Early 2011 Ramblings

The Coaching Carousel

Once again the NCAA, the supercilious governing body for collegiate sports, sports its own hypocrisy. Finding that five members of the Ohio State University team guilty of various and sundry (and I do mean sundry) lapses of judgment, the sachems levied a four-game suspension. To be served during the 2011 football season, thus allowing the miscreants the opportunity to play in the bowl game. Money talks.

Meanwhile, coaches are blithely walking away from contracts, implied obligations to players, schools, and alumni as they move to what is always dubbed “my dream job.” The latest, Brady Hoke, who takes an overall losing record from his days at Ball State, and most recently, San Diego State to fill his larder at Michigan. You can’t truly demean a man who is merely trying to make his family secure, but the Aztecs opened the coffers to try to stem this defection. If you can’t live on over $1,000,000 a year something must be wrong.

Major Dick Winters

Made reluctantly famous by the Stephen Ambrose book and Steven Spielberg/Tom Hanks HBO mini-series, Band of Brothers, Dick Winters was true to form to the very end. The man who claimed not to be a hero, but to have served in a company of heroes, passed away, and news of his death was made known only after the funeral.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition
                                     Henry V, Saint Crispin’s Day speech before the Battle of Agincourt

The Rhetoric of Death

The tragedy of the shootings in Arizona is that, a tragedy. Six dead, another 13 wounded, a congresswoman the target of the attack, a federal judge a target of opportunity, a 9-year old girl slain.

I ask that you only listen to the rhetoric. Whether it is the sheriff of Pinal County, or one of the pundits, or the somber news anchors, or even the deer-in-the headlights Congressman Robert Brady, (D. PA)*, ask yourself a simple question or two.

Are they stating a fact or an opinion? Are they reporting news, or speculation?

We have a former FBI profiler, who has never met the perpetrator of these crimes, opined for several minutes about the progression and escalation of behavior, and on and on and on.

Of course there will be another cry for gun control, a debate between two sets of zealots. While I strongly believe in the right to bear arms, and am a gun owner myself, I don’t necessary see the need for a 30-shot clip for a handgun. (To stay on the tracks of this train of thought, this is only my opinion.)

*Representative Brady would like to extend the same protection for hate speech and threats enjoyed by the President to all members of Congress.  Other than a trampling of freedom of speech what could possibly be wrong with this lamebrained idea?

Movies and Books


After bemoaning the dearth of outstanding movies in 2010 and the paucity of great books, 2011 has started out with a bang. In the first case, literally. The Coen Brothers’ treatment of the classic 1969 western True Grit is better than the original. Then again, anyone reading this would have done a better job as LeBouef than Glen Campbell. But it is Colin Firth in The King’s Speech who has turned in a stunning performance of the stammering Bertie, who reluctantly became King George VI.

On the book front, another nod to Chris Britton. The man is money when it comes to book recommendations. This time he steered me to Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. This is the type or rich novel that John Irving, Richard Russo¸ and Michael Malone once wrote.

2010: That Was the Year that Was...and a brace of absurdities

"Years are terrible things."
Joseph Conrad

We are at that point in the year when introspection is the order of the day, time to examine the year that has so recently passed and effort given to planning what might happen in the next.  And so I begin with personal "Best of..." and "Worst of..." lists.

Another year of expansive reading (and listening) with the 2010 count at 125 books.  Most were unremarkable, slim pickings.

The Best

• Lennox, Craig Russell's first novel in a series featuring World War II veteran Lennox, a Canadian  living in 1950s Glasgow.  Morally empty, Lennox works for the Three Kings, crime bosses-one Catholic, one Protestant, and one Jewish-who stand in for the sectarian violence that plagued the city.  Gritty, well-plotted.
• The Amateurs, John Niven...my second plug of one of the funniest books I have ever read.  And I don't even golf. (Thanks, John Hamilton)

Honorable Mentions:

• Matterhorn, Karl Mariantes.  Viet Nam-era magnum opus.  Mind-numbing, bone-chilling realism, complex, nuanced, brutal. (Thanks, Chris Britton)
• The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, David Mitchell.  Rich, textured novel about Dutch traders in eighteenth century Japan.  (Thanks, Vince Reardon)

I am also enjoying mysteries written by Tana French, a Dublin actress who has turned her creative talents to writing.  

