Saturday Morning Sigh

Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and you taste so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you, darling
And still be on my feet
And still be on my feet

Posted by Portia

Race to the Bottom

Hello America. Senator John McCain* here.

Citizens, it's come to my attention that the dang-blasted foolhardy traitorous bias of the eastern liberal media has decided that my ability to raise campaign funds to steer the country into a new dimension has been hampered by the appearance of that plain-speaking down home good ol' boy, Fred Thompson. What's wrong with you? Don't y'all remember what happen the last time you elected an actor? Oh, you do? Well, just don't hold the fish on that line longer than it takes for the worm to wriggle out, if you know what I mean.

You've probably guessed that I can talk just like folks, better'n Fred, too, and do it with a mouthful of marbles. Here's the plain truth: Fred hasn't yet decided to run for President. Golly, he might decide to run for dogcatcher, or even Justice of the Peace. Heck, Fred might even be able to marry your daughter on Tuesday nights...after five! In an Elvis costume!

Do you really want to give your money to a man who wears an Elvis costume to your daughter's wedding? 'course not.

Now you just pay no attention to all that heehaw jabbering in them danged eastern newspapers. All I can say is that this here John Deere's not about to break down in the final rows of harvest. No sir-ree. I'll betcha that. So them Harvard Yard diddlin' wordsmiths come out with yet another story that says this cowboy is a-droppin' outta the race....well, I'll tell you true: They're just plain smoking wacky weed.

Sure, I got some sores from the Supreme Court knocking the guts out the election reforms me and my 'pard Feingold pushed through Congress like a herd of longhorns across the Red River. And yep, my stance on that dang-blabbed Immigration Reform Bill isn't going to win me any friends down in the holler. But, neighbors, I was absolutely forced to vote with Obama and Hillary to allow illegal immigration to continue unabated, otherwise them good peoples in Fargo wouldn't be able to order a "cervaza frio" just like we do down here in Tucson and Washington, D.C., without being misunderstood. That's what I call progress for America.

Others might say that I'm out of touch with America. Goldangy, no, neighbors.

America is out of touch with me.

Out of touch with me.

An' you can bet the farm on it.


*John McCain is a true hero worthy of our respect and admiration for his service to this nation and for his courage under the harshest of conditions as a prisoner of war. I do not mean, in any way, to diminish the Senator's contributions to the United States of America through this careless bit of snark commentary. While Mr. McCain has plainly met his duty, ten times over, it reamins that he and I have parted company on many a burning issue. I make no apology that I do not find him to be a viable candidate for the office of Chief Executive, and I expect that he would think far less of me should I do so. Fortunately, for Senator McCain, the number of people that read this site is approximately the same as the number of Supreme Court Justices that voted to quash McCain- Feingold's bill's ban of "issue ads."

Irrepective of our political differences, and they are vast, should I ever have the opportunity to meet the man in person I shall immediately snap to attention and crisply salute him. He is ours.

Go Navy.

Pants On Head

You have no doubt heard by now of the suit brought by an Administrative Law Judge in Washington, D.C., to recover $54 million dollars from a Korean dry cleaner for losing the judge's pants.

Not surprisingly, the ALJ who brought this outrage into court has lost the case, and is, thus far, liable for court costs. A motion for attoneys fees running in the many thosusands of dollars has been made by the small businessman, and will be entertained by the court at a future date.

In the meantime, I thought it important that I put to rest any lingering doubts as to whether the fellow who so fouled the system of justice, the court, and his neighbor, is anything other than an abusive bully unworthy of being a lawyer, much less a judge. He isn't.

He has brought such disrpute unpon his office that the D.C. Office of Administrative hearings has taken him off of cases since May, and removed his biography from its website.

Not enough. This person has shown himself to be so vindicative and irrational that he should be barred from practicing the law. He set out to ruin another human being, putting forth such outlandish theories as to bring into serious question, not only his character and fitness to practice the law, but also his sanity. He has made a mockery of himself and my profession. He must go.

Color me pissed.

