Just Passing Time Before The Afterlife

Just checked in with the Marquis de P., who runs the print production show here at L.TV HQ. He said I might as well come in every day this week. That is significant because it makes two straight full freelance weeks, after a month or so when I was only able to garner four days a week of work. Combine that with my recent spurt of catering, plus some editing work that I am doing for a friend, and it's all I can do to contain my lust for life.

But seriously folks. I am tired today as the midpoint of my shift is approaching, dragging ass after working a party last night at St. B's. Yesterday I worked at LT from 9:30 to 4:00, then hightailed it uptown to 98th & Fifth, arriving at just after 4:30. The scheduled event was a sit-down dinner in the gymnasium for around 100 new parents. Someone said Gifford Miller, former New York city council speaker was there, so he must have a kid starting school there. But I covered three tables along with one other person and I don't remember seeing him.

Actually, sitdown dinner means it's more like waiter service, as opposed to an easier buffet style shizzle. So the honored guests were feted with not only a cocktail hour, but then a salad, main course and coffee & dessert, all of which had to be brought to the table. By the way, the plates themselves are usually piping hot, which takes some getting used to. You also have to make sure their wine and water glasses are full, and just be generally attentive to their dining needs. Now, if you think all the fancy tablecloths & candles & wine pouring meant that at the end of the night we saw some sort of cash-denominated gratuity coming our way for all our hard work, you unfortunately were sadly mistaken. But we did get a decent meal out of it, which has to count for something.

We were out of there at around 10:30 after clearing all the tables, folding them up, stacking the chairs and putting them away, getting all the plates and silverware and glassware boxed and put away. We had a good crew though of around 10, including Mike, Isiah, Ed (captain), Quentin and that real low talking Asian guy whose name I can never recall, as well as some attractive females, led by the suddenly popular Ashley, whose winsome good looks and engaging personality cannot be overstated. That was the second time I worked with her recently, and I spent a large portion of the night thinking of ways to stay close to her side, or her front or even back. I spent other times trying to convince myself I might have a shot with her. You have to project a confidence, a self-assuredness, even a cockiness, if I can still use that word on the Internet, to have any chance at all. One thing attractive girls hate is neediness and desperation. I learned that lesson the hard way, if we ever can be said to really learn anything in this lifetime. Or maybe all learning is recollection, as one of the Greek philosophers whose name currently escapes me was wont to aver.

Anyway, I had trouble falling asleep when I got home, maybe overtired or too wired to hit the sack right away. I listened to the end of the MNF game on the radio, then watched an episode of Globetrekker starting at midnight on Channel 25, WNYE, which passes for one of my cable channels, along with Channel 31, the old Pax Channel, now calling itself Independent
Television, or the i network. Whatever. Lately they've been running a slew of bad 1970s TV fare, including reruns of Welcome Back Kotter, Charlie's Angels, Green Acres, Bonanza -- sort of like a poor man's TVLand! Last week I caught a Kotter where once-promising actor and future right-wing snot James Woods played what else but a teacher. (I just looked at the Channel 31 listings for this weekend, and Sunday they're showing a bunch of Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns, including Fistful of Dollars and The Good, The Bad & The Ugly -- always a good thing.)

It was sometime after 2:00 by the time sweet sleep snuck upon me unsuspectingly, and just after 7:00am when my trusty clock radio sprang to life, for some reason set to the dreadful Lite-FM station.

And that brings us up to date. Back today at L.T., where it's been slow, with nothing passing my desk all morning. I've got a few other projects I have to do some research on, but otherwise I remain blessedly free of obligations and responsibilities -- free to live, free to be, free to blog. I know it's times like these when you all wish you could be me, but don't be a hater: it's unbecoming and looks tawdry on you. Peace out...

More Romo Reverberations

Starting centerfielder for the New York Yankees.

Starting center on the Los Angeles Lakers.

And starting quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys.

Those are among the most high profile positions in the entire sports world.

Now one Tony Romo joins the list of those who have starting QB for the Dallas Cowboys permanently affixed to their name. It's a list that includes legends like Roger Staubach and Troy Aikman and successful, quality players like Danny White and Don Meredith.

And if it's too soon to get carried away with one great win Sunday Night, too soon to put the player in Canton as Romo's coach likes to put it, it's not too soon to assess the enthusiasm and spirit the new quarterback has sparked throughout the organization -- players, fans, coaches.

The biggest ripple effect can be registered in the improved demeanor of the head coach, Bill Parcells, whose attitude and outlook seem to have changed 180 degrees in the course of one gut wrenching roller coaster of an NFL week -- from the debacle on Monday Night Football to the stunning victory Sunday night led by the player he has been grooming ever since Parcells took the reins of the team before the 2003 season.

It was that year that Parcells signed the free agent Romo, who had a prolific college career playing Division I-AA football at Eastern Illinois, and stashed him away while the carousel of starting Cowboys QBs spun its wheels around, and it wasn't always pretty -- spitting out Quincy Carter, Chad Hutchison, Drew Henson, Vinny Testaverde and Drew Bledsoe. All the while Romo studied and waited and practiced, waiting for a turn that might have never arrived had the vicissitudes of opportunity and circumstance played out in a thousand other, more likely ways. Then the increasingly ineffective, often poor play of Bledsoe forced Parcells' hand. Had the move not worked out, the fallout would have been immediate and widespread -- and you could've bet large sums of money it would not have been positive.

Now it's his job to keep. In my opinion, he just showed too much to not be the real deal. You pick up a few things after watching and playing the game through the decades. As Parcells himself has said for years, Confidence is borne of demonstrated ability. Add one other thing to that equation: when a quarterback demonstrates a certain talent, the rest of the squad sees their confidence increase -- and success feeds on itself. It's a beautiful thing to watch, and to see it rising up from the ground floor is one of the main reasons we keep watching.

Tony Terrific: A Player Discovered, A Season Resurrected

With his inspired, gutty performance last night leading the Dallas Cowboys to a come-from-behind, surprisingly decisive road victory over the Carolina Panthers, 35-14, all QB Tony Romo did was save a season, reenergize a coach and quite possibly resurrect a franchise that as little as six days ago seemed headed for another disappointing campaign. In what some were calling a desperation move, Bill Parcells replaced his starting QB for the last year and a half with the untested, undrafted four-year reserve from Eastern Illinois, and now those same doubters are probably hailing the beginning of the Tony Romo Era.

John Madden said Romo's mobility and quick release are reminiscent of Joe Montana, others cited Brett Favre for their similar gunslinger approach to the game. In a game and a half, Romo has thrown for 497 yards and 3 TDs, completing 38-61 passes against the Giants and Panthers, two of the more formidable defensive units in the NFL. Last night he aced his first career start and helped Dallas set a franchise record with 25 points in the fourth quarter.

There is nothing that energizes a team and a franchise more than getting good play out of a young QB. And Romo's performance last night, bringing his team methodically back from a 14-0 deficit in front of a hostile crowd, showing arm strength, touch, poise and the ability to make something out of nothing with his legs, cannot be overestimated. The proof was in the suddenly animated Parcells at the end of the game -- backslapping Tony Romo and the rest of "my kids," playfully joking with "The Player," planting kisses on his guys, and just looking like there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Such was the spark Romo provided to the entire Dallas sidelines.

