Live Wire

Someone much wiser than me once made the case that the best thing about summer in New York City is all the free music, and none of the seemingly thousands of fans flocked around the small South Street Seaport stage to see punk legends Wire last night was likely to argue with that. Not after the reformed, reconfigured band played its first show in almost four years, before an adoring and mostly very young audience. I had seen a few other free shows at my old stomping ground the Seaport, including Luna and Son Volt, but none that even approached the size of this crowd.

"Thanks for not going to see the Eagles tonight," lead singer Colin Newman quipped a few songs into the show, to raucous applause and what used to be called guffawing in an earlier, simpler time. "When we started out in 1977, the Eagles were one thing: The Enemy!" More catcalls, general hilarity, and then from our 3rd row "seats" my friend Steve shouted out "Hotel California"! to near-universal peals of laughter, before Wire, 3 Men and a Girl now in the revamped lineup, launched into another brutally primal rhythm in remarkably tight fashion for a band that was returning after such a long layoff.

At one point the bass player mentioned that they had played CBGBs 30 years ago, and he understood it was no longer there. "It's a boutique now!" yelled Johnny Hags, obviously fueled by our short but productive pre-show stop at the Killarney Rose on Pearl Street. Oh yeah, we were on our game all night.

The band played mostly new stuff, with a few old chestnuts like a blistering-fast "1 2 x U" toward the end there. But no "Dot Dash" to our disappointment. It's always like this whenever I go see old punk bands in their new guises; I was pissed last year when the Speedies didn't play "No Substitute"; devastated when The Slits chose to ignore "Heard it Through the Grapevine" a few months ago at the Merc Lounge; and then last night, no "Dot Dash" -- an incredibly catchy raver that rightfully takes its rank among the best songs of that great 1977-79 period of British Punk. Of course the odds are against hearing all the old stuff, especially if you consider that when Wire releases its new album, appropriately titled Object 47, it will be the band's 47th record of its long career. Now, not all were full length or probably even new material, but still, it's a big back catalog from which to choose their nightly set list.

In Wire's case, me and Steve were hoping their set would be saturated with songs from their seminal first 3 albums (Pink Flag, Chairs Missing, 154) -- Dot Dash, Mr. Suit, Ex-Lion Tamer, Reuters, Lowdown, Outdoor Miner, I Am the Fly, It's So Obvious, Three Girl Rumba: incendiary bursts of offhand brilliance, punctuated throughout with great hooks, complete songs that lasted just 50 seconds, a minute, 1 minute and a half. As one of the band once famously said when asked why the early numbers were so short: The song ends when the lyrics run out.
"Dot Dash" comes with a bit of a back story. The DJs at the long-defunct punk club Hurrah's used to play the song, but we had no idea who it was; all we knew that when the song came on we would all hit the dance floor with a vengeance because it was just impossible not to, moshing about before they had a name for it, arms and limbs flailing in an orgiastic release of energy. But then later when we asked the DJ what song he had just played, all we got back was an indiscernible mumble barely audible above the din of the club. "It sounded like he said White Horse," someone would guess, while another thought he heard High Horse. This went on for a couple of months, until someone in our crowd stumbled on the great early punk compilation album The Rare Stuff, and we found out the song was called Dot Dash and it was by a group called Wire. And the rest is some kind of history.

"Who knew that Wire was a jam band!" -- Steve again -- and indeed for most of the night Wire seemed to be in some kind of trance while playing their uber-minimalist brand of industrial hardcore, like a mutant Phish crossed with Joy Division.

The opening act was called Die! Die! Die! and they too had a little Joy Division in them. The lead singer jumped into the crowd a few times--apparently that kind of stuff is big in their native New Zealand, but luckily their feedback-drenched set of punk-by-the-numbers cartunes was mercifully brief. There's a video of one of their songs from last night on YouTube (see post below) and I swear I can see myself out among the crowd, along with my buddies Steve and Johnny Hags and the rest of the assorted nouveau-hip right near the front of the stage, with their accouterments of hipsterism -- the fluffy sideburns, the tight trousers, the roll-your-own-cigarette crowd. But hey, everyone's gotta start out somewhere, and one could have done a lot worse than a free show off the river in the fresh night city air among one's fellow denizens of the demimonde.

See also:

Band On The Rise

Unforeseen Musical Directions

Frequent Mutilation

New Wave Nostalgia

Die! Die! Die! | NYC @ Seaport | May 30th, 2008

Wire | NYC @ South Street Seaport | May 30th, 2008

Free Willie!

HERE WE ARE, just a short New York Week after the Mets swept the rain-shortened Subway Series 2 to zip, yet it's the team from Flushing on the proverbial ropes, suddenly losers of 7 of 8 games, while the Bronx Bombers seem to have found their hitting shoes, winning 5 of 6 in the last week.

The Mets had to feel good as they rode the rails out of town, except for the fact that their business trip would unfortunately take them to Atlanta, where predictably the Braves took all four games. Then the Mets took their sorry show to Colorado, where they won just a single game of three against a putrid Rockies team, before finally returning home, only to drop the first game of the homestand 7-4 to the resurgent Florida Marlins.

At just 23-26, the Mets now trail the 1st Place Marlins (30-20) by 6 1/2 games.

All the negativity both on and off the field has flooded the radio waves with scores and scores of grieving Mets fans, who seem to forget that their team has sucked far more often than it has not sucked in their checkered history. Yet these Mets fans have focused all their misguided ire on one Willie Larry Randolph -- probably my favorite Yank growing up, manning 2nd base and usually batting second on those great late 1970s teams.

Now, to be fair, the Mets do have a losing record now going for more than a year, but since you can't fire all 25 players, it's easier to just fire the manager. But like their fellow crosstown underachievers the Yankees, it's the general managers who, despite basically unlimited resources, both assembled remarkably flawed teams despite the litany of talent you could cite on both teams. But it seems like all the pressure is on Willie Randolph to win games, with very little left over for Mets GM Omar Minaya.

As for the Yankees, due to some early-season injuries, backups at catcher, first base and third base have had to fill in and play far more than anyone could have expected or indeed hoped for. They are getting nothing at catcher since Jorge Posada went down, with Jose Molina, one of the 14 or 15 Molina brothers in major league baseball, not even close to hitting his weight, at .216 with no HRs and just 5 RBIs in almost 100 ABs.

When A-Rod went down, that had a ripple effect, such that no-names like Morgan Ensberg (.203 in 75 at-bats) and Chad "Impacted" Moeller (13 for his last 49) saw significant action.

And then there's the troublesome middle relief as well as late relief now that the phenomenal Joba Chamberlain is officially headed to the starting rotation. LaTroy Hawkins and Kyle Farnsworth are worse than unproven -- they've both shown a disconcerting predilection to Fuck Things Up when you count on them for anything close to an important game situation. That Bridge to Mariano just got a lot more rickety, my friends.

Throw in lack of team speed, a suspect starting rotation that, except for Chien-Ming Wang, is by turns too young or too old, an average outfield defense, and the problem of throwing out runners when Posada and his sore shoulder returns, and I don't see how this team goes on any extended winning streams like last season, or accumulates enough series wins against the mediocre teams to mount any sustained threat to the Hated, Detested Red Sox of Beantown.