"With All Due R-E-S-P-E-C-T"

I know that I'm late to this story, but I've been busy trying to save my giggles for the world's other biggest joke. Nevertheless, it's worthwhile to briefly touch on the subject of humor in the courtroom.

Don't. Go. There.

Saying a bankruptcy judge was "a few french fries short of a Happy Meal" may cost an out-of-state lawyer the ability to practice in U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of Florida.
The comment already has cost Chicago-based McDermott Will & Emery partner William P. Smith his client -- Miami Beach's Mount Sinai Medical Center & Miami Heart Institute.

When I first heard the story, it seemed absurd. The idea that a federal judge should go completely ballistic over such a commonly uttered idiom seemed a bit childish. I simply can't imagine that a seasoned attorney, such as counselor Smith, actually meant to infer that Judge Isicoff was dumb. It was merely a slip of the tongue. Hadn't the judge herself ever said something she immediately wished she hadn't? Why didn't she just hold up her hand and say "Excuse me?" and allow the poor bastard to apologize profusely and beg the Court's forgiveness? Why publicly humiliate the guy and his firm? Why cause such a fuss over such a minor gaffe? It just didn't make sense.

Now it does. Judge Isicoff was evidently sick and tired of big city lawyers coming down to Miami (which is just a sleeply little town on the coast of Cuba) and dissin' her district like a banana republic.

"People come to the Miami and Fort Lauderdale courts, and they think that it's a second-class court system when they come from New York or Chicago or places like that," said Charles M. Tatelbaum, national chairman of the bankruptcy litigation and secured transaction practice at Adorno & Yoss in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. "I am pleased because it would have been a lot easier for her to simply ignore it and do nothing, and this is the kind of person she is because she is going to say, 'I am not going to stand for that.'"

Tatelbaum said the bankruptcy bar backed Isicoff's appointment to the bench and described her as a "no-nonsense person" and a "super lawyer" with a "very good sense of humor."

Prominent bankruptcy attorney Paul S. Singerman, co-chief executive officer of Berger Singerman in Miami, said Isicoff is an "even-tempered, polite and patient" judge.

"Sometimes I observe lawyers that come from larger cities than Miami and who perceive that their home city is a more sophisticated commercial center do bring with them, sometimes unintentionally, an air of superiority or arrogance," Singerman said.

Put aside for the moment that whatever the above-quoted attorneys actually think of Judge Isicoff, they wouldn't be caught dead saying anything other than that she's the best danged judge on the planet and has a funny bone that just won't quit. They'd be a few fries short of a happy meal to say otherwise, donchathink?

No, the real story here is about turf. It's my courtroom, in my district, in my state, and no fancy-pants Yankee lawyer's going to come down here and disrespect it. That warning has now been served - in spades.

Let me tell you, Judge Isicoff isn't alone in her stance. I witnessed a very senior trial attorney from a large New York firm get his head handed to him by a 4th Circuit Federal District Court judge (who, of course, is the greatest judge on the planet and has a terrific sense of humor!). The poor fellow thought that His Honor would be interested in knowing how the courts in the 2nd Circuit handled certain matters. In a voice that froze the hearts of all in attendance, the kindly jurist informed the attorney that he didn't give a "darn" about how they did it up north, that isn't the way they did it in Virginia. He then invited the fellow to sit down, which he did, and from whom not a word was heard again during the course of the trial.

Which reminds me of a story...

Back in 1992, two attorneys were were engaged in a vehement argument over a motion in the courtroom of Providence, R.I., Superior Court Judge Patricia Hurst. Finally she had enough and threatened to shoot both of the attorneys...with a water pistol.

"I told them I have a good way of dealing with prolonged motions," Judge Hurst later said.
Not everyone agreed, however, and Judge Hurst received a one month suspension for brandishing her water weapon in court.

Said the Judge after she had surrendered the weapon to her attorney, "I'm probably guilty of having a bad sense of humor."

Don't. Go. There.

Full woman, fleshly apple

Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon,
thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light,
what obscure brilliance opens between your columns?
What ancient night does a man touch with his senses?