The Dallas defense turned nasty and stingy after Carolina jumped out to its first quarter 14-0 lead, shutting them out over the final three quarters and holding the Panthers to a paltry 204 yards of total offense, led by outstanding efforts by LB Greg Ellis and CBs Terence Newman and Anthony Henry. (see boxscore). The beleaguered offensive line turned in a solid showing, keeping Romo clean for most of his 36 attempts, and opening up nice lanes in the running game, which churned out 141 yards and 3 TDs between Julius Jones and Marion Barber on 33 carries. WR Terrell Owens was terrific, turning in his first 100-yard receiving game as a Cowboy, while TE Jason Witten ultimately may be the biggest beneficiary down the line of Romo's quick reads, hauling in 6 passes for 80 yards and a TD.

Considering the quality of opponent and overall circumstances, it was easily the Cowboys' most impressive game of the season, and maybe going back three or four seasons -- in other words, the entire Parcells era in Dallas. There was no denying it was the most noteworthy performance, given what was at stake and who was doing the staking at QB.

Now, Julius Jones may be my favorite player in all of football, but you simply cannot ignore Marion Barber and have to find out ways to get him the ball. Barber runs with a passion and authority you don't see every day, and on his two TDs he simply wouldn't be denied. Barber could start for more than a few teams, but the Cowboys will hang on to him for as long as they can. It is a good problem to have -- two running backs who can get the job done. It's obvious Bill knows running backs, plucking Jones (currently 6th in the NFL in rushing with 616 yards) in the second round of the 2004 draft after trading out of the first round, then stealing Barber a year later in the fourth round.

But the story of the night was 26-year-old Tony Romo, who shares a birthday (April 21) with yours truly; if you don't think that's big, then you're not paying attention. Al Michaels and Madden were both singing his praises all night long, saying he has that "it" quality that top players just seem to resonate. If Drew Bledsoe was a latter day version of statuesque pocket passer Craig Morton, then Romo may be our new version of Roger Staubach -- a mobile, smart, efficient, all-out field general. I also see a lot of Chad Pennington in him, maybe even a little Doug Flutie. Not too bad.

The first thing you notice about Romo is his quick release. He holds the ball high, near his ear, which allows him to pull the trigger quickly. Romo can also make all the tough throws -- the deep out, the deep slant. He made a terrific play where he stepped sideways in the pocket, avoiding a rusher, then firing a rope around 25 yards downfield. But he made big plays all night, doggedly overcoming at least three first down passes called back on offensive penalties. He rarely forced anything into tight spaces like he did last week against the Giants, and the one pick he threw probably should not have been an interception at all, with both Madden and Michaels expressing doubt that the CB had possession of the ball before going out of bounds.

The whole team seemed to rally around the upgraded play at the QB position. You cannot overestimate the effect it has on a game when a quarterback can make a play with his legs after the defense has covered everyone downfield and the play breaks down; it's as draining to the defense as it is uplifting to the offense. We had exactly zero of those types of plays with Bledsoe as QB, and had around 4 of them in the first half alone last night.

So the season has been officially resurrected. The Cowboys are 4-3, still only one game behind the first place Giants, but these last 9 games are going to be a treat for long-time Cowboy fans like myself. We may have found our franchise QB of the future, after a long and often painful search to replace Troy Aikman after the 2000 season.

For one week at least, no one can doubt that after one of the most discouraging defeats in Cowboys regular season history against the Giants on MNF, the team, the franchise and the coach have rarely had more reason for optimism. And judging by his wide grin of satisfaction on display at the end of last night's game, it looks like the Big Tuna isn't going anywhere for a long, long while. From the looks of Parcells after we clinched the win last night, he's simply having too much fun to quit now.

Good timing yesterday as The New York Times Sunday sports supplement, Play, featured Bill Parcells on the cover. The well written, in-depth story followed Parcells around for one week (before the week two Washington game), giving me a new appreciation for what drives Parcells. As writer Michael Lewis succintly captured it for those wondering why Parcells continues to push himself at age 65 after his Hall of Fame legacy has long been assured: he has come to terms with the discovery that he needs the game far more than it needs him. His biggest fear is waking up one day and finding out that he has none of "any guys" around him, even more than the stress of the job that forces most coaches out of the business.

"He was right: there’s always something. It’s in the nature of the job. “Guys can’t take it,” he says, “that’s why they get out.” Some of the best coaches the game ever saw — Bill Walsh, John Madden — quit simply because the strain was too great. Parcells won’t quit. He now knows that about himself: he needs it more than it needs him. He just turned 65. His marriage is over, and his daughters are grown. “My whole life I’ve always had some guys,” he says. “You gotta have some guys. That’s probably one of the fears I have when I get older: that I won’t have any guys.” His younger brother Don died last year. Most of his close friends who haven’t died are back in New Jersey. His legacy is secure: he will one day have a bust in the football Hall of Fame. But then his legacy was secure in 2003, before he took the Cowboys’ head-coaching job. Before he did so, he had a surprising number of plaintive phone calls from former players. “My old players didn’t want me to take the job,” he says. “They were afraid I’d embarrass myself. They didn’t get it. It’s not about your legacy.”

As Parcells describes the world of coaching, it's an occupation where you always have to prove yourself and start over again each week, you're only as good as your last game, and the losses are more frustrating than the victories are rewarding: "What this is, he can’t — or won’t — specify. But when your life has been defined by the pressure of competition and your response to it, there’s a feeling you get, and it’s hard to shake. You wake up each morning knowing the next game is all that matters. If you fail in it, nothing you’ve done with your life counts. By your very nature you always have to start all over again, fresh. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but it’s nonetheless addictive. Even if you have millions in the bank and everyone around you tells you that you’re a success, you seek out that uncomfortable place. And if you don’t, you’re on the wrong side of the thin curtain that separates Cyclone Hart from Vito Antuofermo. “It’s a cloistered, narrow existence that I’m not proud of,” says Parcells. “I don’t know what’s going on in the world. And I don’t have time to find out. All I think about is football and winning. But hey — ” He sweeps his hand over his desk and points to the office that scarcely registers his presence. “Who’s got it better than me?”

I must say that I have rarely been prouder to be a Cowboys fan, nor can I remember being as optimistic and upbeat about the team's future, with the possible exception of the early '90s Jimmy Johnson era. There's not a day that goes by that Dallas Cowboys fans shouldn't cross their fingers and hope Parcells sticks around Dallas for a long, long time. His latest discovery, Tony Romo, shows he may still have that magic touch and may know a little something about football after all.

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The World Series just finished between the St. Louis Cardinals and Detroit Tigers was notable for its lack of juice. I mean, that series could have gone on for another two weeks and not provide any memorable moments. It just goes to show that as if you don't have a team to either really hate to root against or really like and root for, there's no emotion for the fan. With either the Mets or Yankees in the Series, that dilemma would have been solved...