The other New York team has its own set of problems and baggage, and as a Yankees fan how could I possibly be more happy watching and listening to the disaster unfold. I know it's still early in the season -- but it's not very early anymore, is it? To win the division, the Metropolitans will have to pass over and contend with three fairly good baseball teams, namely:

The Atlanta Braves; still the thorn in the Mets' thin skin, never more so than after their 4-game series sweep last week.

The Philadelphia Phillies, who put up 20 runs and 15 runs in their last two games, so they just may be swinging some hot sticks right about now.

And then the surprising Florida Marlins, now an astounding 10 games over .500 and showing no signs of cracking.

All of which point to the Mets having to fight tooth-and-nail all season long just to get into the playoffs. And given their fragile mental state, I don't see that happening. On top of an epic late season collapse last year, when they blew a seemingly insurmountable 7-game lead in the NL East, they have not been anywhere near the powerhouse club that many had predicted after acquiring perhaps the best young pitcher in the game, Johan Santana. They have played down to the level of competition so often already this year that it's hard to tell just where the Mets are. Seemingly all the pieces are in place: formidable batting lineup, solid starters, good closer. But they just don't seem to add up so far.

So it may be time to Free Willie: even though he played for the Mets late in his career, it was just never a good match. I'm sure Randolph just wanted to get his foot in the door after waiting for his chance to manage for so long, and the fact that he could stay in New York probably seemed like a positive at the time, as did the Mets' roster and payroll. But now that the Mets Nation has proven to be the world's largest outdoor insane asylum, there's no way Willie survives the All-Star Break.

It's time for a clean break. The Mets fans obviously don't appreciate one of the classiest guys not just in baseball but throughout sports. No, Mets fans, so used to all that success over the years, are demanding a winner, and heads will roll if they aren't handed their World Series trophy soon.

GM Omar Minaya has had carte blanch to acquire all the pieces of the puzzle that contenders need. He hasn't been charged with building the farm system, with just Jose Reyes and David Wright anything like homegrown talent on the roster, and both of those signings far predated Minaya's arrival. Instead, during his tenure he has brought in high-profile, big-bucks veterans like Carlos Delgado, Pedro Martinez, Paul Lo Duca, Orlando Hernandez, Billy Wagner, Carlos Beltran, Moises Alou, Tom Glavine and now Santana -- giving the Mets the illusion of championship talent without the chemistry or cohesion that championship teams always seem to have.

For me the one good thing about Randolph getting the ax is that it would make rooting against the Mets just a little bit more enjoyable. Even for a rabid anti-Met hater like myself, I would sometimes find it difficult rooting for Willie to fail. Once he is removed from the equation, rooting against the Mets will have no more restrictions. And at the end of the day, isn't that what New York sports fan dementia is all about?!

Rotten In The Apple

Sure, there's all kinds of real bad news taking place all over the world, from cyclones in Myanmar and earthquakes in China to the continuing never-ending atrocities in Africa and the Middle East, but for sheer awful recent disasters I choose to parochially focus on the just-past, disastrous Subway Series, with the New York Yankees dropping two games against hated crosstown rivals The Mets. By sheer luck I missed the entire series, shortened as it was.

Friday's game was slated to run on free TV for one of the few times this season, so naturally it poured all day, making the rain-out cancellation a foregone conclusion by gametime. Then I missed Saturday's game, having driven way upstate with some friends, whose new house contained not a single working TV. Not that the ballgame would've been on anyway, I'm just trying to paint the word picture for you.

And then Sunday, the game was an ESPN deal, start time of 8:00, and by the time I got a score on the radio it was 4-0 Mets, right after the Carlos Delgado home run that was and then wasn't, so I returned to the Office marathon on NBC, never to return to what was ultimately a horrid 11-2 loss to the Mets.

The Yanks picked right up swinging & missing versus the Mets, fresh off their feeble 26-132 effort in 4 games against the much-improved Tampa Bay Rays, a team obviously being held back by the Devil in their name all those years.

It's shaping up as the kind of season where you just hope the whole slate of games gets rained out, because guess what -- this team is not coming back this year, not this time. I know that technically last year they had a worse record before righting the ship and catching fire, almost winning the division after spotting Boston a huge lead most of the season. But that was last season. This is now. You tell me where the pitching is gonna come from. Ian Kennedy and Phil Hughes? That much-heralded duo has as many wins combined as do Ted Kennedy and Howard Hughes. And that would be none, as in zip, nada, zero.

Other teams got better, the Yankees just got older and fatter.

According to ESPN Radio, Mike Piazza just announced his retirement. Wouldn't it be a nice slap in the face to Mets fans if he goes into the Hall of Fame wearing a blue Dodgers cap instead of a blue Mets hat? Just asking...

Alas, Mets lost Game 1 of their twi-night doubleheader to Atlanta today, falling to the mighty Tom Glavine 6-1. Guess all that Mets Momentum lasted about 12 hours. How great is that.

I do think Yankees, 20-24 entering tonight's game, go on a mini-tear right about now, what with Alex Rodriguez returning, as well as just the whole law of averages saying they can't get any worse. But it still won't be enough to climb back into the division race. No, the hated Red Sox are gonna run away with this thing. Just one man's considerably informed opinion. But then you knew that...otherwise why would you be here?

But whatever run the Yankees are destined to go on, the start of that run will have to wait until tomorrow, because get this: the Yankees are already down 9-fucking-zip to the Orioles, top of the 2nd inning! That's scary. Recently resurrected Mike Mussina gave up 7 runs, although only one of them was earned. They still count, and by golly the tabloids are gonna have a field day tomorrow if this blowout remains in force. Mussina has been replaced by Ross Ohlendorf, if that makes you feel any better.

This is also not the night for the Yankees to improve on their sorry 0-22 mark in games when they trail after 7 innings. Doesn't say much when a team literally never comes back in late innings.

Just had dinner. Now it's 10-0 Orioles after a Kevin Millar long ball off Ohlendorf. Could use the forfeit rule just about now. But that's not the worst news. Between bites of my roast chicken, I hear the Birds' pitcher has plucked Derek Jeter in the left wrist with a fastball, and he has to leave the game with what very well may be a serious injury. So it's A-Rod cometh, the Captain goeth...that's the kind of year it's been, and that's the kind of year it's likely gonna remain. If you're a true Yankee hater, now is the time to tune in the radio broadcast on WCBS, where John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman are no doubt taking it very personally indeed.

I mean, drowning in last place, it's not like the Yankees can afford to tread water with Boston in the division. David Ortiz has really started to come on. After his embarrassing start, he's hitting .250 and now has 10 HRs. Kevin Youkilis is leading the AL in hitting, they also have a guy called Manny Ramirez who can hit a bit, and there are very few easy outs in the lineup on a given night. As a team the Sox are hitting close to .300 according to my Sunday paper, and I wouldn't be surprised to see them on the other side of that lofty mark in a week or two.


How's their pitching holding up, you ask. Well, last night Jon Lester tossed a no-hitter, an amazing accomplishment given where his career seemed headed when he was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago, even if it comes against the Kansas City Royals. But even after getting no-hit last night, the Royals at .259 are outhitting the Yankees at .255! You won't find a more telling stat, but if you do I'd like to know about it.

