Best laid pl*ns

So, for once, the government had a plan. It seems to be a highly convoluted day-late, dollar-short typical government kind of plan that could not quite catch up with the honeymooning dude determined not to let the federal docs isolate the highly drug resistant strain of TB that he apparently harbors in his globe-trotting lungs, but, finally! the message was sent out to the Border Patrol. Stop him! Isolate him! Don protective gear! And what happens? The agent at the Plattsburgh, NY gate shrugs his shoulders at Mr. Tan, Rested, and Potentially Fatally Infectious and let him pass right through because he "did not look sick."

It is to laugh. And to point out from upon my dying horse that while winging it may bring one crashing down, so, more often than not, will a pl*n, especially if one cannot implement the whole damn thing one's own damn self.

¡Dios Mío!

Clearly, the Cardinals had a pl*n. Now, from the looks of their opening day roster, I could not tell you what this pl*n may have been--frankly, it seems more likely that they had made the traditional St. Louis Deal with the Devil (see Warner, Kurt) and had exchanged their futures for a championship--but things have imploded so thoroughly that a pl*n must have been in place. Not only are they seven games off the pathetic pace of the NL Central, which is where a team that can't beat the Nationals deserves to be, but now Yadier Molina, their stellar defensive catcher who has learned to hit, too, has gone and fractured his wrist in an 8-3 loss to the mediocre Rockies. Good grief. Oh, that they could just go home 'til this, too, passes. Then again, between the DUI and the dead guy, the going home's not going so well, either.

Is this what being a Cubs fan is like?

A 5.29 plan

Barack Obama was at the University of Iowa hospital today, and I must say that's a fine place for an Illinoisan to spend a May 29 in a year ending in seven, though I doubt they send him home with a brilliant and beautiful baby girl Hawkeye in a day or two. You've got to know the right people for that to happen. Or, in my experience, arrive pregnant, and in labor. But not only does the UIHC provide an excellent location for the delivery of an altogether excellent child, it apparently provides an excellent backdrop for revealing one's presidential health care plan, especially if one is out to prove one's altogether excellence to Democrats in general and those caucus-going types that might be found around Johnson County, home of the U of Iowa.

For the sake of the party, I hope Obama does prove to be altogether excellent, though I still prefer Edwards, who, I should point out, was months ahead on the health care thing. But, given that any rational statement that the white guy makes while he's in a race with the potential first black guy and potential first woman guy will not be news, I guess we could always talk about his unfortunate hair cut. At any rate, the point that I, a white woman guy, have not yet bothered to make was about plans. Or, if you'll excuse the quirk, and lord know that if you're here and reading, you've excused plenty, pl*ns.

My good friend and I have learned that to even call something a pl*n is to doom it, forever and immediately, to failure, death, and utter extinction. There may not be any reason for it to fall apart so catastrophically, but what looked fine one moment will become the Kansas City Super NIT the next. That, in our experience, is just the way it is once one starts throwing the P word around. So when these presidential aspirants start dragging out these highly detailed pl*ns, for which they've paid countless experts untold dollars, I just start to wonder.

While a president ought to have a grip on the big picture and the ability to explain how his vision differs from current reality and plenty of specifics to back up all of it (at the moment we're 0-3), I'm not sure an excessively detailed legislative proposal that will never even get proposed does anything but get us off track--especially if it's just more of the same. Instead of being about how things could be these pl*ns are too much about how things are, but money talks, and, contributes.

I guess it's the same as with this Congress, who, by the system and by the numbers, perhaps cannot really do much, but I still wish there were a greater sense of urgency and a greater willingness to say what seems to be plainly true instead of playing the political odds. Now that he's irrelevant, Kerry seems to be doing more of that, at least according to the e-mails that still arrive in a little used inbox of mine. Those who are still striving to stay relevant don't think they can afford that. It's a multibillion dollar machine, and no one is going to be much rocking the well-heeled boat. But, we need a president who can lead, not a 536th legislator, and not just a new handbasket to continue our trip in, especially since this one is about to burst into flames.

Deranged? You be the judge

Jonathan says "no thinking adult would be deranged enough to put himself through such misery." Let's put that theory to test with the e-mail I just fired off to the tournament director (names have been changed to protect the innocents).

Mr. Moneybags,
I’m writing to express my displeasure over the handling of the cancellation of this weekend’s “baseball tournament.” As the parent of a participating player, I invested heavily in my son’s participation in what appeared, initially, to be a first-class tournament. Had I known that we would return home having completed just one game, I wouldn’t have bothered.