I wrote a post last week saying that how Fox broadcasts baseball is like an annoying distraction wrapped inside a sideshow, and over the weekend Richard Sandomir, the New York Times Sports TV critic, provided the gory details in an article entitled Action Wasn't Always On Camera. In Game 4 of the series alone, cameras cut away from the action on the field and to the crowd in the stands a staggering 222 times, and cut to "action" in the dugout another 153 times. This is some Fox Sports producer's idea of cutting-edge broadcasting, but it really takes away from the game. There's no reason to make a fetish of the fans in the stands; they're not that interesting to look at. When did it become fashionable to not show the players themselves? As Sandomir rightly put it: "Here are my simple rules: If fans are genuinely joyous or completely deflated, show them judiciously. Otherwise, don’t interrupt the rhythm of a game or an at-bat. Some of the best crowd shots at Busch were the most distant ones, which showed the sea of red cheering wildly." Couldn't agree more.

Worst stat line of the NFL weekend goes to Tampa Bay QB Bruce Gradkowski, whose 20-48 pasing for a scant 139 yards (less than 3 yards per pass attempt) and putrid passer rating of 41.7 only begins to tell the tale of his woeful ineptitude. Now he wasn't helped at all by receivers showing a bad case of alligator arms and dropping catchable balls on more than one occasion, as well as swirling Giants Stadium winds, but you can't win with that kind of QB play in the NFL ... Jets QB Chad Pennington also stunk the place up, posting a career low 21.1 QB rating in a dismal 20-13 loss to the Cleveland Browns, completing only 11 of 28 passes for a measly 108 yards through the air...

Interesting story related by Al Michaels last nite about Romo. It turns out that New Orleans head coach Gary Peyton also saw something in the QB and, when he got the Saints' job, inquired about his old pupil Tony Romo being available before making a move to acquire Drew Brees from the Chargers, but Big Bill squashed that notion immediately, and now the little-known Romo is paying dividends after four years of grooming. Incidentally, Peyton played QB at the same school as Romo, Eastern Illinois, about 20 years prior. Goes to show how big a role coincidence and accidents play in sports...

Maybe my glasses are a bit rosy because of the sweet Cowboys victory last night night, but NBC does the best job of all the networks -- CBS, ESPN, Fox -- covering the NFL. It starts with the announcing crew -- Al Michaels being the smoothest play-by-play guy, John Madden hands down still the leading color guy. Their sideline reporter Andrea Mitchell is not only extremely knowledgeable but remains thankfully unobtrusive relative to the broadcast as a whole. Just a quality broadcast, especially compared to the horror show that is ESPN Monday Night Football, and NBC's pregame highlight show is also very good.

Filling In The Blanks

Currently in the midst of a very productive spurt of personal activity, today marking 11 out of 12 days where I've worked either freelancing or catering. Last week worked Monday-Thursday at LT, off Friday, then catering Saturday & Sunday evenings, followed by Monday-Wednesday LT, where I sit again today, just waiting for something to cross my desk here. The other day M. told me he would need me only Thursday OR Friday, but then A. called out of the blue and told me that C.D. at C. B. wanted me for a project EITHER Thursday or Friday. I checked back with M. & we decided on Friday, so yesterday (Thursday) I got to fill in the "off" day with a full shift going over the latest edition of a textbook, which C. told me was scheduled to have a print run of 300,000 copies. I was hoping it would turn into a multi-day project, but I was able to complete it in one long day.

I had to compare this year's proofs to last year's edition, making sure all the test sections looked exactly the same, down to page borders, font size, etc., something like 500 pages' worth. But I worked hard, giving them their money's worth, to the point where my eyes were going crazy by the time I got outta there at around 6:30. An added bonus was the free food the company puts out for their employees. I don't know if it was left over from a meeting, but my ears perked up when I heard someone mention there was food in the pantry, and over the course of the day I consumed two or three mini muffins, a small apple pastry, half a turkey sandwich, some pasta, a banana, a few cookies, a hot chocolate... I was all over that food spread like Mark Foley at a Young Republicans convention. But for some reason I was ravenous all day and went out in search of chicken noodle soup, but after a stop at the C.B. cafeteria and then a quick walk around the lower 60s and Columbus Ave. proved not only fruitless but ultimately soupless, I hit a nearby hot dog stand for a lukewarm frank with mustard, onions and kraut, unsatisfying to my discriminating palette, spoiled by all those years of delicious free dogs at my Uncle George's cart at William & John Street when I worked downtown, proving all dogs are not the same.

But in between my chowin' I buckled down with no computer to distract me. When I turn it on, my work ethic is unparalleled -- in the good sense of the word. Usually in the past they had me comparing hard copy to the online version, but this time there wasn't even a computer at the workspace where I sat, but I got over 8 hours of work there, and CB pays slightly more per hour than LT.

Monday I have a catering gig at night, in addition to the usual LT shift that day. I've been averaging 4 days here steadily since late June, so I must be doing something right. And not to flog a deceased thoroughbred anymore than absolutely necessary, but I feel more certain than at any previous point that I made the right decision not to work at the hotel and instead continue pursuing my lucrative freelance career. Luckily LT came along when it did, and with CB and S.Comm in the loop, in addition to the catering, which will probably average around two events a week, things are looking up. I just figured I made over 700 beans this week with the four LT shifts and the one-day CB gig, which is a pretty good week in the freelance biz.

Also, I edit the occasional foodservice proposal, and I have another one to go over today, about 3 or 4 pages, which is another coupla hours of work; I just went over it once, but I like to put it down and come back to it after a while and look at it fresh. So far I haven't had any calls for EagleEye Proofreading, my own editing/proofreading company of which I spoke to you of which in a previous post in a galaxy far far away, but I haven't put up all that many business cards. I carry them around with me every day, but then I get home and I realize I forgot to leave them anywhere. I did find out the other day I may now be eligible for benefits from A., my freelance agency, because I've got enuf hours built up now. I will talk to P.C. at the Chicago office later and find out more about it, as well as about any training I can take. As usual, you-all will be the first to know what I know as soon as I know it...

Sports A Go-Go

The less said about that Cowboys-Giants horrorshow the other nite on MNF the better. The less thought about it, even mo' better. A litany of mistakes, miscues and mistimed plays later, we sit at 3-3, 10 games left to go, and it looks like Drew Bledsoe's days as starting QB material are over. Tony Romo started the second half and showed flashes -- flashes of effectiveness, flashes of brilliance, mixed in with all too many ill-advised throws and decisions -- throwing for 2 TDs to go along with 3 INTs. But you know what, better a first-year starter makes those mistakes than a 14-year vet; at least Romo has a chance to learn from his struggles -- something Bledsoe has shown no indication he's capable of.

As I said to my friend Tom right before halftime, after Bledsoe threw one of those Ya Gotta Be Shitting Me interceptions down at the goal line when, as poorly as they played and as much as the officials were doing their best to tilt the game in favor of the Giants, Dallas was still only down 12-7, Bledsoe is basically making the same mistakes a rookie would make. Hey, we gave Bledsoe a shot, now we have to find out if Romo can be the franchise QB going forward. That's what they should use the rest of the season to determine. Let the Tony Romo era officially commence.

