Performance Enhancing Drugs, As American As Enhanced Interrogation.

A-Rod, or Alex Rodriguez The Baseball Player (It’s kind of like how Big Pooh of Little Brother uses the prefix Rapper, but here as a suffix used by me) will probably not be getting much in the way of actual punishment for what he’s done in regards to use of performance enhancing (as well as fucking dangerous) drugs.

A-Rod is a fictional creation to me, something I say because of the fact that except for a possible love of shemale strippers, suntanning, and ditching his wife for some aged British Skeletor with a red ribbon on the wrist, we know nothing about the man. Sure that cackhead from SI’s book with Joe Torre has a lot in the way of conjecture about A-Rod, but honestly the concept of A-Rod is a hollow stat producing game choking statue to me.

Which is to say, he’s Baseball’s Jack Bauer, the fictional terror fighting über cop on Fox’s long running series 24.* Now, ARod’s also on display as guilty of breaking the rules that actually matter. Rodriguez by way of Roids, and Bauer, well we’ve long known this, by way of torture that if it were real (and not just a fictional depiction of Abu Ghiraib actions on US soil) would be just as wrong for the field he works in as A-Rod’s roids. Both broke the rules for the right reasons, though don’t you know!!?!?!. Rodriguez was afraid of letting the fans down (SWING AND A MISS times a billion) and Jack Bauer aka US Troops torture because they don’t know how else to express their love and fear. These shite rationales only help to render A-Rod’s records (as well as all other records from the tainted era) as trustworthy as that fable known as The Ticking Time Bomb Argument that neocons and torture absolvers raise.

Alex Rodriguez the man is as invulnerable to trial for steroid use as a soldier who tortured an “enemy combatant” is to trial for breaking the Geneva Conventions. To continue this parallel, Pre-A-Roid Bud Selig is in fact baseball’s George W. Bush, who oddly enough wished at one point to have the job of … Bud Selig. Post A-Roid Selig is kinda like 44th President, Barack Obama, as he should make tough decisions, but I doubt that he actually will. Yet, Selig didn’t wake up the day after A-Roid Day as a person elected to fill in his old position, and given a mandate by the public to put those who have wronged to trial. The politically minded public is tired of remembering Alberto Gonzalez’s flirtation with amnesia as the baseball community is ashamed of Sammy Sosa’s brief lapse into needing some ESL classes.

The guilty have ties to power in both baseball and politics, (and if the low level abusers are fucked with, that insures guilt for the heavies) and these connections will probably protect both all from serious actions, while the Seligs and the Obamas will nonsequitor their ways into bringing up the bigger fights they have to fight, where we find the big scary bastard of the year AHEM, THE ECONOMY, aka “I’m Barack Obama, and I’m about looking forward, not backward,” which reeks of (tip of the hat to Collin for reminding me of) Mark McGuire’s “I’m not here to talk about the past,” except that McGuire isn’t deciding whether or not to prosecute, only trying to weasel his way out of a congressional hearing. Selig also can’t think of prosecuting Alex Rodriguez the man to any degree that would hurt the sales, because of well, the economy, and the power of the players union, as well as the fact that this result should still be a secret if not for the previously aforementioned SI leak, which I guess parallels with Sy Hirsch’s Guantanamo Bay piece in the New Yorker.

Alex Rodriguez should be kicked out of baseball, and kicked out of the hall of fame, as any who have abused substance should be, if the sport is to be sacred, an ideal that most have already thrown under the bus. Selig should be stepping down in ignominy for his involvement with the tarnished era. By not doing so, Selig will now seem all the more impotent, at least to me.

In the same respect, all those who have tortured, need to face trial, as do all those who were aware of what was going on, your Rumsfelds, your Cheneys and yes, your W. Bush’s. And until this happens, we still live in a tarnished country, far from the ideals many progressives voted to uphold, yet knew they would probably never see, due to the improbability of it, because ideals are rarely met.

We go to work and try our best to avoid lying despite the fact that those at the highest office and most adored pasttimes have failed. Next time someone tells you Baseball is the American Pasttime, ask if that’s such a good thing.