By the way, Jon Lester is only 24, and he joins Dice-K (7-0, 2.15 ERA) and Josh Beckett and Wakefield to give the Sox plenty of starting pitching. The bullpen is just as solid, with the supremely annoying but admittedly talented Jonathan Papelbon closing games. You show me any holes on this Boston team and I'll be less pessimistic than I am, but nowhere near optimistic enough to think the Yankees can take advantage of that weakness should it present itself. The Red Sox simply have all the mojo right now, while the Yanks are the cursed, snake-bitten team. The worm has indeed turned, and it's nothing but rotten in the Apple.

So with more than a quarter of the baseball season already gone, as much as it pains me to admit this, the Yankees season looks like a goner. Hey, maybe Brian Cashman can sign Roger Clemens for another $18 million, or slap some pinstripes on the other steroid clown, Barry Bonds.

Because instead of using this year and next to get younger and hungrier, we foolishly signed A-Rod, Posada and Rivera to those monster contracts, and for all the bloated payroll this team has no bench, no backups, no chemistry, and very little chance of doing anything this year if their performance so far is any indication. All that's left to make the baseball season is hopefully watching another late Mets collapse, even though it's ex-Yank Willie Randolph who will get all the blame. It's a price I'm willing to pay, especially if it means Mets fans share a little in the suffering Yankees fans are all too familiar with already.

On The Up Escalator Going Down All The Cracks

"You Are the Dummies of Another Frightened Nation, I Am a Candidate For Elevation, But When I Woke Up This Morning I'd Lost All Sensation..." Graham Parker, Empty Lives

Pouring rain all day, just got home, 6pm. End of a brutal week at work. First of all, the other proofreader's been out for the better part of 4 weeks. Not sure why. But it means I'm doing everything related to proofreading, which this week meant coming in early, staying late and bringing work home. And that translates into 40 regular hours and 10 hours of overtime. So that's gonna be a nice check come next week. Plus I did a short 2-hour freelance project on Monday night, that comes on another check. And of course there's supposed to be some sort of rebate check...on the way.

Been at AB for 17 weeks now, so getting through this week, including proofreading an entire 300-page book, another 100-page monthly, and then all the notes for 2 weekly issues, was a major step in the right direction.

I got through it, working through a major toothache the last 3 days, as well as a radically reduced sleep cycle. Got home pretty tired from the Mexico trip Sunday night, and then was up at least by 6:00 AM every day. And then because we were so behind, I took a lot of stuff home with me, 60-70 pages' worth a night, so I couldn't just hit the sack after work and catch up on the sleep I lost on vacation. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I'm not just saying that...

Last week at this time, Friday evening, I was no doubt sipping one of the following: a Corona, a Modelo, an Absolut screwgie, a glass of wine or sangria, perhaps even a Pina Colada, and it was all free, keep 'em coming, no reason to stop now, all inclusive, everything taken care of, just throw the waiter a few pesos to perpetuate good inter-country karma, because I'm like that, and that's the way it is.

Holding Pattern

6:00pm. Just got home from work. And for the first time at this job I had to bring work home with me. The other proofreader has been out for a while, and so it's been busy. My supervisor asked me to stay late, and I said I could stay till 7 or so. Then I remembered the other proofer saying he sometimes brought work home with him when he got swamped, so I suggested I could get more done taking work home with me; he went for it, and now I have about a good 4 or 5 hours' worth of stuff, with some more likely tomorrow.

I know all my loyal readers are as anxious to hear the details about my Cancun trip (which was a blast) as I am to relate them, but unfortunately my workload all but precludes it for the foreseeable near future. In addition to my regular 9-5, it looks like the rest of this week I'll be proofing at home every night and probably into and over the weekend and through to next week. Did i mention that I'm functioning on very little sleep since getting back late Sunday night, rising at 5:30 Monday morning and then 6 today? Well, now I have...

Last night it was a small document for a freelance client, a small ad firm, about 2 hours' worth of work. The next few nights it's overflow from my day job, and then I've already got another big project lined up for my Astoria library research job, and his reports are usually 110-120 pages long, so it usually takes around 7-8-9 hours to get it done, considering I not only have to edit the report but then make the changes electronically on a word doc and send it back to him.

But absolutely no complaints. I need the hours, the money, need the work itself, which they tell me builds character. Over the last month or so, it seems I've had work waiting for me on my home computer almost every night. Gotta take it when it's there, because when it's not there, well, it's hard to take it for obvious reasons. In fact, one of my main freelance clients moved their operations to the Left Coast, so it's unlikely I'll see any more work from them.

Anyway, now I must make like a tree and leave. Put an egg in my shoe and beat it. Or, as one old tomato said to the other,
We Ketchup Soon.

A Quick One While He's Away

Until further notice, your correspondent will be filing all reports down Yucatan way, from the WardensWorld Cancun bureau, to be precise. That's right, manana will find me jetting down to sunny Mejico, along with Brother Admiral, aka Jimmy The Greek -- like me, owner and proprietor of his very own highly successful Website. So for the foreseeable future, two of the leading lights on the Internets will take their leave -- creating a huge vacuum in the Tri-State Area.

But seriously, the Admiral has already warned me against revealing too much in terms of (hopefully) juicy or (potentially incriminating) details from our brief little excursion. I will pledge to hold up my end of the bargain, or at least disguise enough of the names/faces in the ensuing narrative to throw off even the most dogged of interested parties.

Ironically, I learned my lesson very recently when some purportedly offended party stumbled onto my wildly popular Web blog and raised a fit with someone else with whom I do business. The specifics are not presently important, suffice to say I spent much of last night engaged in poring over my archives for "offensive" passages and then expunging or mutating the pertinent names, places, dates, circumstances and other sundry incriminating material, no matter how innocuous I personally considered the respective posts. Company names were altered and people cryptically were reduced to initials, with the result that post after post now reads like a bad imitation of a Kafka novel.

Anyway, I learned that it's easier to be less forthcoming right at the beginning, versus having to go back and waste precious hours to rectify something that should never had to have been reducted in the first place!

And who loses in this latest development? Why, you the dear reader of course, who now, through no fault of your own, will no longer be privy to the most private parts of my life. (Although my private parts themselves are still up for bidding.) From now on, only the barest details will be offered, unless I decide to totally fabricate and exaggerate the otherwise forgettable ephemera of what is a pretty ordinary existence. Which pretty much goes a long way toward explaining why I've got the mass audience I do generate here on the worldwideweb. Dig it.

So Mrs. Jim doesn't need to worry about finding evidence of any misbehavior, on my part at least. After all, it wasn't me that got us unceremoniously tossed out of the Mudd Club circa 1981 for prolonged, excessive, unlikely-to-abate-anytime-soon vomiting, not 10 minutes after finally gaining entrance into that notoriously difficult club to get into. Nope, wasn't me. In fact, that's all I will say on the matter...for now. There's no telling what trouble I might get someone into. Adios, amigos.

Spreading The Wealth

Strange sports time of year -- only point where really all 4 major sports intersect in a major way: you've got your NBA and NHL playoffs in full swing, the baseball season has just begun in earnest, with about 20-25 games under every team's belt, and then you have the NFL draft taking place, making late April unique in that way.

The annual draft of college players into pro football is a rite of spring that allows fans of every NFL team to convince themselves that their club has really improved; as long as you have a couple of picks in the early rounds, hope does spring eternal.

