George Steinbrenner is dead. Long live the king: Seven World Series Championships, eleven American League pennants, and sixteen AL East winners. He never threw a pitch. He never swung a bat or caught a pop fly. He was the owner of a sports franchise that became iconic beyond anyone's expectations. He even became a character on "Seinfeld."
For a year or two, back in the late seventies, I became a Yankees fan. It was easy enough to do, since there was a major league baseball vacuum in Colorado at the time, and Yankee paraphernalia was being sold on virtually every street corner. A small group of friends and I purchased royal blue batting helmet with the classic NY logo on the front. We wore them to marching band practice, which may have mitigated our potential coolness factor. We had hitched our wagon to a winner, three World Series in a row. The Yankees didn't win that year, and I learned then to sneer at all things Steinbrenner. He had let me down.
When I moved to Oakland, I became aware almost instantly of Sir George's penchant for raiding other teams' lineups, specifically the Athletics, for his "championships at any cost" ethos. I watched him poach Jason Giambi away from the Bay Area after the 2001 season, much in the same way that he had nabbed Reggie Jackson years earlier. He snapped up Nick Swisher in 2007 just like he grabbed Catfish Hunter way back when. To paraphrase Robert Frost, "Nothing green and gold can stay."
He yelled and screamed and gave illegal campaign contributions to Richard Nixon's re-election campaign, but he was an icon in the world of sports. He defined, for better or for worse, hands-on-ownership. Now his sons, Hal and Hank, will have the run of the ship. Only time will tell if the boys can live up to the old man's expectations. "Winning is the most important thing in my life, after breathing," he used to say. Now that he's not breathing anymore, we'll have to wait and see.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Character Flaws
When you put a pair of pointy ears and arched eyebrows on just about anyone, they start to look like Lieutenant Saavik. Brunette and female helps, but computer graphics can do amazing things these days. I cite this particular character from the Star Trek logs to make this point: characters are bigger than actors, just ask Kirstie Alley. She was replaced by Robin Curtis for the third and fourth chapters of the film voyages of the starship Enterprise, after Kirstie's agent asked for more money than Bones was getting. She never did fully grasp the lessons of the Kobayashi Maru.
Such is the nature of episodic entertainment. We've had several Batmen, and even more Supermen. Those vampires in "Twilight" and the kids at Hogwarts don't know how lucky they are to have steady jobs. The Time Lords' ability to remake themselves over the years has been used to explain the eleven different faces of Doctor Who, but I don't remember Samantha Stevens wiggling her nose at her suddenly transformed husband in "Bewitched." Maybe the fact that she was also her cousin Serena caused her not to notice such chicanery.
Marvel Entertainment has decided to go another way with the Hulk. Well, to be fair, the Hulk will be his same old green computer generated self, but Doctor Bruce Banner will be portrayed by someone other than Edward Norton. Or Eric Bana. Or Bill Bixby. And since Bill was playing a guy named "David Banner," one guesses that his estate will probably be fine with this transition, though Lou Ferrigno may be a tad irate, and you wouldn't like him when he's a tad irate. That's showbiz, after all. Hollywood is more powerful than gamma rays or Kryptonite. And if you don't believe me, watch this.
Such is the nature of episodic entertainment. We've had several Batmen, and even more Supermen. Those vampires in "Twilight" and the kids at Hogwarts don't know how lucky they are to have steady jobs. The Time Lords' ability to remake themselves over the years has been used to explain the eleven different faces of Doctor Who, but I don't remember Samantha Stevens wiggling her nose at her suddenly transformed husband in "Bewitched." Maybe the fact that she was also her cousin Serena caused her not to notice such chicanery.
Marvel Entertainment has decided to go another way with the Hulk. Well, to be fair, the Hulk will be his same old green computer generated self, but Doctor Bruce Banner will be portrayed by someone other than Edward Norton. Or Eric Bana. Or Bill Bixby. And since Bill was playing a guy named "David Banner," one guesses that his estate will probably be fine with this transition, though Lou Ferrigno may be a tad irate, and you wouldn't like him when he's a tad irate. That's showbiz, after all. Hollywood is more powerful than gamma rays or Kryptonite. And if you don't believe me, watch this.