Loving is a journey with water and with stars,
with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour:
loving is a clash of lightning-bolts
and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.

Kiss by kiss I move across your small infinity,
your borders, your rivers, your tiny villages,
and the genital fire transformed into delight

runs through the narrow pathways of the blood
until it plunges down, like a dark carnation,
until it is and is no more than a flash in the night.

SONNET XII
by Pablo Neruda

(Posted by Portia)

Early Exit

Freckles the Ferret.

Happy Birthday Dad

Thanks for the wrench.

Memorial Day

A while back a friend of mine sent me a book by Peter Collier: "Medal of Honor: Portraits of Valor Beyond the Call of Duty"
The book is prominently displayed in my office, and I frequently pull it down and let the pages open to wherever and read. These are the stories of heroes. Of men who gave it all and then gave some more. They are our fathers and sons and brothers and mates. They came to serve their nation as youngsters from cornfields and mesas and city streets, and in Tibor Rubin's case, from the maws of a Nazi death camp. They became heroes risking their lives for their comrades, and for each of us. Each story stands as reminder of what it means to believe in something beyond yourself.

Mr Collier writes in today's Wall Street Journal of "American Honor" and why it should matter still in a nation obsessed with celebrities and self.

Once we knew who and what to honor on Memorial Day: Those who had given all their tomorrows, as was said of the men who stormed the beaches of Normandy, for our todays. But in a world saturated with selfhood, where every death is by definition a death in vain, the notion of sacrifice today provokes puzzlement more often than admiration. We support the troops, of course, but we also believe that war, being hell, can easily touch them with an evil no cause for engagement can wash away. And in any case we are more comfortable supporting them as victims than as warriors.

Former football star Pat Tillman and Marine Cpl. Jason Dunham were killed on the same day: April 22, 2004. But as details of his death fitfully emerged from Afghanistan, Tillman has become a metaphor for the current conflict -- a victim of fratricide, disillusionment, coverup and possibly conspiracy. By comparison, Dunham, who saved several of his comrades in Iraq by falling on an insurgent's grenade, is the unknown soldier. The New York Times, which featured Abu Ghraib on its front page for 32 consecutive days, put the story of Dunham's Medal of Honor on the third page of section B.

Do not let these good men pass from view unheralded. Read their stories and tell them to your children. Honor them and thank them. Every one of them. And every one who served with them.

They are what our best is. American idols.

A Good Day

Let's face it. Some days are just better than others. Your team drops one to its arch rival. You suddenly remember something that you should have done yesterday. You finally find a use for all that old Viagra, but it’s not the one you were hoping for.

Yep, some days don't seem worth the effort it takes to get out of bed. But then once in a while something good happens and suddenly your day just got a whole lot better.
For example, you stumble across the the fact that, not only did Louis Armstrong cover the 1959 smash hit "Marina" by Rocco Granata, the Italian/Belgian "maintenance artist and hit singer" but that there's also a 1989 Acid/Reggae remix!
Presto! Life is good again.*

Which brings me to the point of all this. A few weeks back I bumped into a gentleman at a charity wine auction. This fellow told me about a remarkable restaurant that is designed especially with the disabled in mind. In fact, he told me that the restaurant not only caters to the disabled (along with the abled), it hires and trains both the physically and mental challenged for jobs in the food service industry. Chef's from all over Central Virginia, from small bistros to five star restaurants, come to the 70-seat place to volunteer their time. It's a win-win-win situation with really good food to boot.

Happy face breaking out. And there's more...

The name of the restaurant is " a place that you'll have to hit the link for because I'm supposedly trying to remain anonymous." The proprietor has muscular dystrophy. The man I spoke with is the proprietor's father. He started the restaurant so that his son could both be employed and feel productive in a society that, well...offers fewer opportunities to those less abled. As anyone who's ever worked in a commercial kitchen knows, this is no handout, this is about getting people to work. It's like teaching your brother to fish for himself, but for black marlin.