For instance, as a Cowboy fan, I'm convinced that we've got a few more weapons on offense for QB Tony Romo: RBs Felix Jones (Arkansas) & Tashard Choice (Georgia Tech) and TE Martellus Bennett (Texas A&M), as well as some much-needed help at DB with 1st-round pick Mike Jenkins (South Florida). Without over-analyzing things, that's 4 solid players that should make an immediate impact to a team that went 13-3 and didn't lose all that much in the offseason, and that's not counting the huge risk/reward that Dallas is taking with the Adam Jones deal, the much-troubled but highly talented CB better known as Pacman.

Of course, other teams got better as well.

I think the Steelers got a lot of help on offense with RB Rashard Mendenhall out of Illinois and WR Limas Sweed from Texas. Add that to RB Willie Parker, WR Hines Ward, the TE Heath Miller, and Big Ben has far too many weapons for most defenses to stop.

The New York Jets had a busy offseason and yesterday added 2 1st-round picks that should start right away: LB Vernon Gholsten (Ohio State) and TE Dustin Keller (Purdue). Jets also had some quality picks in the late rounds.

Also notable was the Kansas City Chiefs' draft, which will be judged in large part by how well LSU DT Glenn Dorsey performs, but was one for the ages for a completely different reason: the Chiefs drafted three guys with basically the same first name, and it wasn't Mike or Bill or Jim either, but Brandon. KC took OG Branden Albert from Virginia in Round 1, CB Brandon Flowers from Virginia Tech in Round 2, and then CB Brandon Carr from Grand Valley State in Round 5. What are the odds of even 2 Brandons on one team, never mind in the same draft in the same year. I'm pretty sure this was prophesied in one of Nostradamus's forgotten passages.

Speaking of bad omens, that was a rotten loss by the 76ers last night to the Pistons, after leading by 10 at halftime and having a chance to go up 3-1 and shock the world. Well, some of the world anyway. But the Pistons came out and totally dominated the Sixers after the break, scoring the first 11 points and decisively outscoring Philly 34-16 in the 3rd to take a 70-62 advantage and never looked back.

I don't think it was a case of a young Sixers team being overconfident; I don't see coach Maurice Cheeks letting that happen. But there's a reason Detroit has been to 5 straight Eastern Conference finals: they're good. And they're experienced and seasoned and as battle-tested as any team outside of perhaps the San Antonio Spurs.

One key matchup has been the Sixers' best player, Andre Iguodola, against Tayshaun Prince, the Pistons' best man-on-man defender. Last night Iguodola went 4-16, his fourth straight subpar shooting game, while Prince shot an efficient 11-12 from the field. Prince has gotten the best of AI in every game, and it's amazing the 76ers have managed to win those 2 games so far given Iggy's struggles.

The numbers are downright putrid for Iguodola: 11 for 49 from the field, including 0-9 from beyond the arc. That's all due to the in-your-face defense of Prince, who has the wingspan of a small pterodactyl (about 33 feet). Meanwhile, Prince is an astounding 31-47 from the field in the series, against Iguodola, a very good defender in his own right on most nights. In most cases, one key matchup doesn't win or lose a series unless it's two great centers battling, but here the stats are so stark because one guy has really gotten the best of the other. Three games left for Iggy to make his mark, otherwise he's looking at a long offseason.

Bottom line: I'm one of the biggest 76ers fans in my census tract, and I'd be shocked if they won another game in this series. But this is one case where I would love to be proven wrong.

Some big names in baseball are struggling immensely at the plate so far this season. A lot of focus has been on Red Sox slugger David Ortiz, who through 96 ABs now is hitting an unsightly .177 with but 4 dingers, although he has a respectable 20 RBI. But his battles at the plate are not helping Boston any, losers of 5 straight entering tonight's action.

The Cubs' Alfonso Soriano is currently on the DL, but before he was injured he too was sucking windage in Windy City to the sorry tune of .175 with 11 K's in 57 at-bats. What a bargain the Cubs got at only $136 million over 8 years.

Pitching-wise, the Giants' Barry Zito continues to disappoint in alarming fashion. He's off to an 0-6 start, with a Richter-scale-like ERA of 7.53. And with just 11 K's in 28 innings, the former Oakland ace is not fooling anyone with anything he's throwing up there. In fact, it's foolish investments like the $126 million fortune the Giants sank into this baked Zito that has America teetering on the edge of economic recession.

On the Yankees, Jason Giambi is also "hitting" .177, albeit with some pop (5 HRs), and 2B Robinson Cano is "missing" to the tune of just .158, with only 1 measly HR; this is the sec0nd season in a row where the young hitter has stunk it up mightily early in the year. He's too good a hitter for these protracted slumps. In fact, no one on the Yankees is really tearing it up at the plate so far, and Jorge Posada just went on the disabled list. So it's not unexpected that as I write this they're getting no-hit tonight in chilly Cleveland through 5 innings by Aaron Laffey, a 23-year-old making his first start of the year. So it goes.

Freewheelin' Friday

Better To Start With A Pekingese & Other Useful Carnal Advice

But first let's travel back to Old Rome...

...As in the first season of the terrific HBO Series Rome. Couldn't be enjoying it more through the first 9 episodes of Season 1. It's basically Deadwood in tunics, and that's in no way a bad thing. It's got Deadwood's same uneven mix of the sacred and the profane, the lofty and the lowdown. It's humanity, warts and all. We recognize ourselves in these characters surging through ancient Rome, otherwise what's the point. A thousand years is mankind blinking an eye once or twice.

For all the well-known characters and major historical figures portrayed in the series, the real action often hinges on the lives of two professional legionnaires in the Roman Army, Titus Pullo and Lucien Vorenus. In one scene, Pullo takes a young nobleman to an upscale brothel for his first taste and informs the madam of the house, "But the girl better fuck him like Helen of Troy with her ass on fire, or I'll know the reason why." Priceless. And it rings true, like almost every note of this series.

Another great scene takes place on a doomed ship bound for Greece. Just before the ship goes down, Vorenus tells Pullo, "A very good offering was made to Triton, we're perfectly safe."
"If Triton can't keep me drier than this, he can suck my dick," comes the response, followed by more waves and finally the shipwreck.

In another episode, a character says, "It's as hot as Vulcan's cock," and given that Vulcan is the Roman god of fire, you gotta figure that's pretty fucking hot. You see, you learn a little as you go along here.

The DVD set of the first season has a cool viewing option where a box will appear telling you little historical nuggets about Rome. For instance, I didn't realize that Cleopatra and some of the other Egyptian rulers for a few hundred years had Greek blood thanks to Alexander the Great infusing the bloodlines. Also, opium was used from 1500 BC in Egypt, and Cleo herself partook generously.

Speaking of learning something new, the Yankees were 10-10 after the first 20 games, but did you know did you know did you know they were 10-0 with a lead after 6 innings, and 0-10 when trailing after 6 innings. That's either consistency or mediocrity.

Also alarming is that the lead-footed Bombers stole their first base in Game 14 of the season! That's a mark of futility that matches the 1948 team, which as I recall at least had an excuse: no brothers and such allowed. I think you get my drift. Boy, did I really go there? What happened to me...