Monday, July 12, 2010
In My Life
Way back in high school and into college, I was very fond of the pop/rock band Cheap Trick, so much so that I even bought one of their imitation silk tour jackets. When they recorded a cover of the Beatles' "Day Tripper," I was happy to presume that this somehow elevated them among their peers and moved them one step closer to their inspirations on the Rock and Roll Pantheon. Having grown up in a household in which the Beatles were the alpha and the omega, it made my fanaticism for this little band from Rockford, Illinois more legitimate. When they went on to record an entire album, "All Shook Up," with the Fab Four's legendary producer, George Martin. They even went so far as to open the record with the same chord that played at the end of "A Day In The Life." I felt that I was happily attaching my wagon to the next big thing.
Little did I know at the time that the next big thing wasn't going to be Cheap Trick. Or Boston. Or AC/DC. The era that could support a cultural phenomenon like the Beatles was over. Even the solo albums from John, Paul, George and Ringo failed to whip the world into the frenzy that their recordings as a group once did. Very few artists cite one of their major musical influences as "Wings At The Speed Of Sound." Cheap Trick never attempted a note-for-note cover of any of the Plastic Ono Band albums, as they did with Sergeant Pepper. But I listened to them all, and waited for the next big thing.
Until I stopped. Saturday night, I went to AT&T Park and sat in the upper deck to watch one quarter of the Fab Four run through his career. The cute one played from a catalog that spanned nearly fifty years. I knew all but the most recent tunes by heart, but the ones that the crowd consumed most readily were those from the Lennon/McCartney songbook. These were the ones that people could sing and remember where they were when they first heard them. They could remember wearing out vinyl albums from repeated plays. They could remember having a favorite Beatle. For three hours on Saturday night, Paul was my favorite, and as he played, I watched from my lofty perch and tried to make him a real person. He was there in front of me, but the gigantic images of his grooviness projected on the video screens on either side of the stage kept pulling me back. That was the size of a Beatle: Oversized. Enormous. Super. In my mind, I could rationalize being in close physical proximity to this force, this phenomenon. But my gaze kept slipping back to those video screens. I could not fully reconcile my image of Sir Paul as a sixty-eight year old speck of a man standing in front of a bank of speakers bigger than my house. He was that kid strumming away at his Hofner Bass next to his mates from Liverpool at Candlestick Park, just down the highway from where I was sitting. The last time the Beatles played live.
Now I was here, and so was he, and Cheap Trick was nowhere to be seen. It was him and all those memories. I thought of my older brother, who once did the now impossibly generous favor of bequeathing me his "old" Beatles records, most of which were on the Apple label, so that he could buy himself newer, more pristine copies. I thought of the jukeboxes that we loaded up with our nickels and dimes to play "Hello, Goodbye" and "The Long And Winding Road." I thought of the hundreds of times we called KIMN to request "Yellow Submarine." I thought about how desperate I was to have that last dance at my ninth grade prom to "Let It Be." Now I had come back to the mountain. I looked and listen with a mixture of awe and familiarity. I sang along. At the top of my lungs. It made me laugh and cry. It made me keep looking back at that oversized video screen. It was just the right size for a Beatle.
Little did I know at the time that the next big thing wasn't going to be Cheap Trick. Or Boston. Or AC/DC. The era that could support a cultural phenomenon like the Beatles was over. Even the solo albums from John, Paul, George and Ringo failed to whip the world into the frenzy that their recordings as a group once did. Very few artists cite one of their major musical influences as "Wings At The Speed Of Sound." Cheap Trick never attempted a note-for-note cover of any of the Plastic Ono Band albums, as they did with Sergeant Pepper. But I listened to them all, and waited for the next big thing.