The Worst:

• Dead or Alive, Michael McGarity.  Makes The Ludlum List (where I banish writers who write the same novel over and over again) in two books.
• The Book of Lies, Brad Meltzer.  Stupid, just stupid.

In the world of movies the pickings were also slim.  The best movie I saw in 2010 was The Hurt Locker, Academy Award winning best movie from 2009.  The worst, hands down was Robin Hood, the Russell Crowe vehicle.  When Cate Blanchett rode onto the beach leading her army I began laughing so hard I nearly fell off the couch.  Not what the director intended, I am sure.  The Coen Brothers remake of True Grit, is better than the ham-handed original.  Then again, anyone reading this is probably a better actor than Glen Campbell.

Around here, 2010 will always be remembered as the year of our Scottish Adventure.  Our nine weeks in Glasgow is recollected every day.  We miss our friends and plan to call them tomorrow to wish them good cheer for Hogmanay.

I promised a pair of absurdities.

#1: Prep-school, Trinity College graduate and bow-tie wearing Tucker Carlson, has weighed in on Michael Vick, proclaiming that the African-American quarterback should have been executed for his crimes against dogdom.  He began his absurdist rant by first proclaiming, "I am a Christian."  Is it just me, but when someone begins to explain his or her view with that pronouncement, you are almost certain to get a decidedly un-Christian view?  Intolerant, ignorant, bigoted, uninformed.  I certainly don't condone what Vick did;  he has paid for his crime-nineteen months in jail, two years out of professional football, and personal bankruptcy.  Obviously not enough to satisfy pompous prig Carlson.  C'mon, man, this is America!  We are the country of second-chances and we love nothing better than a good redemption story.

#2: New Mexico governor, Bill Richardson, days away from leaving office, is pondering whether or not he should give a pardon for William Bonney, aka, Billy the Kid.  Evidently things in New Mexico are going so well that the governor can ignore double digit unemployment, a wheezing educational system, and abject poverty to actually weigh the merits of pardoning a killer who died 130 years ago.  Who gives a shit?  Is there anyone still alive from those days to whom this would really matter?  This is why all politicians are nothing but pandering ass-clowns.

Happy New Year!

Qatar or Catarrh

Qatar?


Qatar?

You’re shitting me, right? Qatar.

Forget investigating the sachems of FIFA for corruption, I recommend opening a full-blow drug investigation. Team Sepp Blatter must be smoking or snorting something to have come up with a brace of lame-brained decisions for the 2018 and 2022 sites for the World Cup…or should I write World Cup™?

I cannot add to the deluge of vitriol pouring from our normally stiff-upper-lipped cousins across the pond. England, home of the best professional football league in the world, and also home to savvy, world-traveling fans is as perplexed at the anointing of Russia as we are over…Qatar.

The country has a smaller population than San Diego, a mere digit of land blessed only by the presence of a shitload of oil, with summer temperatures in excess of 110° F, 44° C. Qatar is supposedly a very rich country. How rich can it be when it can’t even afford a U? When Mr. Blatter pulled the note card out of the envelope to make the formal announcement, the head of Qatar delegation was as shocked as the rest of us, raising his eyebrow in wonder. Not eyebrows, his one eyebrow.

Qatar’s football team has never qualified for the tournament, and hosting the Cup may be the only way they will ever qualify.

Qatar already boasts the highest per capita carbon emissions of any country in the world. (Fact: you can look it up.) The country must build stadiums and additional infrastructure to accommodate the sporting festival. Solar technology will cool the stadium and promoters claim these stadiums will be carbon neutral.

My arse.

Sepp Blatter, the same nattering nabob (sorry, Spiro) who refused to allow goal cameras for the World Cup, has shown his fondness for lucre and his total disdain for the football fan. While Mr. Blatter will arrive in a private jet and be driven to a limousine to a air-conditioned private box, the average fan will struggle to enter the country, find a place to stay, and melt while trudging to the as-yet non-existent venues. Most sports barons are brain-dead and blind to the plight of the fans who actually spend the money that fuels their sport’s respective popularity. Blatter is in a class all his own.

Americans are always derided as not being a football (soccer) friendly nation. Even the minority of us who are fans of the beautiful game far outstrip, as a total, the populations of most other countries. And the passion for the game has been building in the States, witness the excitement during the 2010 Cup, where, despite the time zone issues, the United States national team games drew tremendous interest.