Okay, okay, so Mike Mussina pitched a good game the other night, holding the White Sox to just 4 hits and 2 runs, both coming on home runs, which is predictable. Luckily they were solo shots, because he gives up 2 bombs a game minimum these days. Believe me, I hope he pitches well all the time as long as he's on the Yankees, but color me skeptical at least for now. His fastball tops out at 90-91 now if I'm not mistaken, and there's only so many times you're gonna fool these guys with guile unless you're a lefty or your name's Greg Maddux in his Prime.

Just in time for 3-game series with Braves, Shea favorite Chipper "Larry" Jones is destroying NL pitching, to the tune of a .442 average. Had himself a birthday bash yesterday, celebrating his 36th with 3 hits and his 7th HR already, to go along with 20 RBIs.

There was a time not too long ago where if I was going to start a team and could pick one position player, it would be Chipper. That was about 6 or 7 years ago, though. Now to me the best pure hitter in either league is Miguel Cabrera, when you factor in power and youth. But he's a subpar fielder and hasn't really found a position in the field suited to him, and that's never a good thing.

Worst team in baseball could be the Texas Rangers, fresh off 7 straight defeats, with their putrid pitching staff. Detroit just got well on them, outscoring them by a decisive 37-10 over their recent series. That's ugly. One of their relief pitchers (Fukunari) has a 20.25 ERA; another starter is 0-4 with a 7.46 ERA. Team president Nolan Ryan could not only start for them right now, he would be their ace. Only problem is he's about 60.

Yanks in midst of an 18 of 20 stretch on the road, thanks to Pope Prada's stopover in Sodom by the Sea. Daily News wrote a typically demented editorial on how this Pope is so magnificent because he doesn't criticize or question the wisdom of the Great Ship America. But not this pontiff. Where's Father Guido Sarducci when you need him?

I mean, you can make the case that this president of (y)ours had a hand in the cessation of hundreds of thousands of formerly existing persons in the form of dead Iraqis. You'd think such a world leader would be ripe for a modicum of reproach from the so-called messenger of God on this here Earth. But not according to Mortimer Zuckerman.

Speaking of rotting tabloid owners, it looks like greedy cadaverous scumbag Rupert Murdoch will be adding Newsday to his media empire. I mean, I hardly if ever buy Newsday. I used to buy it regularly back in the pre-Internet days when Jimmy Breslin was still knocking out his columns. Newday's only distinction is that it's not the Times, it's not the Post and it's not the News. In fact, the Daily News' latest goofy slogan is plastered above the fold: "THE BIGGEST TABLOID IN NEW YORK" How weak is that, and WTF does if even mean! Biggest in circulation or in actual size of the paper? Get back to us on that...

This is a tabloid war where no one deserves to win, and the people who lose are the New York City readers who want a decent, unbiased, lively newspaper, but one that doesn't talk down to them or pander (at least too much) to their base instincts. If we want craven decadence, after all, there's HBO.

Well, got an early Birthday present Sunday night when the 76ers knocked off the Pistons in Detroit in Game 1 of their playoff series. They were trailing late and then got off a good run, playing as they did when they were running off something like 25 of 32 when they made their late season playoff push. But reality hit hard on Wednesday in Game 2, when the Pistons opened up an early lead and never let up on the way to a 105-88 spanking. I don't think the game was on TV anywhere in the free world, and I didn't bother following it on the Net b/c I knew an major ass-whoopin' was in the works. But things could turn again on Friday night in Philly just as quickly. That's gonna be a rocking crowd for sure, and I hope the Sixers give 'em reason to get into the game for 4 quarters.

Still going with Spurs-Pistons in the Finals as my loyal reader(s) will already know. Wager accordingly. However, if the Sixers make it out of this round, of course they're going all the way a la the New York Football Giants. Make book on it. Or should I say Maximus Bookius, friends and citizens...

Speaking of football, of course this is the weekend of the NFL draft. We've seen a few good trades already. Vikings made a good one, although it didn't come cheap: getting Jared Allen from the Chiefs is a good move, giving them an incredible defensive front four with Allen at DE and the two Williams Boys at DT. Jets got rid of former #1 Dewayne Robertson, who has to be considered a bust given where he was drafted. And speaking of disappointments, it appears the Cowboys sent their 4th-round pick to the Tennessee Titans in this year's draft for Adam "Pacman" Jones. As a Cowboy fan, I will go on record as saying, football wise, it's a steal, but coming off a 13-win season and with two #1 picks, there's no reason for such a desperate move.

So far this offseason we signed LB Zack Thomas, as solid a citizen as there is in the NFL, and now Jones to balance out that good deed, the yin and the yang of the modern citizen-athlete. That's what sports is these days, a compromise for the fan between wanting to win at all costs and facing the consequences of that sentiment up close and personal. You can't pick your family but you can pick your sports teams, so I guess when it no longer gets to be fun, I'll stop following.

Seahawks released RB Shaun Alexander outright, and can't say I blame them. They had already picked up T.J. Duckett, a serviceable power back, and my former Boy Julius Jones, who I still think has a bright future in this league. I'd be shocked, as Chris Russo would say, if he doesn't have a career year in '08. As long Zack and the Boys kick his butt when we see them on this year's schedule.

Finally, news from the Just When You Think You've Got It Bad Department: Did you see the story about some poor schmuck named Robert Melia? Talk about your 15 minutes of infamy: Turns out the ex-cop was arrested and charged with -- there's no easy way to say this -- having oral relations with a cow. I mean, what's the proper etiquette after you've had sex with a willing bovine? Do you call her a cab and say you'll call her tomorrow? It was the first case of bestiality in the area since someone tried to have carnal cornucopia with a Rottweiler. Now, that's sick. You sure do NOT want to find yourself in coitus interruptis with a big horny Rottweiler. That could get tricky. Better to start with a Pekingese or a laid-back Greyhound. Trust me. I learned that the hard way. But hey, that's what she said.

Freestyle Friday

If it seems I haven't been blogging all that much lately, it's because I haven't -- due to an equal combination of busy-ness, lazy-ness and disinterested-ness. But we're here today rectify that sitch, and we all know how painful that can be. To Wit, of which, if you didn't already know, Brevity is the Soul: won't you join me as we take it hard to the hoop here on WardensWorld.

But first to the mound. No way the Yankees are making the playoffs with their present starting rotation. Taint gonna happen, my friends. Not with a past-his-prime Andy Pettite, a way-way-past-his prime-teetering-on-washed-up Mike Mussina (about whom more in a sec), two promising but unproven kiddies in Phil Hughes and Ian Kennedy, and only one true dependable frontline pitcher in Chin-Mieng Wang.

Mussina is probably my least favorite Yank. Didn't want him in the first place, and thought it was one of Brian Cashman's all-time worst signings -- and that's saying something -- to give the Stanford Stoic that ridiculous contract that pays him 16 mil a season. That's just throwing good money after bad, as my dad would always say. Well, not always, just when it was called for.

For reasons I can't quite put my finger on, I hate almost everything about Mussina, from that stupid back bend he does before every pitch to the his grating excuses after every game he gets shelled. Which lately is every game.
Last night Mussina got beat up again, surrendering two more homers and a double to Manny Ramirez, which makes only three HRs Mussina has served up to Ramirez in less than a week. In fact, check this out: in his last 26 ABs against Mussina, Ramirez has 13 hits, including 4 dingers, and 13 runs batted in. And careerwise, Ramirez now has the 3rd most HRs alltime of any Yankees opponent. Maybe that game plan isn't working, Mike. Just walk the fucking guy next time and save us the heartache.