I checked the place out late one afternoon, well after the lunch crowd had gone, and before the volunteer belly-dancers came in for "Tummy Tuesdays" (another topic fotr another time). There was a white board set up and the trainees were going through exercises about which kinds of foods went with each type of order. And by God, didn't it have the same feeling as those business training sessions we've all had to endure, with all the participants cheering their approval when the contestant got the orders right. Accomplishment means so much more when you're with your peers.

It was good. It felt right. I plunked the sponsorship funds down, thrilled at the prospect and warmed by the vibes. And I had a good day thereafter.

Here's to all of us, and to those who make all of us better.

*(So it's not so good as having a 24 year-old Grace Kelly deliver it to my door, in pajamas, in the rain, alone, I'll still get by.)

Princess Priceless

You'll always stand out from the crowd, Cass.

Happy Birthday from your pals here at Heigh-ho

Yo! He's the Dopest!

There are few times where words escape me.

This is one of them.

LAKE LUZERNE, N.Y. (AP) -- A teenager who put bullets in a vise and whacked them with a hammer to empty the brass shell casings was wounded in the abdomen by approximately the 100th bullet he hit, according to Warren County deputies.

Damion M. Mosher, 18, had been discharging .223-caliber rounds, placing them in a steel vise, putting a screwdriver on the primer, and striking the screwdriver with the hammer, deputies said.

Deputies were called to his home in Lake Luzerne shortly after 5 p.m. Saturday when one bullet went about a half-inch into his abdomen. He was treated at Glens Falls Hospital and was released. No charges were filed.

Mosher told authorities he was trying to empty the rounds to collect the brass casings for scrap. (That damned Bush took away his allowance! Ed.)

Sheriff Larry Cleveland said about 100 other rounds that Mosher hit had ''fizzled,'' but one was somehow sent with more force. It was unclear if the bullet ricocheted or hit him directly.

An employee of Capitol Scrap Co. in Albany said Monday the business pays $1.70 a pound for scrap brass shell casings.

Cleveland said Mosher's shells amounted to just a few pounds.

Of course, I blame the teachers.

Go Forth Hokies, And Do Good Things

Miracles sometimes happen, but more often they’re made of faith and will and hope and imagination, to say nothing of sweat.

Congratulations, my beautiful daughter, on your Commencement from Virginia Polytechnic University.

You'll make a fine attorney one day.

The Experts Speak

Oh, for Pete's sake. Are these people actually living in the real world EVER?

''More and more, people are realizing that there are serious environmental and serious food security issues involved in biofuels,'' Greenpeace biofuels expert Jan van Aken said. ''There is more to the environment than climate change,'' he said. ''Climate change is the most pressing issue, but you cannot fight climate change by large deforestation in Indonesia.''

Who DID NOT see this coming? Raise your hands. Okay. You two! (points) You are now both "Greenpeace biofuels experts."

Anybody, ANYBODY, who has paid the slightest bit of attention for, say THE LAST THREE YEARS, would have known that shoving biofuels down the throats of the world was just shifting the problem from Gorebal Worming to famine and deforestation. For God's sake people read the damned Wall Street Journal for once! Self interest is the best predictor of future markets. Perhaps if there were a few more ECONOMISTS in your little play pen you might have a clue. Oh, that's right, you don't like what those kinds of people have to say.

What's next on your "we've got to do something" list, Mr. Expert? Soylent Green?

Boneheads.

Here Comes the Queen

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II is coming to pay me a visit on Thursday. Well, not actually me, in particular. Her Royal Highness is coming to Virginia to visit her former subjects. Well, not her former subjects exactly. The Queen is coming to visit the great-great-great, etc. grandchildren of the former subjects of King George III. George was not very nice man, but he did leave his country's Common Law for us to follow. And here in Virginia, we still do.

Anyway, Q.E. II is coming to the Capital of the Commonwealth to help us celebrate the 400th aniversary of the founding of Jamestown, a wretched little settlement down the James River aways. I suppose that I should be pleased that the Queen has decided to peek in and see how we're doing after a couple of hundred years on our own. She seems like a nice enough old gal. She's always been a good friend to America, and she keeps those wily Canadians in line. So, sure, we are delighted to have her stop by for tea.