The Cowboys are a young team on defense and on offense, except for the starting WRs. There is no imperative to win it all this year at any costs, except for the obvious: Bill Parcells is not getting any younger, and a few more games like the other night and you could see him hightailing out of Big D sooner rather than later. But he's assembled enough talent to undeniably have the team moving in the right direction. Unfortunately, he might not be the one to reap the benefit. That honor may go to another coach who might not even be with the team at this moment. How about Jeff Fisher being let go by the Tennessee Titans after this year and Jerry Jones scooping him up? That's a possibility because, with Sean Peyton getting the Saints job last year, there is really no head coaching level talent being groomed on the current staff.

Interesting article I saw today from a Boston area writer on the occasion of Bledsoe being traded to the Bills four years ago after Tom Brady beat him out. It touches on eerily familiar terrain in terms of Bledsoe being a standup guy but no longer an elite QB, not being interested in grooming young QBs, etc. Seeing Bledsoe's sulky demeanor on the sidelines Monday after being replaced by Romo was a case of deja vu all over again.

Now let's move on to the ESPN telecast itself, the first time I had seen a Monday Night Game this year. From the computer generated opening sequence to the incessant Tiki Barber clips, the nonstop chatter of their two sideline reporters, the constant interviews, to the announcers themselves, it was an exercise in aggravation.

Monday Night Football started over 35 years ago with the then-unheard-of notion of putting three combustible egos in one broadcasting booth and letting the sparks fly. And it worked because it was new and different at the time, and people therefore expected the unexpected. But that was when the trio consisted of Howard Cossell, Don Meredith and Frank Gifford. Giving hard new evidence that nothing in American culture seems to ever change for the better, as well as ammunition to those who insist that anything and everything ESPN touches usually turns to crap (I mean ESPN TV; ESPN Radio is actually pretty good), viewers in 2006 are now subjected to the ravings and ramblings disguised as commentary of Joe Theisman, Tony Kornheiser and Mike Tirico. When we go from Dandy Don Meredith to Theisman, and from Cossell to Kornheiser, it's been more than a long strange trip and more like a bad national nightmare. The difference being, everybody loved Meredith, while nobody will go on record saying they can even stand Theisman. In all fairness, Theisman has mellowed in recent years, but he is the only one in the booth capable of making a cogent football-related point.

Tirico's biggest crime is his blandness, which is not all that big a negative for a play by play man. (See Gifford, Frank.) Theisman, you know what you're getting with him: a motormouth who seems intent on spinning the action so that he can bring up his NFL career as often as possible, even though he's been out of the league for close to 20 years now. Kornheiser is the biggest offender with his stream of consciousness monologues alternated with vapid, corny repartee usually aimed at Theisman. He asked so many clueless questions on fundamental elements of the game that even casual fans with a passing interest in football have mastered that you half-expected him to ask, "So Joe, is it still 10 yards for a first down?" I mean, if you don't know the game inside and out, then you have no business being in the fucking booth. Kornheiser is not only totally unfunny, but his knowledge of the game is closer to Dennis Miller than John Madden for godsakes. He actually used the "I thought he had a rib joint" line when Tony Romo entered the game. Embarrassing.

Then there are the sideline gals. Michell Tafoya is okay if unnecessary, as are all sideline reporters in my opinion. Suzy Kolber is a lethal combination: so in love with the sound of her own voice while having no filter that knows when enough is enough. On and on she goes, through game action -- babbling like an inane drone, as Cossell himself would have been the first to point out.

The game itself was basiscally a subplot, playing a distant second fiddle to promoting one of the most phony, annoying, self-centered athletes in modern sports history: Tiki Barber. Around every, oh, 6 or 7 seconds you could expect a video clip of Barber giving us his take on everything from his impending retirement, the Giants' chances of winning the Super Bowl and his new children's book, to Pluto being downgraded from a planet, the War in Iraq, global warming and advice on the best time to plant this year's hydrangeas. The announcers seemed positively smitten with closeups of Barber's gleaming set of enormous white teeth framed in a mouth that appeared to be the size of a cartoon rhinoceros, so smug and satisfied with himself. Alas, it was all too fugacious, but the sight of Barber sprawled out cold on the Texas Stadium turf after a vicious hit by Dallas' DeMarcus Ware warmed my heartstrings there for a moment. I would have settled for a career-ending concussion or contusion or something brain-related, nothing life-threatening mind you. Hey, that's football. Like fatalities and casualties among your enemies in warfare, you root for injuries and hardship for your opponent in the sport of football. That's just the way it is. If anything, the Cowboys are not gonna start winning again until they develop more of a nasty/mean streak. Bottom line: nice guys do not intimidate, and this is a league and a sport where it's kill or be killed.

The broadcast also featured more in-game interviews than a week's worth of Nightline. In addition to the prerecorded Barber spots, viewers who naively thought they were tuning in to watch a football game were instead bombarded by lengthy interviews with the likes of Hank Williams Jr., Emmitt Smith, and Jerry Jones, interspersed with ex-Giant/crackhead Lawrence Taylor intoning mindlessly on the Cowboys-Giants rivalry. All these interruptions only distracted from the telecast.

And it's not only football. The Mets-Cards series, especially when the games were at Shea, served only as a backdrop for endlessly jarring shots of individual fans in the crowd. Now, we know the crowd is gonna be there at a sporting event, that's a given. But aren't we there to watch the game itself, and not the people who are watching the game? Call me crazy, but if you're lucky enough to get tickets to a playoff game, don't you focus on the players? Sure, you look at the people surrounding you once in a while, but you can see your fellow fan anytime -- on the subway, while at work -- but how often are you that close to your favorite team? Why should a telecast be any different? There are constant cuts from the pitcher to the crowd back to the batter back to the crowd back to the pitcher back to the fans and finally here's the pitch. Enough already. We don't need a closeup of some 50-year-old fat guy in a Jose Reyes jersey. Some producer thought it was a good idea. Trust me, it's not. The problem is that the network gets some foolish notion that showing the stands constantly makes for an innovative broadcast, but they are not the ones being subjected to it at home.
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It seems former Cowboy great Emmitt Smith is warming the hearts of millions with his scintillating turns on the dance floor on ABC's Dancing With The Stars. I haven't watched much of it but whenever I come across the show it seems Emmitt is always on. I really can't take my eyes off his dance partner, she is just smoking! Always a class act in his playing days, Emmitt is just a down to earth superstar, which is a rare combo. And he is not disgracing the Cowboys brand so to speak in any way.

Speaking of disgraces, yes, Dallas may have lost those two Super Bowls to the Steelers in the 1970s, and you can't get those back anymore, but if you told me we could add those two Lombardi trophies to the display cabinet outside Jerry Jones office at Valley Ranch, but the price would be that our QB, Roger Staubach, would go on to play the absolute fool a la their QB, Terry Bradshaw, for the next, oh, 30 or so years, that is a price I would not be willing to pay. Someone thinks it's cute that Bradshaw acts like a total dope every week on the Fox NFL pre-game show, coming off like a white trash redneck dumbass. Staubach, meanwhile, retains his dignity and regal bearing to this day.