And maybe that should go for the whole Yankees staff when it comes to facing Manny. I mean, Yankee Killer doesn't do justice to the way this guy tears the heart out of Yankee fans. It's more like Yankee Mass Murderer at this point. At least last night Farnsworth threw a 100 MPH heater behind his dreadlocked cabeza and shook him up a little. (Farnsworth got himself a 3-game suspension for his troubles.) Nothing else seems to work.

Usually after such a stinker, Mussina says stuff like, Well, I just couldn't get Strike 3, or The guy hit a good pitch. But last night he was more succinct and sounded more down and defeated than usual: “I missed so bad a couple times that I can’t remember what I tried to do. It was just lousy.” Got that right.

Saw a rare sight in an NBA game the other night when the Toronto Raptors played the Nets: one team had 5 white guys on the floor at once! But wait, it gets better: after a timeout, while Sam Mitchell, the Raptors' black head coach, was resting his star, Chris Bosh, the 5 players he sent in were not only all white, but I don't believe any of them were American-born; instead it was an Italian, an Argentine, a few guys from Eastern Europe, etc. Imagine a whole team of Europeans in the NBA? How would they do? You don't have to answer now, get back to me later...

This post is gonna go all over the place, so get used to it. I am in the process of emptying one of my notebooks before all the contents get too old. And I do it all for you, the reader. And when I say the reader, I mean The Reader, as in one reader. But one's enough, two would be a crowd and three a stampede.

NBA playoffs start this weekend, tomorrow in fact, and after a few seconds of research, I like the San Antonio Spurs to prevail in the finals over the Detroit Pistons. But the #1 seeds are the Celtics and Lakers, which would be David Stern's wet dream of course. And for that reason alone I hope it doesn't happen.

My 76ers as the 7 seed in the East have to take on the #2 Pistons in the first round. How can I like their chances? I can't, and hope to just extend 'em as long as possible. (That's what she said.) But seriously, just a few weeks ago the Sixers were riding high, but the last 7 or 8 games they played like crap, and when they played well they had crap luck.

The other night the 76ers eked out a 1-point win over the Cavs, and ran off the court in celebration. In fact, they reached their locker room before an official informed them that the referees were reviewing videotape to see if Sam Dalambert had fouled a Cavalier with no time remaining. Sure enough, that's just what they reviewed, and after 2 foul shots, Cleveland had the 1-point win. Talk about a tough way to lose. But at least the Sixers have a puncher's chance. Hopefully that puncher is Jerry Quarry and not Gerry Cooney.
Speaking of fighting, check out this transition, I just finished a great, terrific, brilliant, incredible book by Tom Holland called Persian Fire about the epic Greek-Persian wars of the late 5th Century BC. It just might be the single best written history book I have ever read. If takes you so much into the action that I got fucking goose bumps myself waiting to take on the Great King's endless hordes of soldiers myself. I don't know, maybe it's another life thing, when my great great great to the 10th power grandfather might have fought at Salamis or Marathon or Thermopylae.

Actually, I've been told my mother's family can be traced back to the small island of Samos, which is way off the mainland, in fact it's so far on the Eastern side of the Aegean Sea that it's right off the coast of Turkey. And unfortunately, at least according to this account, the Samians don't come off all that well in this book. When it comes time to play their part in the Ionian uprising against the King's satraps, they instead sell out their fellow Greeks to the Persians. And they did it for money, for trade, because they saw the Greek colonies as threats to their business. So it goes.

But oh those wacky Spartans! Even the Persians knew of their reputation. One great anecdote in the book tells of two Spartans who were sent off the battlefield just before a battle was to commence because of severe eye inflammations. But one of the warriors defied his instructions to remain on the sidelines and instead made his way back to the front lines and ultimately died in the heavy fighting. The other warrior, when he finally returned to his village, was now branded a "trembler." As Holland describes it:

"There, on his arrival, he had been greeted with revulsion. His fellow citizens had branded him a 'trembler': the single most shameful word in the Spartan lexicon. Harshly unfair -- but it was only to be expected, in a city where courage was reckoned the greatest virtue, that one slightest hint of cowardice in a citizen would doom him to ignominy.
The life of a trembler in Sparta was signally wretched. Patches sewn into his cloak would alert the whole city to his disgrace. Whether sitting down at his mess table or attempting to join in a ballgame, he would be icily ignored by all of his former friends. At festivals, he would have to stand up or make way for anyone who demanded it -- even the most junior.
Cruelest cut of all, his daughters, if he had any, would find it impossible to secure a husband: a typically Spartan eugeniest measure designed to prevent the taint of cowardice from being inherited by future generations."

After finishing Persian Fire and still being fired up, I had a strong desire to watch it all play out again, and so I went to the video store, in my case the library, where I had seen it before, to find 300, the recent computer-generated/assisted film that got bad reviews but did big box office. Alas, they were out of that, but instead I stumbled upon the first season of Rome, the HBO miniseries. My verdict after the first two episodes: superb. Like Cecil B. DeMille meets I Claudius, with a little Martin Scorcese thrown in. With more sex and nudity of the good kind than you can shake a dick at.

Just when my pride at being Greek was at its absolute apex, I sat down to watch the Hillary-Barack debate on ABC the other night. Moderating, badly, this faceoff was nerdy Charles Gibson and the diminutive Hellenic himself, George Stephanopoulos. According to my cousin, none other than Linda Stephanopoulos, he's actually related to her family somehow, and maybe mine by extension. (That's what she said.) But as the debate wore on, I can't tell you how many times I yelled FUCKING DOUCHEBAG! at either jerkoff Gibson or the dwarfish Greek because of their ludicrous lines of questioning the candidates.
Gibson proved himself a willing mouthpiece for the Oligarchy as he constantly badgered Clinton and Obama with questions about the sacred capital gains tax and taxes in general. With every follow-up he tried to get the candidates to swear, pledge, promise not to raise a single tax at any point no matter what the economic circumstances. Seven years into a draining, expensive war that has decimated the military, seven years into massive tax breaks for the very wealthy, while the economy falls into recession, it is taboo to talk about raising taxes on the well-to-do or at least somehow lowering the tax burden on the middle class while gas prices skyrocket and the housing crisis descends further into chaos. At least according to plutocrat Gibson, sitting there with his glasses perched absurdly low on his nose.

Stephanopoulos proved himself no less a craven fool and no more discerning a moderator than his colleague as he too fell in line with a sensationalist line of questioning no doubt preordained by his higher-ups for maximum shock, and therefore rating, effect. Gotta hold that coveted 18-22 demographic, after all. The best way to put it is the little gnome made me ashamed to be Greek, and that's saying something considering the Hellenic High I was on reading of the exploits of my lineal ancestors distinguishing themselves long ago on the plains of Marathon, such that close to Three Millenia later, it is yet noted whenever the annals of bravery and courage are chronicled.

At the close of the debate, Gibson and Stephanapoulos stood side by side with self-satisfied grins at a job well done. Except it turns out while Stephanapoulos was standing up, Gibson was seated in some sort of folding chair, and yet they were the same size. Not a good decision on little Georgie's part. He looked more like a ventriloquist's dummy than a network journalist, and I couldn't have been happier.