Unfortunately, the world's biggest zoo is coming to town along with her.

I just got the list of streets and buildings in the vicinity that will be closed for her visit. Twenty of the buildings are within a block or two of my office. The streets that are closed surround me. If I get in at all, I won't leaving and time soon. They are expecting 18,000 people to congregate on the Capitol grounds. This means that the other 50,000 or so folks who have nothing better to do but gape at an elderly woman in a bad hat are going to be standing between me and my sandwich shop. Look, I know that she's the Queen of England and all, but sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph, it ain't like she's the Pope or anything. People need to get a life, and I need to be able to get a sandwich.

I suppose that I'll just have to muddle through it all somehow. Especially considering that I lost my chance to gawk at her myself.


By the way, that's Andy Warhol's portrait of the Queen. I've always liked it. But now it's also a cool refrigerator magnet!

I wonder if she's got one at home?

We Are All Hokies

We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness ... We are the Hokies ...

-- Nikki Giovanni, Virgina Tech University Distinguished Professor and poet

In Remembrance:

• Ross Abdallah Alameddine
• Christopher James Bishop
• Brian Roy Bluhm
• Ryan Christopher Clark
• Austin Michelle Cloyd
• Jocelyne Couture-Nowak
• Kevin P. Granata
• Matthew Gregory Gwaltney
• Caitlin Millar Hammaren
• Jeremy Michael Herbstritt
• Emily Jane Hilscher
• Jarrett Lee Lane
• Matthew Joseph La Porte
• Henry J. Lee
• Liviu Librescu
• Partahi Mamora Halomoan Lumbantoruan
• Lauren Ashley McCain
• Daniel Patrick O'Neil
• J. Ortiz-Ortiz
• Minal Hiralal Panchal
• Daniel Alejandro Perez
• Erin Nicole Peterson
• Michael Steven Pohle, Jr.
• Julia Kathleen Pryde
• Mary Karen Read
• Reema Joseph Samaha
• Waleed Mohamed Shaalan
• Leslie Geraldine Sherman
• Maxine Shelly Turner
• Nicole White

Tremors

Yesterday seems too far away to comprehend today.

Yesterday, I stood with friends and family to speak to God for Aiden Patrick, all of nine months old, round-headed and cherub-cheeked, and to claim for him the promise of everlasting life.

There were six or seven other babies there to receive the holy ointments and water and prayers that signify baptism into the ways of Mother Church, and all of them were “dressed like girls” to the consternation of ten-year-old #2 son. Aiden, and Maizy, and Shamus, and the rest of the new flock cried and wriggled in their sparkling white taffeta and lace as the aging Priest lead the assembled through the ancient rite. All the while their siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles squirmed likewise. As I watched the babes brought to the font I remembered my own sister’s baptism, 47 years ago, and recalled how the whole thing was too long to expect a four year-old to behave himself, and it's still WAY too dull to expect much attention from any fourteen year-old these days – or any days prior.

But the priest was patient to the cacophony and ennui, and reminded each of those assembled of the incredible significance of the instant moment. We speak for this child, he said, who cannot yet speak, in order to claim his or her soul for God And by so speaking, he reminded us, that we professed our own responsibility to ensure that the little brat never wanders too far off the path. This is pretty heady stuff to swear to before God.

With unflagging hope, however, we all agreed to such conditions. And so the sacred questions were proposed – the same as those asked a thousand million times before – and once more, those that could speak answered for the eternal lives of those who could not :

“Do you renounce Satan?”
“I do.”
“And all of his works?”
“I do.”

***

Today, at Virginia Polytechnic Institute , the university to which I entrusted daughter #3’s future, a human being, without cause or reason, cut short the lives of at least 32 other human beings - the children of other parents - and permanently damaged the lives of uncounted numbers of their classmates. I will mourn this day forever.