We may be a naïve, young country, but we can smell a rat. The fix was in. Shame on FIFA.

I suggest that we now turn to one of national treasures, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, who with a bit of versifying, can lead us into a promised land of boycotting the 2022 World Cup.

A tip of hat to my mate, Tim Wheatcroft, late of Nottingham for the loan of the homonym catarrh.

Curmudgeon in Training

Of the benefits enjoyed while aging, perhaps none is as sweet as the status of being a curmudgeon.  While I don't aspire to be as curmudgeonly as Andy Rooney or Ed Asner (perhaps he's just bitter), I enjoy the freedom to rant and rail about things with the understanding that it's merely the musings of one who is moving beyond middle age.

In no particular order here a few of my least favorite things:

1. Anything made DeLonghi.  We buried our second 50-cup coffee maker in 20 months.  The espresso machine never worked...the overpowering flavor of metal is not condusive to Italian coffees.  So in my mind DeLognhi=shite.
2. To the arshehole who keeps leaving advertisements in the form of empty sports drinks in the locker at 24-Hour Fitness...stop already.  If I find out where you live I'll leave a DeLonghi espresso machine on your lawn.
3. While I am on 24-Hour Fitness...it must be incredibly difficult to figure out how to replace the paper towels and the cleaning solution at the same time.  Invariably one or other is out, usually in separate locations.  Who knew that you needed someone who gets mail from Mensa to replace these janitorial supplies?  And can the company make a decision on what system it will use for club entry? Biometrics with a security gate to a card and no security gate back to biometrics.  Frankly, I am little concerned about where everyone else's index finger has been.
4. Las Vegas...to paraphrase Disney, must be "The Seediest Place on Earth."  What happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas and it should be quarantined.  The Strip is a cesspool, filthy, littered with cards and leaflets, teasers for escort services.  OK, why be even remotely politically correct? These are cards and leaflets for prostitutes, or as my dad would say, "hoo-ers."  Walking the Strip means running a gauntlet of illegal aliens slapping the cards and shoving them in your face.  The city is an assualt on the senses.  Want to get Al-Qeada terrorists to talk?  Send them to Las Vegas for a weekend!
5. Anything NFL. I have watched maybe a half dozen games since that pissant Eli Manning threw a shit fit after being drafted by the San Diego Chargers.  (None watched in the last two years, including the Super Bowl.) I don't care for the game and the outsized gang of thugs and sexual predators that strut across the field pounding their chests or creating a recognizable celebratory dance that they bust out each time they do something significant, like break wind.  While trying to kill myself yesterday on the eliptical trainer at the aforementioned 24-Hour Fitness, ESPN was broadcasting the arrival of players prior to a game.  First of all, is this supposed to be significant?  Second, nearly everyone of these overpaid egoists was wearing an industrial set of earphones.  God forbid that they should have to recognize, wave, or shake hands with a commoner.  No, they escape to their own private world.  Want to win a Super Bowl, coach?  Ban earphones.

And no, I don't feel better.

...and a good time was had by all

It was at our 20th Reunion in 1995 that I began to see the faces of the old men we would become in the faces of the young boys who graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1975.

As a class we boast several interesting distinctions.  We are the most attrited class of the 20th century, graduating barely half of those who were sworn in on June 30, 1971.  A large number left after the draft lottery numbers were announced, a predictable number fell due to academics, conduct, and aptitude, and cynicism got the rest.  We also have a large number of our class who made flag rank, Marine Corps generals and Navy admirals. 

We stayed at the home of one my roommates, Gary Ingold.  Gary and his wife, Ginny, who have been married for 35 years, graciously opened their Annapolis home to several of us.  Gary, an Illinois state champion wrestler, was also a wild child during his days as a midshipman.  Yes, there were those among enough with enough pluck to turn USNA into a party school.  The irony is that now Gary is the Catholic deacon at the Academy, this coming as a shock to many who attended the memorial service to honor our fallen comrades.  Fortunately, none suffered heart attacks at the ceremony to add to that number.

We had the obligatory lunch at Middleton's Tavern, a walk through downtown Annapolis (where I visited my friends at Laurance Clothing on Main Street, and The Smoke Shop on Maryland Avenue), the class dinner, a tailgate party that offered the world's best crabcakes (a consensus view), a disappointing football game, and snatches of conversation.