George Allen Sr., of course, was the head coach of the Cowboys' chief rival, the Washington Redskins, for many years and was singularly instrumental in forging the bad blood between the two franchises that persists to this day. Never mind that he cultivated an unhinged, mentally unbalanced persona; we all thought at the time that it was nothing more, nothing less than an act designed to get the best out of his teams and to appeal to his players' most elemental emotions, which can never be underestimated in a sport where motivation is an essential cornerstone of game preparation. Well, it looks like the apple doesn't fall all that far from the old oak tree, because of the scores of candidates running for office in next month's elections, no one has had their sanity called into question with more frequency than Allen's son, George Jr., whose stream of campaign faux pas has provided a never-ending source of amusement and disdain. So much so that a recent report indicated that Allen's own handlers have advised the racist blowhard to just shut up until after the election, lest he permanently lodge foot in mouth or head up ass beyond all hope of repair.

So yeah, some troubled times in Big D, but sometimes you are defined just as much by what you are not as by what you are. Now let me get on the horn to the Big Tuna and share my latest plans for resurrecting the franchise.

In The News & Out Of Their Minds

In America there is no shortage of evidence that stupidity has become its own cottage industry, what with the preponderance of dumbness being glorified these days. The tide of pure daftness and idiocy seen in today's culture, in franchises like Jackass, America's Funniest Videos and Fear Factor and exemplified by mentally challenged personalities like Adam Sandler and Paris Hilton, has inevitably manifested itself in new depths of doltish behavior among our ordinary citizenry, who resourcefully think of new and original methods to compete with the depraved imbecility of their more famous cohorts in cluelessness.

To wit, I give you three recent examples of Americans who simply refuse to follow in the foolish steps of their forebears, instead insisting on blazing new pathways in pathetic propesterousness. And if congratulations are hardly in order for these exploits, perhaps a salute to this new kind of insanity would lend some perspective to an interesting but disturbing course the nation has taken.

29-year-old Mark Downs is the Little League coach who impulsively decided it was so important to win a baseball game about to be played by eight- and nine-year-old kids that he bribed one of his own players to hit a teammate with a baseball so he could not play in the upcoming game. Now, the kid who got beaned was autistic, and Downs thought playing the kid would harm his chances of advancing in the playoffs. So with 25 bucks of his hard-earned money, the nefarious plan was set in motion, and now Downs faces up to five years in prison after being convicted on charges of corrupting minors and criminal solicitation to commit simple assault. Now he gets his chance to stoke his competitive juices on the prison yard ballfield. Hey, they say playing sports builds character.

20-year-old Jake Brahm apparently craved attention so much he thought nothing of using the Internet to post fake warnings of terrorist threats against seven NFL stadiums last week. Brahm, a Wisconsin native and undoubtedly a disgruntled Green Bay Packers fan, probably reasoned that anything trumped watching his underachieving team suffer through another losing Sunday, thus the feeble attempt to prevent that weekend's slate of games from occurring. Nice try, Jake, but funny thing: there happens to be a proverbial plethora of high technology available that can pretty much trace anything you do on the computer, from porn and hate mail to, yes, ill-advised threats to national security. The FBI may not be able to catch the Anthrax killer after five years or locate Osama, but some bored kid with a laptop? We're your guys!

29-year-old Michael Johnson is -- er, was -- the convicted death row inmate who gave new meaning to the word impatient. Not content to let the government do the dirty work for him, Johnson enterprisingly fashioned his own demise just hours before the criminal justice system was set to officially inject him with a lethal dose of whatever it is they use in Texas; maybe it's called Bush Juice in honor of the former governor known for the frequency of state-sponsored executions during his tenure in office.


But back to our man Johnson. Not only did he set the land speed record for inmate killing himself closest to scheduled execution time (an oh-so-fugacious 15 hours away), but after stabbing himself with a makeshift razor, he thoughtfully found the time to leave behind a still-undisclosed message written in his own blood on the wall of his cell. Strikes me as an odd time and place to begin a literary career, but perhaps it was regret expressed at missing out on his last meal before he went bye-bye. Let's hope the money the state saved on Johnson's execution was passed on to the taxpayers. We hate to see ineffecient government spending here at WardensWorld.
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Unsettlingly Ironic Postscript:
No sooner had I finished the above post than another act of brazen sporting-related dementia pops up in the news. In a story dated a mere four hours ago, it seems 40-year-old Wayne Derkotch of Philadelphia, presumably a typically well-adjusted Eagles fan, became so irate over his 7-year-old son's lack of playing time on the local peewee football team that he pulled a firearm on the head coach. Not content with the normal spouting of malicious verbal abuse that accompanies most youth sporting events, Derkotch's proactive approach on behalf of his little darling also went unappreciated, resulting in charges of aggravated assault and related offenses for the elder Derkotch. Nice role model for the youth of America!

Onions At One O'Clock

I Could Do With The Money, You Know That I'm So Wiped Out With Things As They Are

Beginning with the important disclaimer that I am always grateful for the opportunity, I nevertheless will use some of this precious blog space to vent, for lack of a better term, over the many hardships your narrator is forced to endure as he wends his way through the high-pressure world of high-stakes catering. After working Monday thru Thursday of last week proofreading at LT, I was booked for two weekend parties, back to back and belly to belly, hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles, or at least the Big Knife & Fork of Damocles -- Saturday night at Fordham Prep in Los Bronx, then last night at Birch Wathen School on the Upper East. With no Yankees to be found in the World Series for a third straight year, and the Cowboys not playing on Sunday, it wasn't like I was missing anything important, so why not make some much-needed cash by actively participating in the employment sector.

I always dread the Fordham gigs because it's such a fucking ordeal ... not so much to get to, but to get back from. I take the 4 train about, oh, 15 stops from the 59th/Lex. stop, then it's a good 15-minute walk to the campus, where I always get lost trying to find the high school. The party itself was some faculty get-together, a buffet style dinner for around 130 souls, with a dance floor set up in the middle of the dining hall and DJs playing a weirdly disjointed melange of soul, '50s crap, salsa, mixed in with modern-day musical frauds like Justin Timberlake. We were at least one staff person short, and so we hustled to cover all the tables.

I wasn't crazy about the captain that night, the person entrusted with the mission of running the rest of the caterers, coordinating the event so that it runs like a well-oiled machine. She shall remain nameless so that if by small chance she stumbles upon this wildly popular Internet blog, I can maintain at least a possible plausibility of denial. I am not hard to get along with, as long as you're down to earth and have a sense of humor, we can deal. Now, I know I am still technically a novice in the catering biz, but there were like 30 instances where I felt condescended to, and that's not the best way to get the most out of staff. For instance, you don't have to point out that a rack of glasses is called a "lug" -- after working close to 50 parties over the last six months, I think I absorbed that bit of arcana, thank you very much.