There is nothing quite so profound as the shock that follows a news report hinting that your child might be missing, forever, and for nothing. There is no measure of fear, pain, or guilt that can grip you, even for mere moments, until you are SURE that she breathes yet, and that she hears your prayers for her safety. The incredible relief that knowledge instantly provides is then immediately smashed by the thought that other parents, and even your own kid, might still await bad news, or worse news, or no news, but no further good news. For a kid about to graduate to law school, it's a shattering end to innocence.

I thought, like so may of us, that the most unspeakable Evil in our lifetimes unveiled itself at 9/11. Not that unspeakable “evil” did not exist beforehand, but only that following that horror a permissive society might yet be able to gauge how “evil” Evil could be. We even gave that evil a name – al Qeda. That name still stands as my definition of the unspeakable, and it’s one that that I will always despise.

But after today, there exists another, less-organized and more pointless, Evil that rattles my soul and spirit. Forget Osama, Hitler, Mao, Stalin, Pol Pot and the other assorted great despots that we all concur constitute the essence of Evil in our experience. Imagine, now, Evil as simply the unorganized destruction of good. Imagine a force that proposes limitless power to its adherents without ideology, answer, salvation, victory, or peace, and yet unlimited enemies to choose from. Imagine no reason for being Evil, other than being Evil as an end unto itself.

Just a few days ago, Don Imus was evil incarnate. You want to change your bet?

Tonight I will watch with my family and my the nation and my world the horror that was unleashed at Blacksburg, Virginia, this morning, and I will weep at the thought that those that should have stood with my daughter at her graduation this May will be forever silenced by unspeakable, incomprehensible, Evil.

And then I will recall the simple affirmation I spoke not 24 hours ago on behalf of my innocent nephew.

I renounce Satan.
And all of his works.

God bless you, Aiden, for your life in this world.
May you never know Evil.
May you ever vanquish it.

Amen.

Imus'nt in the Morning

I feel somehow obligated to post something about the Don Imus brouhaha before it becomes just another bone in the media graveyard. Not that I owe Imus anything other than a polite "What the hell were you thinking?" He no doubt would consider me a "dope" and a "lying weasel," two of his favorite epithets for his listeners and guests.

But, like many other New Yorkers, I spent a lot of time listening to Imus in the Morning (quack quack!) over many many years. For a brief time, he was even on the radio down here in Richmond (until he offended enough of we "chin-dribbling redneck crackers") to get replaced by someone less... controversial).

Still, I could sometime snatch a few minutes of the show on MSNBC between sips of coffee and scanning the WJS. He was part of the morning routine. His crankiness perfectly matched my own as I stood impatiently before the coffee pot waiting for the tawny nectar to at last save me from the cursed dawn. He skewered the high and mighty for us, and turned their sanctimony and self-righteousness back on them in the form of biting humor. Sometimes I cringed. Mostly I laughed.

Now he's off the air. A victim of his own stupidity and a 24 hour news cycle that consumes everything in its path. Some are making a case that the constitutional protections of free speech are being trampled, or that dropping Imus from the air is a form of censorship. I don't think so. This is how capitalism works. CBS and MSNBC are in the business to make money. Advertisers don't want their products associated with a program that is at the center of such an ugly incident. That would be dumb, and would take an awful lot of explaining to do to investors. Better to play it safe. That's business.

That is not to say that the Reverends Sharpton and Jackson have earned any points outside of their own well-established base for their blatant use of the situation to further their own agendas. No doubt Al and Jesse are disappointed that the situation didn't linger until they had successfully shaken down more advertisers and media outlets. There will be other chances for these two. They know that. But there are also a few million more former Imus listeners that are now hip to how the Race Game is played. No winners here.

The biggest losers here are the young women of Rutgers. That's what's so unforgivable, Imus. You can say what you want about public figures and politicians and any one else who would put himself in your way to hawk his new book. But you don't piss on a bunch of kids and ruin one of the best moments of their life. If one of them had been my daughter, I would have punched you right in the mouth.

That said, I don't believe it was your intention to cause a furor. That intention was supplied by the media and blogosphere. You were just grist for the mill. Once again, the media itself is always it own biggest story... until the next one comes along.

But, as one New Yorker told me: "My morning coffee will never taste the same again."