Until I stopped. Saturday night, I went to AT&T Park and sat in the upper deck to watch one quarter of the Fab Four run through his career. The cute one played from a catalog that spanned nearly fifty years. I knew all but the most recent tunes by heart, but the ones that the crowd consumed most readily were those from the Lennon/McCartney songbook. These were the ones that people could sing and remember where they were when they first heard them. They could remember wearing out vinyl albums from repeated plays. They could remember having a favorite Beatle. For three hours on Saturday night, Paul was my favorite, and as he played, I watched from my lofty perch and tried to make him a real person. He was there in front of me, but the gigantic images of his grooviness projected on the video screens on either side of the stage kept pulling me back. That was the size of a Beatle: Oversized. Enormous. Super. In my mind, I could rationalize being in close physical proximity to this force, this phenomenon. But my gaze kept slipping back to those video screens. I could not fully reconcile my image of Sir Paul as a sixty-eight year old speck of a man standing in front of a bank of speakers bigger than my house. He was that kid strumming away at his Hofner Bass next to his mates from Liverpool at Candlestick Park, just down the highway from where I was sitting. The last time the Beatles played live.
Now I was here, and so was he, and Cheap Trick was nowhere to be seen. It was him and all those memories. I thought of my older brother, who once did the now impossibly generous favor of bequeathing me his "old" Beatles records, most of which were on the Apple label, so that he could buy himself newer, more pristine copies. I thought of the jukeboxes that we loaded up with our nickels and dimes to play "Hello, Goodbye" and "The Long And Winding Road." I thought of the hundreds of times we called KIMN to request "Yellow Submarine." I thought about how desperate I was to have that last dance at my ninth grade prom to "Let It Be." Now I had come back to the mountain. I looked and listen with a mixture of awe and familiarity. I sang along. At the top of my lungs. It made me laugh and cry. It made me keep looking back at that oversized video screen. It was just the right size for a Beatle.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Monsters Of Rock
I did not have tickets to see Van Halen at Folsom Field in 1986. At that point in time, I had made a judgement call about what types of music I was going to listen to, and heavy metal was off that list. I was going "alternative" at that time. These lumbering beasts with their screaming guitars and drum solos were on their way to extinction. Or at least that's what I told myself. It was a curious reaction from somebody who had once sat in that same stadium to take in a bill that included the Scorpions, Rainbow, and Ted Nugent, headlined by REO Speedwagon. And yes I understand that one of those things is not like the others.
Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I was attempting to distance myself from all things metal. After all, it was my friend Darren who introduced me to the Scorpions and Rainbow. It was his idea to hike up the hill to the stadium for that ear-splitting day-long marathon of head-banging. Capped off by the moderate rock of the Speedwagon. Did I mention this was the day after our housewarming party? The one where we all drank our weight and then proceeded to collapse in a pile wherever we happened to be standing, only to wake up the next morning having lost the capacity to digest solid food or form complete sentences. But we went anyway, and by the time the Scorpions stormed on stage, we had begun to believe that rock and roll might just save us.
Fast forward four years to the Van Halen show. They were Darren's favorite, only he couldn't make that show. Or any others. He had gone to that big rock show in the sky, and he was probably hanging around backstage with John Bonham and Randy Rhoads. There is little doubt that Darren rocked the afterlife.
But that may have been what kept me at home. That and the need for reconstructive knee surgery that I created for myself the night before the show when I jumped off that swing at Scott Carpenter Park, just a Peavey amp's toss from Folsom Field. I don't know if I would have gone even if I had a snoot full of Jack Daniels or a plate full of corned beef hash. And two good knees. I spent the day of that show laying on my couch with ice and a rigid splint, awaiting my eventual reconstructive surgery. The fact that David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen had parted ways the year before may have contributed to my malaise, or maybe it was all that Codeine 3.
There are other concerts that I regret missing more, but this one sticks out like a sore knee. Now I make up for it by shredding "Hot For Teacher" on Guitar Hero, Medium, on two good legs.
Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I was attempting to distance myself from all things metal. After all, it was my friend Darren who introduced me to the Scorpions and Rainbow. It was his idea to hike up the hill to the stadium for that ear-splitting day-long marathon of head-banging. Capped off by the moderate rock of the Speedwagon. Did I mention this was the day after our housewarming party? The one where we all drank our weight and then proceeded to collapse in a pile wherever we happened to be standing, only to wake up the next morning having lost the capacity to digest solid food or form complete sentences. But we went anyway, and by the time the Scorpions stormed on stage, we had begun to believe that rock and roll might just save us.
Fast forward four years to the Van Halen show. They were Darren's favorite, only he couldn't make that show. Or any others. He had gone to that big rock show in the sky, and he was probably hanging around backstage with John Bonham and Randy Rhoads. There is little doubt that Darren rocked the afterlife.