Anyway, long story short, we got out of there around 10:00 Saturday night -- too late for the 9:40 Metro North, too early for the 10:40. So four of us walked in the direction of the subway. Instead of joining the rest of the crew taking the D train, which doesn't help me as it's a West Side line, I walked a few more blocks to get the 4 train downtown. It's a dicey neighborhood even in the daylight hours, so after dark let's say it's best to remain vigilant and alert at all times. But as soon as I swiped my Metrocard in the turnstile and headed up the stairs marked Brooklyn/Manhattan, I noticed yellow police tape barring the way. Great. Then a small fucking sign on the token booth informed me that to get downtown, you had to take the uptown 4 train three stops and then change over. Just what I wanted to do, head further uptown! So I got off at Bedford, crossed over to the other side, and then waited like 10 minutes before the train rumbled through the Bronx night into the station. Even on a Saturday night, the trains in New York are filled, so I couldn't even get a seat right away. It took about, oh, a half-hour to get to 59th Street, where I switch over to the N/W line. I could not believe how many people were already waiting on the platform at this hour (11:15 PM or so), going my way, absolutely no difference from a rush hour crowd. Luckily the train came like a minute later, and I was able to get a seat in the last subway car. I had missed the opening game of the World Series, no biggie, so I had a quick snack and, exhaused, fell right to sleep.

The next day I had to be at the school by 3:30. This was a full-on sit down dinner for outside appraisers (don't ask) in the school cafeteria -- replete with white tablecloths and napkins, three different kinds of glassware -- plus accompanying events in the first floor lobby and second floor library. This time it seemed we had too many staff, which can be just as inefficient as having too few; there being a fine line between the two contingencies. The captain this time I had worked with before, but she also will remain nameless as I reserve the right to say bad things about her later in the post. We had the requisite gay black caterer (seemingly a strictly enforced federal statute in the foodservice/catering business) who will invariably turn out to be a dancer/singer/performer. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it seems your homosexual class tends to believe they have an inherent monopoly on interesting by the very nature of their "chosen" orientation. I was in no mood to dissuade or disabuse people of that notion on this day, but let me here stress that I will also reserve that pleasure for another day. Usually I enjoy the camraderie of my fellow wage slaves, but somehow on this day, not so much. So it goes...

I spent most of the day passing out appetizers and bussing and prepping while the more seasoned catering veterans interacted with the distinguished diners. I had the honor of "plating the salads" before the guests arrived. For some reason it matters a great deal to somebody somewhere that the salads be uniformly symmetrical in appearance, to the minutest detail. I kid you not that we were directed to make sure the sliced red onion on the salad plate was set at 1:00 relative to where the person would be sitting! Being a natural questioner of authority and seemingly senseless edicts, it was difficult for me to refrain from belittling such a practice. As I've found out from experience, my running commentary on such matters is not only futile, but also unappreciated, so I contented myself within the safe confines of my interior monologue. In fact, if anything, I often surprise myself with how civil and friendly I am as a cog in the worldwide service industry, given my confirmed status as a misanthropic malcontent; didn't think I had it in me. (Whenever I feel incivility creeping up on me, I repeat the trustworthy maxim, first uttered I believe by Noel Coward: No One Can Make You Feel Inferior Without Your Consent.)

By this stage in my life I had hoped to be wealthy beyond all societal bounds of taste and decency, with a successful literary career well under way. So imagine if you will the bitter disappointment that accompanies me as I am forced to wait on and serve people whose only advantage over me in most cases is an accident of birth and/or good fortune. Alas, my only chance for easy monetary riches probably vanished years ago upon my father estranging himself from his mom and dad, who turned out to be worth much more than anyone realized when you consider their accumulated property and various other sundries, such as my grandmother's extensive antiques collection. Because of the fractured relationship between my dad and his parents, I grew up without knowing my paternal grandparents until I was almost 13 years old, during a brief rapprochement which ended almost as quickly as it began -- the upshot being my father excluded from the will. I can't say I blame my dad for most of the bad blood: he found out that he had to grow up in stultifying poverty as a direct consequence of my grandfather having two families and two wives in two different states. The phrase "short end of the stick" was one I heard uttered on a consistent basis growing up. But that's another story for another post. (I love you, Dad, and I know you did the best you could.)

Anyway, after the guests left, we started breaking down the party, clearing the tables, stacking racks of glasses, plates, cups, etc., the hundred different things you need to do before you can change out of your monkey suit and get the hell out of there. We were about halfway done when the captain told me to make a plate of food, as per usual: we eat what the guests eat provided there's enuf to go around, and there usually is; sometimes we eat during the party one or two at a time, sometimes at the end. So I make a plate for myself, grabbing one of the last pieces of salmon, and sit down at the table where the kitchen staff is eating along with the captain. But as soon as I sit down and literally put fork to mouth, she informs that she didn't say I could eat now, just make a plate and then continue cleaning. For some reason, I thought that was petty, because I could have wolfed down the small amount of food I had (small piece of fish, small salad, some rice) in less than 5 minutes, and she had already been sitting there for close to half an hour while we cleaned up, and two staffers had already changed and gone. I mean, this was like five hours into the shift. It would be nice to eat the fish while it was still on the business side of room temperature, but okay, I can deal.

So another 20 or so minutes passes, with me and three other guys continuing to work the room. They had already made up their plates and set them aside, but when I looked around for my own plate, it was gone. I asked Ms. Captaincy where my plate was, as it was right next to her when I last espied it. She said she hadn't noticed it was gone, real blase about it. My temper is legendary, or as it's euphemistically called these days, I have had anger management issues in the past (got that piece of the old DNA from dear old dad), but I am usually able to hold it in; I have gradually learned it's best not to say anything if you possibly can, rather than say exactly what's on your mind and have to regret it later ... it's a fine line between holding your feelings in too much and letting the dam of emotions burst. And yes, I probably overreacted, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I was very pissed off. I didn't yell or say anything rash yesterday, but when I found out there was no more salmon, I decided to just finish up and leave without eating. I made sure I wasn't rude to anyone, but I just was in no mood to be friendly anymore. That wasn't the only thing she did yesterday that bothered me, but the cumulative effect of a few slights can add up. Bottom line, I guess I really wanted that piece of dead fish. Maybe you had to be there. I know I was.

Still A Horrible Human Being, Only More So

The Continuing Sorry Saga of William James O'Reilly Jr.

If you haven't been following the actions of this reactionary madman recently, he seems to be on the brink of total mental breakdown. Let's take a look at some of his more egregious transgressions against Truth, Fact & Sanity, but be warned: This is not for the squeamish.

Last week, in full self-pity mode, he bemoaned the fact that daytime talk show queen Oprah Winfrey never invites him and other conservatives on her show. He pathetically wondered why Oprah was disinterested in letting him promote his O'Reilly Factor For Kids tome, which he called the biggest selling non-fiction childrens book of the year, as well as his newest work, Culture Warrior, a demented diatribe against liberals and secular progressives that serves as little more than a glorified enemies list -- assuring O'Reilly a permanent place in the pantheon of other paranoid American basket cases like Richard Nixon, J. Edgar Hoover and Joe McCarthy. He raved about Winfrey having a liberal bias, evidently not seeing the irony that he hosts a show on a cable channel where opposing voices are rarely if ever welcome. He cross-promotes his books and other products on his cable show, radio show and newspaper columns, but apparently that's not enough of a forum to satisfy Mr. No Spin.