By the way, I thought Hillary acquitted herself quite well, taking the high road most times, and came across as very likable. And I am far from a Clinton lover, in fact quite the opposite, of which I spoke to you of which. I thought Obama was not at his sharpest, and at times I was distracted by the manner in which his head was tilted while he responded to the childish queries of the network stooges posing as moderators. Surely his head is not so heavy that he cannot square it up straight while he talks. Watch for it next time you see him. If I'm his handlers, I'm all over that.

The low point was when a dimwit representing an actual Pennsylvania voter, given the opportunity to ask the candidates a question, used her opportunity to accuse Obama of hating the country, obvious to everyone since he does not wear a flag lapel. That was the kind of night it was, the kind of country we're apparently stuck with, the kind of true mess we find ourselves at this late point in the early 21st century. Enjoy!

Loss Of A Gentle Giant

Got some real sad news today. Anthony Tortora, one of my closest high school mates and a fellow member of the football team, the McBurney Highlanders, also known as the Fighting Green Machine, just passed away on April 9th. He was living with his family and doing well up in Albany. Weird thing is just two weeks ago my high school had a reunion. Tony couldn't make it, but my friend John got in contact with him recently and I was planning on doing the same.

I mean, I know we're getting up there now, my fellow '78 alums, but 47 is still too damn young for a man to die. I read in his obituary just now that he was coaching Pop Warner football, and somehow that really made me feel good, that our former starting offensive tackle (#73 below) was passing on his experience and knowledge of the game to the little ones, as well as his crazy sense of humor and his exuberance to live life to its fullest. My heart goes out to his wife and the three young kids he leaves behind.

April Can't Fool Me

Well, it sure doesn't feel like a baseball opening day today; the calendar says April, but outside the weather feels more like mid-November: another wet, sunless, dreary drag of a day.

Yesterday the Yankees were rained out of their first game, delaying for at least one more day the beginning of what already is being hyped to death as the last opening day of the final season at old Yankee Stadium; the new, unnecessary, faux Yankee Stadium will open up for the 2009 season. (Unlike the new Citi Field replacing Shea Stadium, where the case can be made that a new facility for the Mets has long been needed.) In a City where scores of new high-rise luxury office and residential high rises increasingly mar the sky scape, it's only fitting that an irreplaceable, history-drenched sports museum of a stadium will be razed to make way for a building designed to look like it's 100 years old. Such is the heartless essence of the New York real estate market and its devastating effect on neighborhood after neighborhood, memory after memory.

Tonight's game is against the Toronto Blue Jays, who for the seventh or eighth year running is supposed to be a "much improved" team, but more of my focus will be on the NBA tonight, with the Philly Sixers looking to regain their winning ways against the New Jersey Nets.

My recent sports-viewing policy has been to almost totally ignore the first 10 games of the MLB season. I mean, the season is so darn long, and the opening few games so meaningless in terms of individual stats as well as overall team standings, that it's best to let the season establish itself before giving it anything more than a cursory glance at the box scores in the morning paper. That's my theory, and you're free to partake of it as you wish.

Maybe it's the dismal New York weather, but I just can't get into baseball right now. It seems that lately for me it's been more of a case of hating the New York Mets and despising the Boston Red Sox and their respective collections of annoying followers that drives my passion for the game. That's what it's come to; I'm just being honest. As long as any other team besides the aforementioned Mets and Red Sox win it all, I'm okay with that. Sure, it would be nice to add another World Series title as the ghosts of old Yankee Stadium witness this final season at the same ballpark where Gehrig and Ruth and Joe D. and Mantle and Berra once plied their trades. As no other than Derek Jeter put it: "Just 100 yards away? That's not too far for the ghosts to go." Okay, Derek, but why should they have to move at all?

As for the 76ers, after beating the Bulls last Wednesday 121-99 to move two games over .500 at 37-35 and further solidify their playoff chances, the Sixers have dropped a pair of games, losing at home to Phoenix 107-93 and then a close one at Cleveland, 91-88. Heading into tonight's game at the Meadowlands, it's important to not fall under .500 again, if just for the collective psyche of the club. Plus, the schedule doesn't let up from here on out with 8 games remaining. The Sixers are just a game and a half out of the 5th seed in the Eastern Conference. Following tonight's Nets game, the Sixers play a home-and-home series against Atlanta; then home games against the Pistons and Pacers; followed by games at Washington, home to the Cavs, and then on the road against Charlotte. I'll take winning 6 of those 8 games right now, which would give us a 43-39 record heading into the playoffs -- not bad for a team that almost literally crawled back from the dead (an 18-30 record in January).

Spirit Of 76ers

WHEN WE LAST LEFT our merry young band of Philly Sixers last Wednesday night, they were holding off a furious Denver Nuggets rally in the third quarter. Eventually they regained the lead and put Allen Iverson, Camelo Anthony and the rest of the Nuggets away for the narrow 115-113 win. Iverson had hit a loooooooong 3-pointer -- 27 feet long, to be exact -- to tie the game at 113. But as has been the case in the 76ers' recent hot streak, they've been finishing off the close games. On this night it was Slammin' Sammy Dalambert, the Haitian Sensation, who hit the winning lay-up.

But then two days later, they had their first real clunker in about two months, dropping one on the road to Orlando 113-95. The Magic just shot the lights out, hitting 41 of 77 shots from the field, including a sizzling 14-23 from beyond the 3-point line. Saturday the Sixers returned home to face the desperate New Jersey Nets, a team who owned them as recently as last year. The 91-87 win evened the Sixers' record at 34-34 heading into the Monday night showdown in Boston, with the Celtics holding the sport's best mark at 55-14. Well, now it's 55-15 after Philly's 95-90 win, moving the Sixers into sole possession of second place. Not that the 76ers are gonna catch Boston for the Atlantic Division lead, but should the teams meet in the playoffs, it has to be a positive knowing they can beat them on their home court.

The 76ers outscored Boston 29-19 in the decisive fourth quarter, which isn't supposed to happen. Also not in the script is the 76ers' sudden ability to get to the foul line at such a frequent rate. Last night Philly once again had a huge advantage at the free throw line, more than doubling Boston from the line; the Sixers shot 30-44 from the line, while Boston only shot 20 total free throws, converting 15. And that's been the case during the recent streak, which has seen the Sixers win 18 out of their last 23 to climb to the 6th seed in the Eastern playoff race.

The free throw numbers don't just come out of a hat, at least since disgraced NBA ref Tim Donaghy was forced to hang up his crooked whistle; they reflect a few things based on the Sixers' quality play of late. First off, if you're going to the line that means you're usually driving to the basket instead of relying on jumpers. Second, you're boxing out and the other team is having to go through you to get to the rebound. And third, more specifically, it's Sixers' C Sam Dalabert finally learning to play without getting into foul trouble of his own.

Against Boston, as I said, the Sixers shot 24 more free throws than Boston; against the Nets it was 10 more; even in the Orlando loss, the Sixers shot 7 more free throws; and then before that, it was 12 more than Denver and 9 more than San Antonio, and any team with Tim Duncan is gonna get to that line.

