Two weeks ago, one of my cigar smoking friends, a rather numerous bunch in all, invited me to join The Cigar Group on LinkedIn. I was intrigued by one of the questions: "Do you buy your cigars online or from a local shop?" The answers ran the expected gamut, though most said they supported local shops, and with good reason. First, you can't smoke on the Internet. Second, and more important, as the anti-smoking, anti-fun brigade continues their inexorable march, the shops become one of few public havens where you can smoke a cigar.
This week I posted my own question, "Where is the most memorable place you smoked a cigar?" and I now find myself as "The Top Influencer" of the group.
Certainly one of the appeals of social media is the opportunity to be a star, even if it is on a rather tiny stage. Not one of the draws for me. One of my clients, a rather hip young entrepreneur, announced in one of our recent Forum meetings, that he was the Mayor of Renaissance Executive Forums by virture of Foursquare. Hmmm, he's the mayor of my business. I told him I was still the king, but I welcomed his mayoralty.
Facebook allows an instantaneous connection to my friends, especially those in South America, across the United States, and the horde in Glasgow. While nothing can beat actually sitting across from one of these people, aforementioned cigar in hand, the mere fact that there is an acceptable substitute is comforting.
If Facebook is the territory of true friends and family, business associates, some of whom also can be described as friends, populate the LinkedIn site.
I have a Twitter account, but I don't tweet much. I think my mother slapped me upside the head when I tweeted in church when I was eight years old. Or maybe it was one of those menopausal nuns from Holy Rosary Grammar School smacking me with a yardstick for tweeting in class. Life in 160 chacracters. Cyberspace's version of haiku.
Recently, a rather prestigious publication made a guess on how much productivity was lost at work due to social media. The number is staggering. Along with the Internet itself, social media is a black hole of time, sucking in the unwary.
I maintain a few simple rules. I never spend more than 5 minutes a day on Facebook. I may spend more time on LinkedIn, but not every day.
Da Bulls
Last night, in one of the most poorly officiated games I have ever seen, the young Chicago Bulls fell to the Miami Heat, not so much a team as a collection of outsized egos. (OK, I admit that I still like Dwayne Wayne.) LeBron James flopped more than last year's Dutch World Cup team. Bulls fans should not be discouraged. They made it to the conference finals in a series reminiscient of the early days of Michael Jordan. The Bulls need a latter-day Scottie Pippen, another legitimate scoring threat, to open Derrick Rose's game.
Amazon Vine
I love a good scam. A couple of months ago I was invited to join the Amazon Vine program. I think I was invited because I write book and product reviews. Last year I wanted to see how many reviews it would take to break into the top 10,000. (At the end of last year, it was somewhere in the high 30s.)
As part of this program you received an e-mail every month with a number of books and products that Amazon will send to you free of charge. The only expectation is that you write a review.
I've received, read, and reviewed two books, neither of which is even available yet in bookstores. One of those was by an author whose books I have read and enjoyed, a rather intelligent mystery series.
And now we close the circle on this particular blog. We, the mob, have become the reviewers, the arbiters, the restaurant critics, the hotel detectives. Democratization of products and services, with real-time judgments passed. I find it interesting that first, I would take the time to write a book review, second, that someone else would read it, and third, that same someone clicked that reading the review has helped him or her.
So much information, same amount of time, more individual discipline and judgment required.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Royal Wedding, Reality TV, and Other Rants
Here Comes the Princess Bride:
Basically, if you are older than 8 and not a wee girl, you shouldn't care at all about the Royal Wedding. Grown-ass people invested in a ceremony of which they have no earthly connection staggers the mind.
Last week, while pursuing the noble trout at Lee's Ferry, the inimitable Cap'n Bill, my usual accomplice in these outdoor sojourns, attempted to ask me a question but was so thwarted by paroxyms of laughter, that he was unable to expel the simple interrogatory. This preceded the cigar and a couple of wee drams, so you couldn't even accuse the Cap'n of being in his cups. When he finally was able to get his breath and laughing under control he asked, "Have you purchased your Royal Wedding commemorative plate yet?"
Commemorative plates, mugs, paper dolls, magazine covers...you can buy it all. All destined to become collectors items!
My arse.