I'm sure in private moments he wonders when the Pulitzer and Nobel committees are going to get around to calling him, and checks the mail daily for that MacArthur Fellowship grant and the invite to his Presidential Medal of Freedom ceremony. (Okay, maybe that last one's not so farfetched, given some of the recent honorees.)

This man's insecurity knows no bounds. He recently lamented that he never gets invited to parties. O'Reilly probably thinks it's because of his "uncompromising" political views, but the real deal-breaker is his toxic personality and his inability to, how can we put this, desist from making things up not only about politics but his own personal background -- from lying about his Independent voter registration and "combat record" to claims he led the NCAA in punting while attending football powerhouse Marist College, as well as exaggerating the "rough and tumble" circumstances of his childhood growing up in the no-man's-land of Westbury, Long Island. We're talking clinical, chronic, inveterate prevaricator here. It literally never stops. This is why he fits right in with the current administration, where reality always comes in a distant second to politics.

The other day he conducted a disgustingly sycophantic interview with President Bush, coming off as little more than a toadying flatterer, while shabbily working in a bit of self-promotion. Back in 2003, O'Reilly looked into the camera on his cable show and declared that if there turned out to be no WMDs in Iraq, then it was our obligation to hold Bush responsible, for Bush to come clean to the American people. Somehow we're still waiting for Bill to do his part, because it didn't seem to "come up" in his interview on Fair & Balanced Fox News.


Yesterday on The O'Reilly Factor he apparently lamented the influence and sheer profusion of Internet bloggers, threatening to blow up the blogosphere with hand grenades if he could get away with it, presumably only those who don't share his political viewpoints. That's the typical brand of heady discourse we've come to expect from this irrational man. But we all know he's a physical coward and rodomont, without even the requisite guts to come out and say he's a Republican, instead choosing time and again to hide behind the tissue-thin canard of being registered as a political Independent.

Last week on his cable show he provided his viewers with this stunningly simplistic take on the recent North Korea nuclear missile test: it was an attempt to influence the upcoming elections in favor of the Democrats, the same tired line he has used before about Iran.

Something about Bill O'Reilly really sets people off and sends them spiraling into raging paroxysms of hatred, at least those with a modicum of intelligence and integrity who see through his lies and utter fabrications. And of course he also deservedly inspires craploads of humor where he is the target of ridicule, scorn and extreme mockery. But before today I had never seen a song parody of Bullshit Bill that was quite so effective and so right.


My favorite TV moment of this or perhaps any other millennium was David Letterman informing the stunned blowhard that 60% of what he says is probably crap (obviously a lowball estimate), after lecturing O'Reilly that he was way out of line to criticize Cindy Sheehan, who lost a son to Bush's Folly in Iraq. It simply never gets stale to watch it over and over again.

Here's a man who was lucky to retain his position following a sordid sexual harassment case, but like most neocons and conservatives in the Dick Cheney mold, being wrong repeatedly does nothing to temper their hubris, arrogance or rabidity. The best we can do is closely monitor the overwrought ravings of this small-minded, fractious man until we can bear witness to his inevitable downfall into an even more unglued, non compos mentis state. We'll be watching and waiting, watching and waiting...

These Are People Who Died, Died

Have you noticed a lot of people dying lately? Some that you recognize, some that you hardly even heard of? Some who succeeded, others who suffered in vain? Yeah, me too.

But I want to focus today on three people you may or may not have heard of, but if we celebrate their passing, then in some small way they will not have died in vain.

Jerry Belson.
Buck O'Neil.
Freddy Fender.

Let's face it: this is really the last time these guys are gonna make news. As a rule, dead people don't make the news. That's why they call it the news. Editors don't go around assigning reporters to write a feature on a celebrity who is still dead.

Sure, it's always fun to hear about a Ted Williams, head cut off and preserved cryogenically, or the still mysterious circumstances of a Jim Hoffa going missing. But for the rest of us poor schmucks who stand little chance of getting either glamorously whacked or posthumously frozen, the best we're gonna get is one of those 5- or 6-line jobs published in the local newspaper, with a small out of date photo if you're lucky, slapped together with a corny In Memorium logo, and it's See Ya, Wouldn't Wanna Be Ya. Because at that point you'd be dead, deceased, kaput, no longer a carbon-based life form ... your tank running a big empty on the old meter-o-life.

So in case you didn't read the paper that day and didn't catch their passings, we salute Jerry and Buck and Freddy. No giants here to overshadow them, just three notable persons of note, of which I spoke to you of which.

I've always been a closet obituist. Now, that does not mean I'm an oboe player who is into pain; I really don't play any musical instruments. But I have a morbid habit of checking out the New York Times obituaries section online every morning to see if anyone fell through the cracks. And even if there were no major deaths to speak of, they have a great archive database you can search through. They're all there waiting to be remembered, just a click away -- and really, let's face it: where are they going?

An obituary is most celebrities' last chance to have the stage all to themselves. It's an urban myth that famous people die in threes, or it just seems that way sometimes. You know, two famous people will die the same day, and then you wait for the other shoe to drop. Who's it gonna be? And then when someone famous does die the next day, somehow they're forever linked. Let's say Marlin Brando and Bozo the Clown die on a Tuesday, and then on Wednesday oh let's say Idi Amin dies. You somehow try to find connections, however tenuous, between the three of them.

In our case, it's like that Twilight Zone episode where those five seemingly disparate characters are thrown together for no apparent reason: "Submitted for your approval, a television writer, a ballplayer, a balladeer, joined together in a cosmic game of chance. Leaving this mortal coil, but not before leaving their mark. There's a signpost up ahead, it's the Wardens World..."

Jerry Belson was 68 years old when he died of cancer on October 13. The name may not ring a bell, but as a writer he had more than a passing role in some of the best TV sitcoms ever to make it to the small screen, including the Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, and Danny Thomas shows, as well as Gomer Pyle, Love American Style and the Tracey Ullman show. But his crowning achievement may have been the The Odd Couple, where he not only wrote teleplays for the show but was instrumental in adapting the Neil Simon movie (originally a play) to television. Now, I have no idea what adapting something to television entails, but it sounds like a significant contribution, and something you'd be amply compensated for, maybe even important enough to have your own office with your name on the door for the effort. As funny as the 1968 movie with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau was, lots of people fall into the camp that believe the 1970s TV version of The Odd Couple starring Tony Randall and Jack Klugman as Felix & Oscar surpasses it. Include me in that camp. Anyone who was so integral to my favorite sitcom of all time will get his props on my blog if I have anything to do with it, and I think I can unabashedly say I do. Of course at this point nobody knows which writer wrote which jokes, but let's just agree that Jerry Belson contributed greatly to the merriment of millions of people through the years, and that is not a bad legacy to have.