I did wear my kilt on Friday night.  Predictably Pat Gottschalk, a former Secretary of Commerce for the Commonwealth of Virginia, attempted to turn me into a hand puppet, and other pals tried for the up-kilt look to ascertain is I was going as a "True Scot."  Nae with this crowd!  Lynn nearly passed out laughing when we hit the dance floor.  And the professional photographer wisely chose not to have me sit in the front row for photos.

Speaking of photos, Ken Hamerick, one of the Plebe basketball team members, brought along a black and white shot of the team from the 1971-2 season.  No, I wasn't a guard.  I was a team manager, a desperate and successful attempt to get a seat at the training table, where all the folderal of being a plebe was suspended and something like a real meal could be shared among the team.  We reprised the photo with the seven members of the team who were in attendance that evening.  It appears to be my lot in life to be in photographs with preternaturally large men.  Standing in front of the other six (Bob Burns nearly was voted out because he started!) I look like a kilted-version of a lawn jockey.  Shout outs to Bobby, Billy, Doug, and John, who in addition to the aforementioned graced this "instant classic" shot.

We were also joined by three classmates who left us early and did not graduate with the class.  Pepe Galito does contract work in Iraq, Bill Etsweiler still lives in PA, and Jim Hickey is a pathologist in Baltimore.

None of my 21st Company mates is still in uniform.  Those who retired from the Navy did so as Commanders or Captains, and we had a 20-year Marine Corps officer in our midst as well; Bobby Clark flew missions during Desert Storm and now flies for FedEx.  Most are on to second careers, airline pilots, school teachers, defense industry executives, health care, engineering.

But what we will mostly remember about the 35th Reunion is a single word.  During our stay in Scotland we connected a near-Pavlovian response to the word "Aberdeen."  Aberdeen is a city in Northern Scotland, nicknamed the Silver City.  It is also the hub of the Scottish oil industry, being the jumping off point for many of the North Sea oil platforms.  We heard this reaction first at The Stand, the comedy club in Glasgow's West End.  A young comedian said that he was from Aberdeen and the entire audience (sans the Yanks) shouted "Sheep-shaggers!"

Yes, that's the word..."Sheep-shaggers!"  We must have said it 40 or 50 times.  There are those among us who don't know what it means.  One Southern Belle had difficulty in pronouncing it, often booming out "Shagger-Sheep" or "Sheep-Shiggers", but she rose to the occasion when we filmed "Aberdeen: The Movie", a 21-second shout out to our friends in Glesga.

At our 30th reunion in 2005 a few of our number had moved into the ranks of grandparents.  That number increased mightily over the last five years. 

We also had a chance to reconnect with Admiral & Mrs. O'Connor.  Admiral O'Connor, class of 1949, is the father of my classmate Tommy O'Connor.  The Admiral is still laughing, and has more than a bit of Irish blarney going 61 years after his graduation.

There is always something bittersweet about these twice a decade gatherings.  Promises to stay in touch, to meet somewhere and sometime in between these five year gaps.  We do, however, have a rallying point.  Navy-Notre Dame, September 1, 2012, Dublin, Ireland.  As we said in the old days, "Be there or be square."

...and the winner is...

The Harris Poll announced that New York City is the most popular city that people want to live in or near.  San Diego, which bills itself as "America's Finest City", finished second to "The Big Apple."  Ironically, New York City also finished first in the least desirable city poll as well. 

These ubiquitous city polls always seem a bit strange to me.  Healthiest city, greenest city, you pick it.  From Outside to Money, everyone has a different yardstick.

As my mates in Glasgow would say, "What a load of bollocks!" or perhaps, "At's a load of shite!"

People ask me my favorite river for fly-fishing, and I answer, "I haven't found it yet."  When asked what his favorite wine was, a friend of mine answered, "The one that's in my hand."

This lusting after what we don't have is almost as pernicious as the pomposity of actually basking in these spurious polls, as if you had something to do with it.