*Which I admittedly watched up until this current season, when I finally lost patience with the show, agreeing with This NYMag review’s conclusion:

But Jack will always block real greatness. Less a hero than a golem, he’s uncrushable, agitprop in unshaved form—blocking nuance with his symbolic weight. He is 24’s true cockroach, immune to nuclear war or electoral landslides. Even if he didn’t have God on his side, he’d always have Fox.


• At Least The Mets Still Suck

Celtics won the NBA Championship in the same decade as the Sox winning the Series and the Pats winning the Super Bowl. The Aughts are the most horrendous sports decade ever, except for Eli Manning beating Tom Brady a few months ago. Always gotta remember that one.

At the same time though, perennial bitch factory Shea Stadium still is home to the most 2nd rate team on the planet. Not just in players this time, but in GM Mental faculties. Who’d have thought it would take Minaya to make Hank Steinbrenner look like a sane decent person? I think we’ll see Willie recover, maybe even come back to the pinstripes. He could be a good base coach or something. I don’t particularly see him wanting to be in a big spotlight anymore.

And it even spilled over into last night, Reyes acting like a snot nosed brat when he got pulled from the game. Santana being a chump, again.

No links, still, because all of this stuff is old news. No PShop because I’m a little busy.

Rising from the blogging ashes.

So you might have wondered if I’ve been “surviving” the ordeal previously mentioned. Not only have I been surviving, I’ve been surviving with flying colors. If you had guessed any of the following happened, you’re right:

Savoring Elote’s brunch specials as frequently as humanly possible. Also: debating as to when breakfast ends and when brunch begins.

Learning the merits of depositing a check with a bank teller as opposed to an ATM.

Learning that even non-members have fun at the Bushwick Country Club. The Other BCC.

Blaring Made in the Dark by Hot Chip and being pleasantly surprised by Mark Ronson & Rhymefest’s “Man in the Mirror” mixtape (Google it).

Becoming more and more apathetic about the Knicks, until I saw this glimmer of hope on Deadspin.

Coming up with two viable book ideas that I’m not sharing here.

Watching Matt Taibbi’s appearances on writer-less The ColberT ReporT and Real Time with Bill Maher allow me to fall deeper into admiration for the most entertaining political beat journalist I know of.

Analyzing the first two episodes of The Wire, looking for clues and off glances. Furthermore, learning from Dave that Newsweek might have spoiled the damn ending of the series. Also, buying the aforementioned soundtrack.

Stocking my desk at work with carrots and celery to sustain myself during the apocalypse of work previously mentioned.

Stocking the fridge with the Delerium and the Magic Hat Winter Mix 12-pack. It’s called Odd Nation, and it’s amazing.

Dying a little on the inside when the Jaguars lost the momentum in the 3rd quarter last night.

But what kept me insane throughout all of this was a book that I’ve been working on at my office, working on it since before Thanksgiving.

The current round of the book ended on Friday. I arrived at the typical hour of 9 AM and left at the far far from typical, self-record breaking hour of 11 PM.

I, your humble blogger, bleary eyed and tweaked, alone in the office, way after the janitorial staff came through in the clutch. I pitched a fucking Valiant 9th Inning, and beyond. Extra innings, into the mid-teens. The kind of production I was hoping I’d see one day out of Joba.

But since we might never get him as the Ace Reliever we all wanted, I’ll say it was late nineties Mariano Rivera-esque. And by the time I was done, I sent an e-mail that sounded something to the effect of: … well, I’m not going to post it. Let’s just say that if you put a PS in, you should have something after the actual “P.S.”

Last night I saw Meera off, hanging out with her, her cool boyfriend Max, and their grad school friends at this bar called Sheep Station. It’s bad enough to lose a favorite co-worker, but to lose them to Boston? God Damn. I told her I’d send her a Yankees cap, so she’ll be a non-white Yankees attire-wearer in Boston, making her the most popular person since Paul Revere. Jessica (and Cliff), yes, if you’re reading this, I know Boston’s better than it used to be, I couldn’t resist that joke, and it was actually said out loud last night.

But as one person leaves, another appears. Lee, my newest coworker, is cool, and has a great design/architecture blog.

And now, the Giants game is on, go G-MEN!

Curt Schilling: Still Needs To Shut Up.

Now this photo is more … seasonal.