I really started to take notice of this trend after the Sixers beat the Bulls in Chicago on the 14th. Philly shot a startling 40-44 from the line (versus only 18-20 for the home team that night). You're gonna win a few ballgames on the road when you can shoot 24 more free throws than your opponent, as even old Jumpin' Jimmy Naismith would tell you if he wasn't already in OT, if you get my drift.

But back to reality, the Sixers have a decent chance of catching at least one team ahead of them in the playoff standings, the 36-33 Washington Wizards, for the fifth seed. Which still wouldn't get homecourt advantage in that first round, most likely against either 3rd-seed Orlando or 4th-seed Cleveland.

Last night, for one night at least, the Sixers proved they could play with the biggest of the big boys. During this hot streak, as well as point guard Andre Miller and C Sam Dalambert have played, their best player night in and night out has been Andre Iguadola. Last night was no exception, as AI2 scored 10 straight points during an incredible 19-0 fourth-quarter run that pulled Philly ahead of Boston.

Count the Celtics themselves among NBA players impressed by the Sixer resurgence. "They will be a dangerous team in the playoffs," noted Paul Pierce after his team fell to Philly in a nationally televised game (at least on cable). Finally the rest of the country will get to see a Sixers team that, outside of Houston, may be the league's hottest team heading into the postseason. With promising but unknown kids like Thaddeus Young, Lou Williams and Willie Green contributing nightly and playing major roles, one thing you can't call this young, emerging Philadelphia team heading into the playoffs is overexposed.

How Bout Them Sixers?!

Out of the ashes of yet another lost season, where their record at one point not so long ago stood at a dismal 18-30, the Philadelphia 76ers have played themselves right back into the thick of the Eastern Conference playoff race, courtesy of a blistering 15-4 mark over their last 19 games, including high-quality wins over powerhouses like Detroit and San Antonio. This hot stretch has included their latest 7 out of 8 streak, with their only defeat coming at the hands of the NBA's best team, the Boston Celtics.

But even that Celtic loss had a positive twist. Philadelphia watched Boston score the game's first 15 points, but refused to throw in the towel, fighting their way back to tie the score at 34, and perhaps sending a message if the teams should meet again in the postseason. Right now the Sixers hold the 6th seed, and would likely square off against either the Pistons or Orlando Magic.

The playoff push continues tonight with a marquee game against old friend Allen Iverson and his Denver Nuggets, also pushing for a postseason berth. How odd that the schedule makers would provide such a fitting opponent for a Sixers team just one game below .500 at 33-34. And the numbers reflect how well this young squad has come together for coach Mo Cheeks. In fact, many of the players reflect back to a devastating loss to the Atlanta Hawks that dropped the Sixers to that 18-30 mark. Philly blew a 20-point lead in that game, and from all accounts it was that sickening feeling of letting one get away that led to the current chemistry that seems to be bonding this 76er team together.

Philly is 12-2 in the second game of their last 14 back-to-back games. Some of that of course is due to the fresh legs, but there are lots of young teams in the NBA and they're not getting it done like that. Right now by the way it's 41-40 Philly over Denver at the Wachovia Center. But it will always the Spectrum in my book. Was there only twice back in the post glory days. It was the mid-80s, a few years after their Moses-led championship peak, but that was still a formidable team the Sixers put out on the court.

Consider that not only was Doctor J still patrolling the upper reaches of the Spectrum (albeit in much less rarefied air those last few seasons; and there was already a new Air up there in the NBA just about due to burst onto the sporting universe), but his fellow forward was none other than a very young Charles Barkley -- still in his Round Mound of Rebound phase and not quite yet the Sir Charles who ultimately took his game elsewhere. Maurice Cheeks was still Cheeks, the ultimate unselfish point guard, smooth as velvet, and one of the most efficient finishers off the break the league has ever seen. Andrew Toney was still there as well, but some tragic knee injuries reduced him to a mere shadow of his lethal jump-shooting self at this point.

It was this Philly Sixer team I watched lose to the Jack Sikma led Milwaukee Bucks sometime in late April of '87 had to be. Less than a minute left in the game, Sixers down by 2, Doc J, as he often did, bringing the ball upcourt in a crucial spot. But instead of swooping in for one last magical dunk, or even one of his patented 17-foot corner bank shots or top of the key jumpers -- which by that time had long replaced much of his free-floating gravity-defying game that shook the basketball world in the 1970s like Jimi Hendrix rocked Woodstock and Monterey in the 1960s -- here was a suddenly mortal Doctor somehow tripping over his own feet at midcourt, feebly turning the ball over, giving it back to the Bucks, deflating a rabidly eager Spectrum crowd, and sending me and Izzy Korman outside into the cruel unforgiving world. In our case it was a long train ride back to New York, but even so how could any Sixers fan hold it against the Doc? He's just fortunate he had already delivered that one shining moment when they finally swept the hated Lakers back to La-La Land.

Which is why I don't think the home Philly crowd will do anything but salute the old A.I. in his first return to his old haunt. I'm a 76ers fan, and while I was glad to see him go last year, I have no hard feelings against Iverson. I will never boo a player for not performing or not getting it done even, as long as they're playing hard, hustling, giving it everything. Fans know Iverson played for the Sixers for too long and too hard to hold a grudge. I'd be shocked if Iverson didn't get at least one standing O early on.

All right! 65-58 Philly at the half! Iverson's got 12, but the new A.I. -- Andre Iguodola -- has 15, leading three Sixers in double figures. You never had three Sixers in double figures at the half when Iverson was here because obviously for better or worse he dominated the ball.

Iverson's replacement and one of the key pieces we got back for him in the trade with the Nugs, Andre Miller, has 13 with 9 assists. That's pretty decent for a half. In fact, Miller has a sky high basketball IQ, and he can control the action like vintage Jason Kidd for long stretches. Witness his recent 7-game stretch where he had an amazing assist to turnover ratio of 49-7. Everyone was calling for the Sixers to trade Miller to a contender, dump the salary, create cap room, etc. Well, now the Sixers are contenders, and it's really due as much to the 32-year-old Miller as to the development of his much younger teammates like Iguadola, Samuel Dalambert, and Willie Green, the shooting guard who returned from missing a few games tonight and contributed 10 points already tonight on 5-6 shooting from the floor.

Boy, Sixer fans should enjoy this team. It's been a long time coming. What's great is how their no-nonsense, defense-first style has won over the Philadelphia fans in a way that's usually reserved for other sports in that crazy town. But this is what sports is all about: a team coming from absolutely nowhere. The 76ers were picked dead last not only in their division by many preseason pickers, but dead last in the Eastern conference. I know Sports Illustrated had 'em picked 15th out of 15. (Hmmm, wonder where the Knicks were picked...) And if you're last in the East, then you're worst in the entire NBA, because even house pets and alien life forms know the West is the Best.

I just get this stupid, crazy feeling that the 76ers may just be destined to making some noise come the playoffs. I don't think many teams are looking forward to their physical style. It's a young, confident, humble team that doesn't know how good it can be. They remind me in that way of another East Coast sports team that peaked at just the right time and beat the can't-lose perfect powerhouse that everyone said couldn't be beaten. Are the Philadelphia 76ers the NBA's version of the Jersey Giants? Hey, you heard it here first and probably last.

Oh balls! Denver came out of the gate smoking in the second half, outscoring the Sixers 17-8 to take a 75-73 lead. Gotta go...