But that may have been what kept me at home. That and the need for reconstructive knee surgery that I created for myself the night before the show when I jumped off that swing at Scott Carpenter Park, just a Peavey amp's toss from Folsom Field. I don't know if I would have gone even if I had a snoot full of Jack Daniels or a plate full of corned beef hash. And two good knees. I spent the day of that show laying on my couch with ice and a rigid splint, awaiting my eventual reconstructive surgery. The fact that David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen had parted ways the year before may have contributed to my malaise, or maybe it was all that Codeine 3.
There are other concerts that I regret missing more, but this one sticks out like a sore knee. Now I make up for it by shredding "Hot For Teacher" on Guitar Hero, Medium, on two good legs.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
I Read The News Today, Oh Boy
A picture, it is said, is worth a thousand words. There have been thousands of words and as many pictures used to describe the way that justice could or should have been carried out in the case of Johannes Mehserle. You could hear the tension stirring as the trial progressed, and when the verdict was announced, there seemed to be a sort of sad resignation to rioting. Not the freedom of assembly and freedom of speech kind, but the window smashing, looting kind.
Involuntary manslaughter was the verdict. Oscar Grant's father speaks: "This is Oakland...Let's get this place going. I don't like the verdict, but I wasn't on the jury. If you're going to protest, protest non-violently. We got to live together. Let's be peaceful." And then the sun went down.
There will be more pictures like this one. Thousands more words written to try and make sense of the death of a young man and the looting of a Sears store. I don't have those words. I have a deep sadness and regret. But this is where I live, and I will do everything that I can to keep it from happening again.
Friday, July 09, 2010
View Comments
If you're a regular visitor to this little corner of Al Gore's Internet, then you are probably familiar with the "comment" section that you will find below each one of my particularly pithy posts, as well as my fondness for alliteration. Generally this is the place where I will find thoughts from others who have read what I had to say on any particular topic and felt the need to give some of their thoughts back. It is always a treat to receive some outward sign of my words being read by others, even when I don't happen to please or entertain in the way I had intended. Sometimes I need to be set straight.
So, thank you for all your kind and/or corrective feedback. That's not what I am concerned about today. Instead, I would like to take this opportunity to complain about the machines that can, periodically, wind their way through the modicum of security that is in place to protect this blog from random abuse. I have had a number of regular readers send me e-mail confessing their frustrations with the borderline arcane method of unscrambling "the letters you see below" in order to leave a comment. I understand the frustration of not being able to simply jot down your message and press send. That is precisely what keeps me from spending hours on other news or blog sites, offering my opinions on other people's opinions.
But there are machines that have nothing better to do than to spray their random bursts of decoding into cyberspace in order to leave links to Japanese porn sites. I am certain that somewhere this is considered a "service," and if you are willing to pay the fee you can have your web sites dropped into the comment section of any unsuspecting blog. If you've poked around a little on Blogspot, you have probably noticed a wide variety of cultures, languages, and points of view. That is the magic of, if I may toss the term around, the Blogosphere. I wonder how many other sites are plagued by this automated nuisance. I'm certain that there are bloggers from Malaysia who have to periodically scour their sites from offers to meet attractive American girls. It's not that hard to do, after all. It's easier than leaving a comment in the first place.
Which brings me to the point: It will always be worth leaving the comment button turned on even if it means I get some electro-smut now and then. I want to know what you think, too. And if you're writing from Saipan with a really sincere opportunity to meet some very nice but scantily clad young ladies, I promise to seek you out when that becomes my concern.
So, thank you for all your kind and/or corrective feedback. That's not what I am concerned about today. Instead, I would like to take this opportunity to complain about the machines that can, periodically, wind their way through the modicum of security that is in place to protect this blog from random abuse. I have had a number of regular readers send me e-mail confessing their frustrations with the borderline arcane method of unscrambling "the letters you see below" in order to leave a comment. I understand the frustration of not being able to simply jot down your message and press send. That is precisely what keeps me from spending hours on other news or blog sites, offering my opinions on other people's opinions.
