicans actually had good ideas about what the stimulus package should look like. But they don't, demonstrating the economic understanding of a fourth grader in the process. All Senate Republicans know how to say is tax cuts; they don't care about infrastructure spending, education spending, or healthcare spending, saying that it all will be too expensive. While I guess it's refreshing that Republicans have suddenly discovered their fiscal austerity, it's funny that it only happened after they added the executive branch to their stunning losing streak. Look at this chart put out by those radical Marxist at Moody's- which shows real GDP growth from various stimulating activities.
Pretty startling isn't it. From the looks of the chart, it seems like all forms of spending activities have a much larger effect on real GDP growth than all forms of tax cuts. Now, the spending activities should not be permanent, as we do need to get our deficit and long-term debt under control But instead of just giving people money that under the circumstances they'll just hoard, perhaps we could, I don't know, use this opportunity to create jobs by doing things we should have been doing a long time ago, as well as take advantage of the multiplier effect. Fixing roads and bridges, improving our electrical grid, improving public transportation, retro-fitting schools, making capital improvements to our hospitals. These are things that have been needed for a long time, only the people in power did not have the political will or the political philosophy to do it. Now, those in power have a mandate for it- don't let the Senate Republicans forget that. I know that Obama wants to be magnanimous and doesn't want the same divisiveness that was fostered during the Bush years (although it wasn't divisiveness so much as the Dems being completely spineless). There's a difference though between listening and allowing others to dictate. That's just what it seems like lately- a show of political power would certainly not be a bad thing right now.
PS- For your viewing pleasure. House Democrat and Chairman of the Financial Services Committe Barney Frank; Senate Republican, ranking member of the Finance Committee and all around dimbulb Jim DeMint; CEO of FedEx Fred Smith; and CEO of Google Eric Schmidt on "This Week."
Idiot Senator Jim DeMint (R-South Carolina) comes across as... well.. an idiot. I bet if I asked him what the answer to 10x10 was he'd say "tax cuts" with the same smug look on his face that he uses in this discussion. He's the ranking member on the Senate Finance committee and he doesn't know that a stimulus bill by definition is a spending bill. He also used the Heritage Foundation- THE HERITAGE FOUNDATION as a legitimate source of evidence. They sure do breed good ones down in SC.
Chairman Barney Frank is masterful as usual, running circles, squares, triangles, and pentagons around DeMint with his actual knowledge of economics and finance. I thought Fred Smith did very well also. I was a little less impressed with Eric Schmidt, I thought the CEO of company as ubiquitous and with as high a market cap as Google would be a bit more impressive- although he is an IT guy by trade (I actually like companies that are run by the operations people rather than the finance folks). But all three of them take turns running roughhouse all over DeMint. I just hope the 47% of people who voted for the Repubs this election cycle will realize how intellectually bankrupt the current iteration of the GOP is.
So after the stimulus bill passed the House with nary a single Republican vote, it looks like the bill will stall in the Senate. Not that the Democrats don't have the votes, they do. As it stands, all the Republicans will balk as will Ben Nelson from Nebraska and Kent Conrad from North Dakota, which means the vote would be 56-42 (Republican Judd Gregg would recuse himself during his consideration for Commerce Secretary). But the Dems do not have the 60 votes necessary to block a filibuster, they're backing off for now. Instead of making the Republicans actually filibuster though, they're just going to let them bluff the filibuster, like they always do. Wouldn't it be great politics if the Dems actually made the Republicans look foolish by having them stand on the floor, literally stand in the way of the stimulus bill passing while they read various lists and poems into the Congressional Record.
It would be different if the Republicans actually had good ideas about what the stimulus package should look like. But they don't, demonstrating the economic understanding of a fourth grader in the process. All Senate Republicans know how to say is tax cuts; they don't care about infrastructure spending, education spending, or healthcare spending, saying that it all will be too expensive. While I guess it's refreshing that Republicans have suddenly discovered their fiscal austerity, it's funny that it only happened after they added the executive branch to their stunning losing streak. Look at this chart put out by those radical Marxist at Moody's- which shows real GDP growth from various stimulating activities.
Pretty startling isn't it. From the looks of the chart, it seems like all forms of spending activities have a much larger effect on real GDP growth than all forms of tax cuts. Now, the spending activities should not be permanent, as we do need to get our deficit and long-term debt under control But instead of just giving people money that under the circumstances they'll just hoard, perhaps we could, I don't know, use this opportunity to create jobs by doing things we should have been doing a long time ago, as well as take advantage of the multiplier effect. Fixing roads and bridges, improving our electrical grid, improving public transportation, retro-fitting schools, making capital improvements to our hospitals. These are things that have been needed for a long time, only the people in power did not have the political will or the political philosophy to do it. Now, those in power have a mandate for it- don't let the Senate Republicans forget that. I know that Obama wants to be magnanimous and doesn't want the same divisiveness that was fostered during the Bush years (although it wasn't divisiveness so much as the Dems being completely spineless). There's a difference though between listening and allowing others to dictate. That's just what it seems like lately- a show of political power would certainly not be a bad thing right now.
PS- For your viewing pleasure. House Democrat and Chairman of the Financial Services Committe Barney Frank; Senate Republican, ranking member of the Finance Committee and all around dimbulb Jim DeMint; CEO of FedEx Fred Smith; and CEO of Google Eric Schmidt on "This Week."
Idiot Senator Jim DeMint (R-South Carolina) comes across as... well.. an idiot. I bet if I asked him what the answer to 10x10 was he'd say "tax cuts" with the same smug look on his face that he uses in this discussion. He's the ranking member on the Senate Finance committee and he doesn't know that a stimulus bill by definition is a spending bill. He also used the Heritage Foundation- THE HERITAGE FOUNDATION as a legitimate source of evidence. They sure do breed good ones down in SC.
Chairman Barney Frank is masterful as usual, running circles, squares, triangles, and pentagons around DeMint with his actual knowledge of economics and finance. I thought Fred Smith did very well also. I was a little less impressed with Eric Schmidt, I thought the CEO of company as ubiquitous and with as high a market cap as Google would be a bit more impressive- although he is an IT guy by trade (I actually like companies that are run by the operations people rather than the finance folks). But all three of them take turns running roughhouse all over DeMint. I just hope the 47% of people who voted for the Repubs this election cycle will realize how intellectually bankrupt the current iteration of the GOP is.
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