Old Man Schilling needs to have his laptop taken away from him. His ankle must have had a bloodgasm when he heard about Clemens’ prominence in the Mitchell Report.

He’s saying that if Clemens can’t prove his innocence, that El Rocket should give his Cy Youngs back.  If he believes the sanctity of the report so much, didn’t he read the part where Mr. Red Sox Board of Directors himself said that players shouldn’t be punished for past misconduct?

Going back to what Ben said in comment to a recent post, I bet Selig must be eating this whole “Hang the Player, Forget the Administration,” nonsense.

Steroids can be Funny, if taken as such:

Deadspin has an around-the-blogosphere round up of Mitchell report reporting. My favorite, comes from Bugs and Cranks.

Fun With The Mitchell Report. A search for Barry Bonds in the pages of the Mitchell report has 91 results. Sammy Sosa has 1. BALCO appears 56 times. Bud Selig and Cocksucker has zero results. Circumstantial does not appear. Carolina Panthers results in zero occurrences. David Eckstein is not named. John Kruk and Donuts has zero results. The word Sex appears 3 times. Buttocks appears 5 times. Ass does not appear. Bud Selig appears 52 times. Correction: Ass appears 52 times. Soccer appears once. Bartolo Colon loves cake does not appear. Zorro does not appear. [Bugs And Cranks]

What’s so damn great about this little blurb is that it’s much more efficient than the report itself, much more believable, and the Bud Selig note  being placed in between the Ass comments, really really brings warmth to the nooks and crannies of my heart.

Also, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take a report that was written and produced by someone on any team’s board of directors seriously at all. It’s not just a Red Sox thing, not even close.

If Cleveland Rocks, then Fenway Sucks!

A Rockie, probably Jeff Francis (but might be LF Matt Holliday, I can’t tell; all white people look alike to me) ponders this stupid fucking wall.

I can’t remember if it was 8:31 or 9:31 when this was posted, as my blog was originally set to a different time zone for some reason. This all was posted, originally, during the top of the second inning of game 1 of the world series.

If the Red Sox Fans just want to be normal fans, can we make it an overall normal and take away their shitty homefield-advantage ballpark from them? Which is especially an advantage park when you’re playing a team in the World Series who has probably been at your stadium maybe thrice this whole year, a mere percentage point or two of the time you’ve spent there?

I HATE the Green Monster. I HATE the barely-existant wall in the right field corner. I don’t really hate the Red Sox as a team. It’s Schilling and Beckett and Manny who stand out to me, as they seem like a douchekeg trifecta unparalleled in sports history.

I don’t have a zoom in yet, but here’s what happened. Bottom of the first, Dustin Pedroia his a ball off what I’m told (wasn’t home yet) was the tippity top of that eyesore in left field. The ball bounces back into the field, but it’s a homer for some reason. For Some Reason also the words I used when I heard about Paul Byrd’s HGH history being brought up before Game 7 of the ALCS.

Then in the top of the second, Garret Atkins hits the ball smack against the wall. It’s what I imagine to be a few feet below where Ellsbury’s ball hit. That’s a double, though, not a home run. Is that red line, that redchristdoIhateFenway line, the distinguishing mark? Could someone at least say that and do a side by side comparison?

And yes, I ❤ Deadspin. Even if Leitch tries to argue that Schilling is a likable person or player or whatever.

Addendum: What I had meant to say, but forgot to say. I always thought it should be about where the ball ended up, not where it hit, with dome stadiums as an exception.

Henry Casey VS Baseball.

As I said goodbye to my Dad today, he asked, “So, ‘Go Clemens tonight, huh?'”

I looked back at him with a look of weariness on my face, and I said the following:

“You know what? Fuck baseball. Seriously. Fuck baseball.”

I could have gone on to say Fuck the following:

Bed Selig, The New York Tabloids, The Yankees Bullpen, Michael Kay, Joe Buck, Peter Gammons, …

Fuck all them because they’re the short list of things that’s taken the fun out of baseball for me ever since I started going to Bard.

It would have kept going on. I didn’t think, then, that I’d be where I am now: about to sit down to watch the Yankees take on the Twins, who I saw play at the Homer Dome less than a year ago.

Fuck me.