I have many "favorite" cities:

• San Diego...I live here, the weather is great (well it used to be great, we've had a challenging few months), there's a decent Little Italy, many of my friends also live here, and it happens to be the place where I earn a living.
• San Francisco...former haunt, current mailing addresses for the Tenuto heir and heiress, who are following their artistic dreams in the People's Republic.
• Chicago...city of broad shoulders, hometown, the Bulls (last professional sports team I can muster any interest for), wonderful restaurants, and The Hawk, a wind so fierce that it takes the breath away.
• New York City...swagger, strut, the best Little Italy (Mario Battali has superceded Umberto's Clam House where Joey Gallo had some lead with his dinner), teams you love to hate, and parking rates that take your breath away faster than the aforementioned Hawk.
• London...gentile, historic, so pukka.
• Glasgow...Scotland's version of Chicago, the blue-collar city teeming with hospitality, pubs, culture, and a number of great names for rain.  If the Eskimos have scores of nuances for snow, Glaswegians have a similar number to describe the rain.  Like smirr.

To quote Gandhi, "Wherever you are, be there."  That's the point of this exercise.  Why have a favorite when there are so many wonderful places in the world?  Learn to enjoy where you are.

OK, maybe not Detroit.

Footnotes...

Yesterday I heard Mayor Jerry Sanders, Eddie Osterland, (America's First Master Sommelier), and Russ T. Nailz, politically incorrect comic, all within the space of three hours.  This is a real feat of mental legerdemain.  The wine certainly helped.

Midweek I had lunch with my good friend, Alan Russell.  Alan is the tallest mystery writer in America, and maybe the best writer you don't know about.  He is the mystery writer other mystery writers read.  Check out his award-winning Mortal Wounds.

Wall Street My Money Slept and other pop offs on pop culture

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, the sequel to the Michael Douglas-Charlie Sheen-Oliver Stone Academy Award Winning 1987 movie, maybe one of the worst movies of all time.  An instant Razzie candidate.   Where to start?  Michael Douglas sleepwalks through the part, he's more a mannequin for really beautiful suits and ties.  Shia LeBeouf?  I don't get Shia LeBeouf...at all.  Carrie Mulligan cries throughout the entire movie.  Charlie Sheen makes a gratuitous cameo, with two women on his arm, perhaps some cross marketing for his tasteless television show.  The movie's only redeeming quality is Josh Brolin, who plays an amoral banker.  He got his moral compass the same place Carrie Mulligan's character got her wedding ring, out of a Cracker Jack box.  The plot is predictable, the only surprise being that the tickets cost $13.00 each. 

Let's just say that the weekly box office is dropping faster than the Dow Jones Industrial Average did in 2008.  Look for this one in Blockbuster Video...what, they filed for bankruptcy?  OK, Netflix...add this to your Netflix queue.  The wait won't be long.

As a recovering Wall Streeter myself (I left in 1996), and a fan of the previous movie, I felt somewhat obligated to go, despite the suspicion that the movie was going to be a dog.  I based that on the not very scientific observation that every third commercial was the trailer for the movie. 

The trailer was interspersed between Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman ads.  I'm including political ads in the pantheon of pop culture.  These two are vying for the governor's mansion in Sacramento.  If Brown wins he may symbolically close it down to live in his Jesuitical austerity in an apartment, or maybe an ashram.  If Meg Whitman wins she may symbolically close it down to live in something with a bit more square footage.  With a population larger than Western Europe you'd think that the state of California could produce two better candidates than this lot.

Redemption of the arts came in the form of a book.  Each year I am fortunate enough to stumble upon a sleeper, totally unexpected.  A couple of years back it was The Cellist of Sarajevo, Steven Galloway's fictional take on a true incident from the siege of Sarjevo.  A big tip o' the hat to John Hamilton, that irrepressible Kiwi, for loaning me a copy of this year's sleeper, The Amateurs, penned by John Niven.  The funniest book I have ever read.  Since I read most of the book armed with a cigar and a Guinness in my backyard, I am somewhat surprised that my neighbors didn't call the police to report a cackling madman running amok on my property.  Laugh out loud funny...or LOL, I guess for you emoticons.  (Though, parenthetically, emoticons are preferable to neocons.)

The premise of The Amateurs: a golfing hackmeister in a dead-end job and a loveless marriage, connects with the purest golf shot he has ever hit, at the same time he is felled by a errant drive, denting his skull and sending him to hospital and a long coma.  When he recovers his senses he lives with three aftermaths: he cannot hit a poor golf shot, he has a wicked case of Tourette's syndrome, and another malady that results in his never needing any Viagra, a priapism of palpating proportions.  He wins his way into the British Open.  The book is set in a small town in Scotland and peppered with colorful Glaswegian phrases.  Caveat emptor:  There are any number of books with the same title.  Look for the cover with a bloody golf ball.