Reality Bites:
This segues quite nicely into one of my own personal oddities, my refusal to watch a single episode of any reality TV show. Survivor, never seen it. American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, Jersey Shore, ad nauseum...nope. I don't know who got voted off the island and I've never made a telephone call to support a manufactured warbler or hoofer. How all this suddenly became news baffles me. Shouldn't the news be explaining to us the difference between the Shiites and the Sunnis?
More people are well-versed in how Linday Lohan fared in prison than in the nuances between the aforementioned rival Muslim sects.
The Police Blotter, aka, the NFL:
The sports world is gearing up for the National Football League draft, another narcotizing exercise made even more marginal by the fact that there might not even be an NFL season. Imagine, waiting 15 breathless minutes for the Cleveland Browns to announce their pick for the next future felon. Heart stopping!
For the record, there hasn't been an NFL season for me since that spoiled pissant, Eli Manning, pouted on national TV in the shadow of his even more annoying father, and sulked about being drafted by the San Diego Chargers. Maybe we do need an NFL season...it would cut down on the number of knifings.
The Donald, for President?
Really. http://www.breadbucket.com/ created a list of 10 possible slogans for The World's Most Annoying Man. My favorite: If You Shaved a Jaundiced Yeti’s Nutsack and Put it on a Man’s Head, I Would Be That Man. Makes me nostalgic for Pat Paulsen.
Obama, a natural born citizen?
Lordy, what will my uber right buddies decry now? Course, the birth certificate showing up at this point in time begs the question Why did it take 3 years to be released? I have a theory. It was underneath the Rose Law Firm billing records left over from Clinton administration.
Christopher Hitchens still has game:
My favorite curmdugeon penned a brilliant desciption of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne of England. "..a man who--like the fruit of the medlar--went rotten before he turned ripe."
Anything else, and I'd just be piling on.
Basically, if you are older than 8 and not a wee girl, you shouldn't care at all about the Royal Wedding. Grown-ass people invested in a ceremony of which they have no earthly connection staggers the mind.
Last week, while pursuing the noble trout at Lee's Ferry, the inimitable Cap'n Bill, my usual accomplice in these outdoor sojourns, attempted to ask me a question but was so thwarted by paroxyms of laughter, that he was unable to expel the simple interrogatory. This preceded the cigar and a couple of wee drams, so you couldn't even accuse the Cap'n of being in his cups. When he finally was able to get his breath and laughing under control he asked, "Have you purchased your Royal Wedding commemorative plate yet?"
Commemorative plates, mugs, paper dolls, magazine covers...you can buy it all. All destined to become collectors items!
My arse.
Reality Bites:
This segues quite nicely into one of my own personal oddities, my refusal to watch a single episode of any reality TV show. Survivor, never seen it. American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, Jersey Shore, ad nauseum...nope. I don't know who got voted off the island and I've never made a telephone call to support a manufactured warbler or hoofer. How all this suddenly became news baffles me. Shouldn't the news be explaining to us the difference between the Shiites and the Sunnis?
More people are well-versed in how Linday Lohan fared in prison than in the nuances between the aforementioned rival Muslim sects.
The Police Blotter, aka, the NFL:
The sports world is gearing up for the National Football League draft, another narcotizing exercise made even more marginal by the fact that there might not even be an NFL season. Imagine, waiting 15 breathless minutes for the Cleveland Browns to announce their pick for the next future felon. Heart stopping!
For the record, there hasn't been an NFL season for me since that spoiled pissant, Eli Manning, pouted on national TV in the shadow of his even more annoying father, and sulked about being drafted by the San Diego Chargers. Maybe we do need an NFL season...it would cut down on the number of knifings.
The Donald, for President?
Really. http://www.breadbucket.com/ created a list of 10 possible slogans for The World's Most Annoying Man. My favorite: If You Shaved a Jaundiced Yeti’s Nutsack and Put it on a Man’s Head, I Would Be That Man. Makes me nostalgic for Pat Paulsen.
Obama, a natural born citizen?
Lordy, what will my uber right buddies decry now? Course, the birth certificate showing up at this point in time begs the question Why did it take 3 years to be released? I have a theory. It was underneath the Rose Law Firm billing records left over from Clinton administration.