I have read and understand your refund policy and I know you can’t control the weather. But having directed a much smaller tournament of my own earlier this spring, I believe we set the standard for doing the right thing for participating teams. In our case, a mid-week snowfall threw a major wrench in our plans and left us scrambling for playable fields. Our major venue would not let us play on Saturday, so we switched to a single-elimination Sunday-only tournament. Meanwhile, we refunded $75 of the $175 entry fee and $50 of the $100 gate fee. Additionally, we pledged an additional $50 refund to any team that only got to play one game.

Rather than pocket the proceeds from a weather-shortened tournament, we opted to pass our savings for field rental and umpire pay back to the participating teams. This was very positively received and, I suspect, will cause many teams to return to our tournament next year because they know we’re fair.

With 300 teams from 10 states in your tournament, perhaps public relations is less of a concern for you. I know our organization will think twice about sending any of our teams to your tournament again. For $375, we could have played a lot of games at home and saved our parents and coaches the expense of hotel rooms, meals and gas.

Again, I know you can’t control the weather. But there are things you do control that were mishandled, in my view. I repeatedly called the rainout line Sunday afternoon (during the nicest weather of the weekend) only to hear the same message over and over – that the tournament would resume at 3:40 p.m. (During this time we ventured a couple miles up the road to 3and2 where a tournament was in full swing.) I monitored the Web site constantly and no updates were posted (and still haven’t been).

Only after our team went to the complex at 7 p.m. for an expected 8:40 p.m. resumption of an earlier rain delay did we discover the gates locked and no sign indicating what was going on. (The locked gates, by the way, were only slightly more unfriendly than the message we received Sunday morning that we had to leave the park “unless we were buying something.”)

Again, I called the rainout line to discover a message had been posted at 6 p.m. announcing the tournament’s cancellation. So there we were, 5 ½ hours from home, stuck with hotel rooms for the night and no games to play.

I’d have had no complaints if we had played four games – like three local teams. I wouldn’t have even objected to having three games under our belts, like eight teams in the bracket. But our team and another local team only completed one game. (Perhaps instead of a four-game “guarantee,” you should sell it as a “best-case scenario.”) The Razorbacks, at least, didn’t have lodging expenses to fuel their disappointment. But couldn’t more have been done to ensure each team got at least two games?

To add insult to injury, our first game wasn’t scheduled until 6 p.m. Saturday. I understand that you were probably trying to accommodate our travel needs, but we had booked hotel rooms for Friday night and were ready to play first thing Saturday morning. (Fortunately, we were able to cancel those rooms, but the point is we were ready to go.)

I’m asking you to make an exception to your refund policy. It’s the right thing to do and it would send a message to our organization that you run a fair-minded tournament that is worthy of our participation.

Sincerely,



Lonnie

P.S. It sure seemed like a great day for baseball as I was fueling for the 342-mile drive home at 10:45 this morning, pumping another $60 into the local economy.

Can't always get what you want

Were I near-sighted, an RBI single to send the game into extra innings would be my lasting memory from this memorable Memorial Day weekend baseball extravaganza that wasn’t.

My 20-20 vision also witnessed the cardinal sin of striking out looking – twice!

But that was just the first game, and, it turns out, only game. 13-10 losers in a nine-inning game scheduled for seven that had reached the time limit after six.

That four-game guarantee isn’t worth the bytes of Web space it occupies, apparently. Neither is the since-erased refund policy.

We had booked rooms for Friday night in anticipation of an early Saturday start. With 300 teams from 10 states, we had little expectation of a favorable travel seed. Then we learned we didn’t play until 6 p.m. Saturday, so we canceled Friday’s lodging and began our adventure Saturday morning.

The spectators seemed to enjoy the game more than the scorekeeper, who counts six errors as the reason for our loss. Little did we know it was just the beginning of our adventure.

I’ll decline from tabulating the money spent since waiting for our second game.

Game one ended shortly after 9:15 p.m. – a three-hour affair – just in time for our 10 p.m. assignment. We held a 2-0 lead in the third inning when the game was curiously called due to lighting, which had been flashing all night long. The umps brought the teams back on the field in time for it to start raining, hard.

Eventually we were told to go home, in the driving rain, and check the Web site and rainout line for updates. By 3 a.m., there were no updates. After napping in between, we learned at 7 a.m. that our games scheduled for 10 and 12 were moved up 40 minutes or so.

We started game three shortly after 9 a.m. Scoreless through three innings when more rain came – hard rain. It lasted maybe a half hour as we learned, eventually, that it was a four-hour setback. “Check the Web site and the hotline for updates.”

The hotel has a poor excuse for in-room internet service, but that’s another rant, so I spent the afternoon in the lobby checking for updates. I finally got through to the “hotline” shortly before 1 p.m. to learn the tournament would resume at 3:40 and that today’s rain delays would be played out tomorrow. Presumably, the 8:40 p.m. conclusion of last night’s rainout was still on.