Freddy Fender had a very successful solo career singing country ballads in a plaintive understated tremolo, but it was as one-fourth of Tex-Mex supergroup the Texas Tornados that many will fondly remember him. He also passed away from the Big C, at age 69, on October 14, a day after Jerry Belson. His biggest hits both came in 1975, with Before The Next Teardrop Falls and Wasted Days & Wasted Nights. Teardrop reached #1 on the pop and country charts, while Wasted hit #1 country and #10 pop. He was busted in 1960 for marijuana possession and spent three years in a Louisiana jail, a miscarriage of justice that undoubtedly contributed to his forlorn voice and presentation. Together with living legends Doug Sahm, Flaco Jimenez and Augie Meyers, Fender made a series of albums starting in 1990 under the name Texas Tornados that are undeniable masterpieces. (The always reliable allmusic.com gives the first three records at least 4 stars each.) And their live shows, many of which were caught on Austin City Limits, were even better.

Buck O'Neil was the Negro League era ballplayer and manager who became an "overnight sensation" after the country fell in love with his passion for the game when he was interviewed for Ken Burns' terrific documentary about the history of Major League Baseball. He died on October 6 at age 94. This man with the sparkling gleam in his eyes and the kindly demeanor remained amazingly bitter-free, always classy, never blaming anyone for depriving him and other Black and Latin players of his chance to play in the big leagues against the best of the best. Unfortunately, despite a stellar career as a player and later a longtime scout for the Chicago Cubs, O'Neil had to endure one last major injustice when the selection committee callously left him off (by a single vote!) their list of 17 Negro League honorees to be inducted into the Baseball Hall Of Fame in July 2006. A total, utter disgrace. But O'Neil even took that indignity in stride, telling the crowd at the ceremony, "God's been good to me. They didn't think Buck was good enough to be in the Hall of Fame. That's the way they thought about it and that's the way it is, so we're going to live with that. Now, if I'm a Hall of Famer for you, that's all right with me. Just keep loving old Buck. Don't weep for Buck. No, man, be happy, be thankful."

If you can read that and not tear up, check your pulse real good, and then check tomorrow's obituaries for your name, because you must already be dead.

Putting Faces To Voices

Above (L-R): WOR's Mike Savage, WABC's Mark Levin, WWRL's Sam Greenfield & Sam Seder

I HAVE LONG WONDERED what some of the more popular talk radio hosts here in NYC look like. What they smell like is their own business. But with around three weeks to go to the midterm election, before we either restore some democracy to this country and take back the republic or else sink further into a morass of corruption and one-party misrule, I need my political fix, so I turn to the AM dial, for better and usually worse.

With the reshuffling of Air America personnel, my whole radio schedule and listening pattern has been shot clear to hell. But maybe that's not entirely a bad thing, as it gives me an opportunity to spin up and down the dial in search of intelligent discourse. Or at the very least, it allows me to feel superior as I scream at my inanimate, non-responding radio, "Die already, you right wing asshole!" Of course, that particular nomenclature applies to the myriad of uptight, reactionary talking sphincters that populate AM talk radio, serving as an insipid echo chamber for conservatives who like nothing more than to see their viewpoints given the rubber stamp of self-congratulatory approval. It starts with with the fact-free blowhard Rush Limbaugh and that sanity-challenged, sociopathic polluter of the airwaves, Michael Savage, before proceeding apace with know-nothing Sean Hannity, born again Clinton-hater Laura Inghram and Mark "I'll Shout So I Sound Authoritative" Levin. And then there's free-thinking, political independent Bill O'Reilly, making it all up as he goes along, full of blarney and bluster but very little else of substance. WABC Radio stands firm as the biggest perpetrator, their lineup of priggish personalities spewing out a patented brand of anti-liberal, anti-progressive bias with a hateful tone that has done much to poison political discourse in this country. It will be their one lasting achievement.

Aside from Air America Radio, the radio frequency remains a vast wasteland for those of us still operating in a reality-based universe. You see, on WABC and like-minded stations, Iraq is a booming beacon of democracy, freedom is everywhere on the march, and the American economy is humming along like a finely tuned 8-cylinder sportscar -- for those of you not working two or three different jobs to support yourself. (Yeah, we do class warfare here on WardensWorld.) And of course, right wing radio is a place where it's oh so comforting to hear those time-tested bumper-sticker slogans: Fight Them Over There So We Won't Have To Fight Them Over Here, The Democrats Are Weak On Security, etc. It's a political worldview based on fear, on always feeling victimized and outraged by a world that is so damn confusing that it's of great consolation to wrap yourself around simplified cliches, when you're not wrapping yourself around the flag.

You have to look long and hard sometimes, but there are some bright voices in the radio wilderness. I stumbled upon The Lionel Show one night shortly after Mike Malloy was silenced by Air America. I was hooked from then on. An ardent atheist who calls himself a political centrist or libertarian, Lionel is rightfully (no pun intended) much harsher on conservatives and Republicans these days, especially the imbecilic shut-ins who call to defend the madness of George Bush. He's funny, articulate and combative, on WOR-710AM for only two hours nightly, 10 pm to midnight.

I can't say I consistently listen to Randi Rhodes anymore, but it's nice to know she's there. Rhodes makes a point to always back up her arguments and positions with facts (she has a great Website), which alone sets her apart from her bloviating competitors. A lot of people have trouble with her voice, a unique blend of harsh New-Yawkese and sex phone softness. She's on Air America (WWRL-1600) weekdays from 3-6 pm.

In the mornings I've been gravitating toward the Air America Morning Show, with hosts Sam Greenfield and Armstrong "Pay Per Viewpoint" Williams, now that I have boycotted the Imus in the Morning show. Greenfield is the smooth-talking liberal and New York native who kinda adopts a jazzy black patois, Williams the black conservative who daily mangles the English language while steadfastly praising President Bush.

The best thing about the Air America realignment is the demise of the dreaded Satellite Sisters, whose unlistenable chattiness was thankfully sent to the radio cornfield. Unfortunately, neither Mike Malloy or Marc Maron is a part of the new lineup. Maron's Morning Sedition show was the best and most original programming Air America ever offered, but that horse has long left the barn. Sam Seder now does mornings (9am-12pm), but I've usually left for work by that time. He really belongs on nights, in my opinion, because the roster of talent Air America puts on at night has yet to distinguish itself, although I have started listening to Rachel Maddow's show (6-8pm).

I just thought of Vin_Scelsa. Some of my best radio memories come from his Sunday morning show, Idiot's Delight, that used to be on WNEW-AM. He used the medium masterfully -- playing terrifically eclectic sets of music, reading from books he recommended, hosting musicians and writers. His freeform shows were always literate, intimate and passionate -- everything good radio used to aspire to before the age of number-crunching demographic pollsters and soulless, cardboard cut-out program directors. He had a recent illness but can still be heard live most Saturday nights on WFUV.

And there's still WBAI-FM-Pacifica, a progressive, non-commercial outpost for those who like their politics radical and with a dash of dogma. But when they're not fundraising, they're doing more original political programming than perhaps any other radio station in the country. Although I haven't listened consistently in a long while, I did hear the basso profundo rumblings of the legendary Bob_Fass one recent night, whose Radio Unnameable program for years provided an alternative voice for insomniacs from Midnight to 5AM. I especially liked how Fass would allow listeners to call in and talk to each other while he stayed in the background for long periods. You could almost see him smiling wryly to himself while the voices competed against each other to make their points, or just conversed amiably among themselves.