And neither, unfortunately, will mine.

Easter Sunday

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

Emily Dickinson

It Happens Every Spring

While cleaning thinking about cleaning out my closets this afternoon, I was listening to my favorite Sunday afternoon radio program, hosted by the erudite and mellifluous-voiced Jonathan Schwartz. Besides being passionate about music of all genres (he's a walking encyclopedia of every note ever sung by the Chairman of the Board), and the voice of the once avant garde WNEW-FM radio station legendary in our youth, he's a lifelong baseball fan! And yes, as the Gods of Payback would have it, he happens to be a die-hard Red Sox fan, and no, I don't hold that against him, either.

It was of little surprise then--given the 2007 Opening Day schedule and all--that he chose to devote most of today's program to all things baseball from play-by-plays of long ago to Bob Dylan's ode to "Catfish," to a German version of "Take Me Out to The Baseball Game"--Gute Himmel-- followed up with a hilarious bit by the inimitable Bob Newhart pretending to be Abner Doubleday pitching his "invention" to a game manufacturer. I went searching for the audio of "Nobody Will Ever Play Baseball" to post but only found a transcript. Anyone familiar with Newhart's splendid timing wiill surely appreciate that a cut and paste version of one of his skits could never ever capture his deliciously droll delivery. Give yourself a treat and buy the CD.

So, in honor of baseball, and its loyal and hopeful fans, I'm including instead a favorite passage of mine from "A Day of Light and Shadows," by the very same Jonathan Schwartz, a jewel of a book about the now classic--and fateful--1978 playoff game between the Red Sox and Yankees (Destiny 5, Red Sox 4), and a heartfelt love letter to the game itself.

One last thing I think you should know, or at least consider.
Baseball is a game without a clock, an event as short as fifty-one minutes, or as long as eight hours. Its moments of stillness are contemplative for all who are in it, around it. It is wonderfully divided into nine episodes, with either sixteen or seventeen intervals for gossip, the purchase of meat and beer, the jostle and rumble of strangers.

The schedule itself is novelistic, each season a grand Dickensian work, with sad little moments of Didion or Cheever tucked away in the flow of events. The game is influenced by three seasons of the calendar, whose roles we have come to recognize as intrinsic and implicative. The pages of its book are published daily, the facts of its matter packaged starkly alone in a box score as essentially American as a New Hampshire primary.

That I was attracted to something as lovely when I was seven or eight was no childhood epiphany. Baseball is obviously magical, a game played in the mind as much as on the field. It is an intimate puzzle, rolling around the brain, in class, on a plane, in the theater, and now again. while making love. It will never age and never cease. The team that represents you, your choice at an early age, will, guided by your honor, remain a lifelong partner. It is you, you are it, in emotional business together. There is no other way.
So, then.
No regret

Perfect. Let's play ball.
(Posted by Portia)

Best Pick-Up Line. Worst Lyrics. Ever.

i'd like to check you for ticks....



everytime you take a sip
in this smoky atmosphere
you press that bottle to your lips
and i wish i was your beer

and in the small there of your back
your jeans are playing peek a boo
id like to see the other half
of your butterfly tattoo

hey that gives me an idea
lets get out of this bar
and drive out into the country
and find a place to park


cause id like to see you out in the moonlight
id like to kiss you way back in the sticks
id like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
and id like to check you for ticks

i know the perfect little path
out in these woods i used to hunt
dont worry babe ive got your back
and ive also got your front
id hate to waste a night like this
ill keep you safe you wait and see
the only thing allowed to crawl all over you
when we get there is me

you know every guy in here tonight
would like to take you home
but ive got way more class than them
and that aint what i want

cause id like to see you out in the moonlight
id like to kiss you way back in the sticks
id like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
and id like to check you for ticks

oooh you never know where one might be
and oooh theres lots of places that are hard to reach

id like to see you out in the moonlight
id like to kiss you way back in the sticks
id like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
and id like to check you for ticks

oh id sure like to check you for ticks





I think you missed a spot...












(Lyrics by Brad Paisley)
(Post by Portia)