Christopher Hitchens still has game:
My favorite curmdugeon penned a brilliant desciption of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne of England. "..a man who--like the fruit of the medlar--went rotten before he turned ripe."
Anything else, and I'd just be piling on.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Kevin the Piper and the ball bag that is Charlie Sheen
I was working late on Monday. Lest you get too concerned, it was a freckle before 6:00 p.m. and I was actually catching up on my business reading. I thought I heard bagpipes. I opened the window and stuck my head out and my suspicion was confirmed. Coming from the direction of Webb Park, a greenbelt that is adjacent to my office building, I distinctly heard the strains of a piper. I decided to explore.
There is a small amphitheatre in Webb Park, a few rows of concrete seats and what passes as a small stage at its foot, designed no doubt for intimate poetry readings or political perorations. Hyde Park it's not. There, walking in a tight oval, was the piper. On the way over I heard "Amazing Grace". I stopped at the top step of the small amphitheatre and when the piper made his turn he saw me. His song wheezed to a stop and he looked at me in alarm.
"Am I too loud?" he asked.
I told him that I heard him from an enclosed office a couple of hundred yards away but that I didn't mind. I was, in fact, a fan of bagpipes. I knew that he had probably been banished to the park by his family and neighbors, because one can't really play the pipes quietly. And when they are played at his level of virtuosity, there is an additional bit of auditory pain inflicted.
After an attempt at "Garryowen" (Custer's battle song) and "Mary's Wedding" he stopped to chat. Kevin had been playing the pipes for a year. He is Irish by heritage, American by birth. His inspiration is to play in the St. Patrick's Day Parade on March 17, 2012 in New York City. This marks the 250th anniversary of the first parade, 1762...12 years before the Declaration of Independence.
There is a small amphitheatre in Webb Park, a few rows of concrete seats and what passes as a small stage at its foot, designed no doubt for intimate poetry readings or political perorations. Hyde Park it's not. There, walking in a tight oval, was the piper. On the way over I heard "Amazing Grace". I stopped at the top step of the small amphitheatre and when the piper made his turn he saw me. His song wheezed to a stop and he looked at me in alarm.
"Am I too loud?" he asked.
I told him that I heard him from an enclosed office a couple of hundred yards away but that I didn't mind. I was, in fact, a fan of bagpipes. I knew that he had probably been banished to the park by his family and neighbors, because one can't really play the pipes quietly. And when they are played at his level of virtuosity, there is an additional bit of auditory pain inflicted.
After an attempt at "Garryowen" (Custer's battle song) and "Mary's Wedding" he stopped to chat. Kevin had been playing the pipes for a year. He is Irish by heritage, American by birth. His inspiration is to play in the St. Patrick's Day Parade on March 17, 2012 in New York City. This marks the 250th anniversary of the first parade, 1762...12 years before the Declaration of Independence.
Kevin is not a good piper, but there is much I admire in the man. He has a goal, a deep respect for his heritage, and the discipline to practice. I am sure that there is no shortage of naysayers and folks who think he might have a screw or two loose in his head and he has chosen to ignore them to fulfill a dream. I hope that I hear Kevin again, and I know that his playing will improve.
...and now to Charlie Sheen.
A ball bag. There. Simply put, strongly stated. Cocaine and drug-addled, narcissistic, hedonistic, he now dominates the airwaves and cyberspace that must have his fellow travelers (Lindsay Lohan, Brittany Spears, the Kardashians, and Paris Hilton) swooning with envy. Sheen is an object lesson, an examplar of what is wrong with the world. Overpaid, overindulged, and overwrought. If anyone else launched into the type of verbal abuse and diatribes against his employer that Sheen did, they would be summarily dismissed, fired, made available to industry, deep-sixed, cashiered, jettisoned, or made to walk the plank. This pimple on the arse of the world is demanding that his salary be increased to $3 Million per episode because of all the mental anguish CBS and Warner Brothers have caused him. Wait, he was the employee burying his nose and head into a mountain of cocaine, he's the one with a season's pass and his own wing at Betty Ford, he's the one who threatened to cut off his ex-wife's head...and most of this occured before the network decided to truncate the season of "Two and Half Men." And he wants a raise.
Yeah, try that in the real world.