Meanwhile, I accompanied our coaches less than five miles up the road where the 14U AA World Series will be played. Care to guess what was going on? That’s right, a baseball tournament.

Under partly-cloudy skies with no hint of rain, our team arrived at the our complex to find it locked. A coach’s call interrupted my well-deserved nap and sent me back to the “hotline” and “Web site” for information. The “hotline,” updated at 6 p.m., announced the tournament’s cancellation. The “Web site” was silent on the issue, except the refund policy had curiously been removed.

I directed my first baseball tournament earlier this year, so I know what a thankless and hard job it is. Multiply that times 10, in this case, and I can’t even imagine. But the experience also allows me to offer some criticism. Here’s a top 10:

1. Don’t direct people to your Web site unless you’re prepared to update said Web site frequently.
2. Don’t direct people to your “hotline” unless you’re prepared to update said “hotline” frequently.
3. Don’t do business with facilities that don’t have a can-do attitude.
4. Don’t guarantee four games and remove your refund policy when it looks like you won’t be able to meet that expectation.
5. Don’t be overzealous when trying to accommodate the first game for traveling teams.
6. Do be overzealous when trying to get more than one game for traveling teams.
7. Don’t make people wait around for six hours, particularly the nicest six hours of the weekend, before announcing you’re canceling the tournament.
8. If you are canceling, make a splash!
9. Never cancel with one day remaining.
10. Service what you sell.

P.S. I lugged my bike 432 miles to get here and haven't ridden it yet. It seems a biker-friendly place, with share-the-road signs everywhere, but too hilly. And did I mention it rained?

That's right, Virginia

There is no Sopranos, at least not tonight.

Poor random Googlers, somehow thinking a blog search is going to yield a satisfactory answer to any variation on this theme:

sopranos not on tonight

why is sopranos not on tonight

sopranos not on tonight why?

sopranos why is it not on tonight?

(and yes, I know, copying these queries is not going to help, but the East coast time slot has past, so maybe they'll go away.)

While I do have an Improving Your Googling worksheet I could pass along, I don't really have an answer, though I suspect it has something to do with Memorial Day or David Chase's fixation on dragging this out as long as humanly possible. At least I know it's Lonnie's birthday dinner post that tricked Google into leading them here. I'm still not sure what the connection is between the keywords legs entwined catfight (to quote the referral log) and the December archive page. I mean, I think I would have remembered that.

life's a circus, this is a carnival

"I hate coming to these things," says the random mom behind us in line.

Beautiful night, though.

"I hate these things."

Well, they're having fun.

"I hate these things."

So. I. hear.

Can't say that standing in line for nearly an hour is my favorite way to while away part of a Friday night either, but my girl loves that hang glider ride, her friend, afraid of heights, has already gone home, we've got the tickets, nobody is ever going to stop the middle schoolers in the front from letting their friends cut and extending our wait, and, besides, the company--my company-- is as good as the lemonade is sour. We roll our eyes at the goofball boys, raise our eyebrows at the fashion don'ts, debate the merits of funnel cake vs. late night drive-thru snack, try to calculate how many more turns 'til we're nearer the gate, and hold each other up as the hour grows later. She's so tall! She's so patient. She's so determined to ride this ride and "fly."

A more perfect conclusion would have me flying along with her, but first weekend of the summer magic only goes so far. As it went, she did get to ride before the rain began, and even the sullen mom had to smile when my daughter thanked her for playing security when another gang of 12 year-olds tried to crash the line. I hope she carried her moment of carnival contentment on to the next ride, though I'm not sure that happened. I know I'm not always so good at choosing my attitude. Life, indeed, can be hard. But hanging out with your kids as they do what makes them happy? That should be easy.

I'm going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come

That's the quirky song that's going through my head on the eve of a journey to, you guessed it, Kansas City. The bags are packed, the Jeep is full of gas, and I'm pumped. One of life's great joys is the opportunity to watch your son play baseball and I plan to soak it in this holiday weekend.

So will hundreds of moms and dads as they take their sons to the Memorial Day Super NIT. Three hundred teams from across the country are converging on Kansas City for the tournament.

My son's team, the Jr. Warriors, is in a pool with the Kansas Red Sox, Topeka Titans, Kansas City Colts and Missouri Cougars. Our team and the Extreme from Edwardsville, Ill., join 13 teams from Kansas and Missouri in the 14U AA bracket.

Eighth grade baseball practice was canceled to accommodate our trip to the tournament. We'll play two games Saturday and two on Sunday. The top eight teams advance to Monday's playoff round.

I'm so excited, you'd think I were playing. In a way, I am.

Little in life gives me more joy that watching my kids compete. I've been fortunate to attend nearly every game, but those days may be coming to an end. Eighth graders, being on the lowest end of the high school totem pole, typically play doubleheaders that start at 10 a.m. on weekdays. My job is exceedingly flexible, but geez.