But there are machines that have nothing better to do than to spray their random bursts of decoding into cyberspace in order to leave links to Japanese porn sites. I am certain that somewhere this is considered a "service," and if you are willing to pay the fee you can have your web sites dropped into the comment section of any unsuspecting blog. If you've poked around a little on Blogspot, you have probably noticed a wide variety of cultures, languages, and points of view. That is the magic of, if I may toss the term around, the Blogosphere. I wonder how many other sites are plagued by this automated nuisance. I'm certain that there are bloggers from Malaysia who have to periodically scour their sites from offers to meet attractive American girls. It's not that hard to do, after all. It's easier than leaving a comment in the first place.
Which brings me to the point: It will always be worth leaving the comment button turned on even if it means I get some electro-smut now and then. I want to know what you think, too. And if you're writing from Saipan with a really sincere opportunity to meet some very nice but scantily clad young ladies, I promise to seek you out when that becomes my concern.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Dry Run
It became apparent to me in the first mile that I ran. I wasn't in a race. I was in a parade. I dodged spectators who felt compelled to cross the course in spite of the throng of the stream of humanity moving perpendicular to their efforts. I had to keep an eye out for parked cars that lined both sides of the street. There were herds of transvestites making their way up the hills of San Francisco in their heels. There were naked people. There were carts being pulled by teams. And everywhere I looked, people were drinking.
I understand the importance of remaining hydrated when one is exercising, but this wasn't the kind of drinking that was going on. Bloody Marys, Mimosas, and plenty of beer was readily available both on and off the course. The snail's pace that I felt that I was able to maintain through the throngs of party goers was further hampered by the behavior of those around me. I might expected to see people lurching or staggering about after an hour of physical exertion, but this wasn't the case. All the stumbling and weaving I witnessed came from those who fully embraced the festive atmosphere found at the Bay To Breakers.
By mile five, I had made up my mind to skip this particular display of Bay Area Bacchanalia. I would seek out other ways to test my strength and endurance. I chose to file it under "not my bag," and leave it at that. Fast forward seventeen years: "Bay to Breakers is very concerned that someone is going to get hurt or worse because of the over-consumption of alcohol," race spokesman Sam Singer said. "Unfortunately, people can't control themselves." So from now on, there will be no floats, and no booze. Those who are caught breaking the rules will be cited and fined.
And I confess, I'm a little bit sad. While I chose not to participate, it was one of those things that was uniquely and absurdly San Francisco. True, it didn't impact me in the way that the neighborhoods along the course of the race were affected. My yard wasn't the target of anybody's queasy stomach or full bladder. I don't have to run behind a chariot full of drunken fraternity boys straddling their kegs of beer. It was the behavior of other people, across the bay. And now, at least for the time being, the party is over. Perhaps race organizers can pick a different time and place to sponsor a twelve kilometer Drink and Puke, you know, for kids.
I understand the importance of remaining hydrated when one is exercising, but this wasn't the kind of drinking that was going on. Bloody Marys, Mimosas, and plenty of beer was readily available both on and off the course. The snail's pace that I felt that I was able to maintain through the throngs of party goers was further hampered by the behavior of those around me. I might expected to see people lurching or staggering about after an hour of physical exertion, but this wasn't the case. All the stumbling and weaving I witnessed came from those who fully embraced the festive atmosphere found at the Bay To Breakers.
By mile five, I had made up my mind to skip this particular display of Bay Area Bacchanalia. I would seek out other ways to test my strength and endurance. I chose to file it under "not my bag," and leave it at that. Fast forward seventeen years: "Bay to Breakers is very concerned that someone is going to get hurt or worse because of the over-consumption of alcohol," race spokesman Sam Singer said. "Unfortunately, people can't control themselves." So from now on, there will be no floats, and no booze. Those who are caught breaking the rules will be cited and fined.
And I confess, I'm a little bit sad. While I chose not to participate, it was one of those things that was uniquely and absurdly San Francisco. True, it didn't impact me in the way that the neighborhoods along the course of the race were affected. My yard wasn't the target of anybody's queasy stomach or full bladder. I don't have to run behind a chariot full of drunken fraternity boys straddling their kegs of beer. It was the behavior of other people, across the bay. And now, at least for the time being, the party is over. Perhaps race organizers can pick a different time and place to sponsor a twelve kilometer Drink and Puke, you know, for kids.
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