Last Friday a good friend of mine called and, laughing almost to the point where I couldn't understand him, relayed to me a quote from his buddy, radio talk-show host Jerry Doyle. Jesse asked Jerry who, in his opinion, was crazier, Mohammar Khadaffi or Charlie Sheen?
"Charlie Sheen is the Mohammar Khadaffi of Hollywood," Doyle replied, "and Mohammar Khadaffi is the Charlie Sheen of Libya."
Apt.
Note: as to the spelling of Mohammar Khadaffi...isn't it nice to be able to write something and not worry about the spelling. You can't spell Mohammar Khadaffi incorrectly.
Friday, February 11, 2011
An Open Letter to President Obama
Earlier this week, President Obama addressed the U.S. Chamber of Commerce. During the speech he challenged business to open the coffers on the $2 Trillion in corporate treasuries and begin hiring people. "I want to encourage you to get in the game," he said. Another Obamination.
Mr. President, business never left the game. Businesses don't get to call a time out. Business played a game rigged with changing rules, onerous requirements, increasing regulations, the challenges of mandated health care, a crumbling infrastructure, and a tax system that punishes the ambitious while it rewards lay-abouts.
The demand to hire people, so that "we can create a virtuous cycle" displays the profound economic ignorance of the Chief Executive. Mr. Obama, put down Karl Marx and pick up Thomas Sowell's Basic Economics. This book should be mandatory reading for everyone in government. Maybe the Senate and House and the State Legislatures can assign that book for the May book club. But certainly I ask too much, since these elected representatives seem to loath reading, proven by their inability to read most legislation.
Business will begin hiring (and some companies are already doing so) when it makes good economic sense. Unlike the government, when a business hires someone that person actually has to do something, and that something must make a contribution to sales or production or distribution or maintenance. While government can create multitudes of jobs where those hired do nothing, business cannot. The first rule of business is to make a profit. Without a profit, no one has a job. Without those jobs, no payroll. Without the payroll, no taxes.
The people who create those businesses, the entrepreneurs, (not the bloated corporate empty suits) are risk takers and visionaries. But they are not suicidal and delusional.
If you are a business owner, congratulations. You have survived the worst economic downturn we have seen in the last 80 years. While happy days may not be here again, there are clear indications that the economy has turned the corner. Corporate recruiters and staffing companies are becoming busier, a clear indicator that companies are at least dipping a toe into the employee pool. Valet parking is up, suggesting that eating dinner somewhere other than In 'N' Out and CPK, is once again an option for an evening out.
As to "get in the game", at the risk of being redundant...we never left.
Mr. President, business never left the game. Businesses don't get to call a time out. Business played a game rigged with changing rules, onerous requirements, increasing regulations, the challenges of mandated health care, a crumbling infrastructure, and a tax system that punishes the ambitious while it rewards lay-abouts.
The demand to hire people, so that "we can create a virtuous cycle" displays the profound economic ignorance of the Chief Executive. Mr. Obama, put down Karl Marx and pick up Thomas Sowell's Basic Economics. This book should be mandatory reading for everyone in government. Maybe the Senate and House and the State Legislatures can assign that book for the May book club. But certainly I ask too much, since these elected representatives seem to loath reading, proven by their inability to read most legislation.
Business will begin hiring (and some companies are already doing so) when it makes good economic sense. Unlike the government, when a business hires someone that person actually has to do something, and that something must make a contribution to sales or production or distribution or maintenance. While government can create multitudes of jobs where those hired do nothing, business cannot. The first rule of business is to make a profit. Without a profit, no one has a job. Without those jobs, no payroll. Without the payroll, no taxes.
The people who create those businesses, the entrepreneurs, (not the bloated corporate empty suits) are risk takers and visionaries. But they are not suicidal and delusional.
If you are a business owner, congratulations. You have survived the worst economic downturn we have seen in the last 80 years. While happy days may not be here again, there are clear indications that the economy has turned the corner. Corporate recruiters and staffing companies are becoming busier, a clear indicator that companies are at least dipping a toe into the employee pool. Valet parking is up, suggesting that eating dinner somewhere other than In 'N' Out and CPK, is once again an option for an evening out.
As to "get in the game", at the risk of being redundant...we never left.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
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
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!
Friday, December 3, 2010
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.
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™?
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.
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