So while doors are opening for my son to continue playing the game he loves, I see them closing for me. I intend to enjoy this weekend for what it is -- a special moment in time worth cherishing.

Happy Friday, y'all

Sure, sometimes a brain plays tricks, making a simple drive down the interstate into something even Alice in Wonderland's neurologist would have to take notes on. But then the next week, you get into the same car to drive the same direction, and those same cells fire, and all you get is the sudden memory of the perfect song to accompany the end of this long, long week:

B double E double R U N Beer Run. . .

Now if I could only get that Todd Snider tune back OUT of my head.

doctor, doctor

FOX News calling anything by Michael Moore "brilliant and uplifting" must count as at least one sign of the apocalypse, but, assuming we're around by the release date, I absolutely intend to see Sicko,Moore's new film about health care in the United States. Notice I did not say health care system, as there is no system, save the nefarious plot that requires even all non-pediatric offices to employ at least one receptionist who insists on wearing Disney Princess scrubs. Or the only slightly more sinister scheme that demands the three appointment talk-about-the-test, have-the-test, come-back-and-talk-about-the-test-again protocol when two phone calls and one visit would suffice, but there's no profit margin in that, and, apparently, no value in my time, so pardon me as I bang my head on the exam room wall. For the 19th time since March. Historical data tell me I've got another hour before this doctor will pop in, so, if I've got anything besides a questionable radiology report, it's time.

Time to ponder how bad traffic will be when my 3:30-in-theory appointment becomes a 5:00-in-reality rendezvous. Time to wonder what would happen if Michael Moore had a reel of film for petty problems: if he shuffled down these narrow corridors where I've never so much as seen a man and asked why halfheartedly chasing an ultrasound tech to her car is a better strategy than just setting up the test as I'd repeatedly asked days ago, would he actually get an answer, or would he have to come back in June, too?

"You must be frustrated," two doctors have recited to me in less a week, both having attended the same workshop on Heading Off the Patient With That Look In Her Eye, both acknowledging that going to the doctor often makes one feel worse instead of better, and not only when a telescope has been inserted into one's bladder.

Ya think?

Bad Dad

Oh, the shit's gonna hit the fan tomorrow.

I just finished sending e-mails, in reverse order, to my son, my wife, and my son's orchestra teacher.

First I informed the teacher that her last available bass player was no longer available for a Thursday night performance because the eighth grade baseball team was scrimmaging the freshmen at the same time.

Zach has always been passionate about baseball. While we've always encouraged his participation in orchestra, he has never been passionate about it. He's a good enough student, and a great enough kid, that I support his desire to give top priority to that which gives him the most joy. I assure you that if the roles were reversed, and music were his passion, he would have my full support in that direction.

Then I informed the wife of my act, acknowledging that I should have kept her in the loop, but convinced I had done the right thing.

Then I informed my son that I granted his wish, so sweetly discussed following baseball practice (for him) and a baseball meeting (for me).

My meeting ran later than his practice, so he hung around to watch the varsity game. Fortunately, he had completed his homework prior to practice. We exchanged the usual small talk on the ride home:

Me: How was practice?

Him: Good.

Me: What did you work on?

Him: Hitting.

Me: How did you hit?

Him: Good.

It's not until after we arrive home that he confronts me with his dilemma: play in Thursday's scrimmage and hurt his orchestra grade or play the bass in Thursday's orchestra concert and miss the scrimmage that may chart his high school baseball future.

"Why did you come to me instead of your mom?" I asked rhetorically.

So hit me with your best shot, readers. You might as well jump on the bandwagon too.

Little pomp, lots of circumstance

Hundred bucks, easy: that's what it will cost me for modest graduation gifts and cards and the makings of a surreptitious early morning cake-and-punch party for the two Seniors who will leave my classroom for the last time this coming Thursday, Lord willin' and the Missouri River don't rise. It isn't necessary, and I have no idea if it's expected, but I can't let this occasion pass unmarked. Besides, as my mother says, as she waits for her Social Security to hit the bank: that's what money's for.

Not having 150 new students each year like all the "regular" teachers does make my teaching world a different one. I've seen one of these graduates every school day since he was an eighth grader who wouldn't stop singing the "Cops" theme song. I know the civics credit on his transcript was a gift he certainly wouldn't have gotten from me. I have an invitation to his sister's quinceañera on my desk, dry-erase markers dubiously obtained from a job cleaning a city school up at the board, and memories of the awful year their father was hurt on the job. We have talked soccer, baseball, movies, politics, taxes, cars, TV, girls, computers, and education. We have studied history, science, math, and, yes, English together since 2002, and both of us have learned so much. How could I not spring for cake?

para vivir, trabajar

For years, white flight fed the town's growth, the river that divided one old county from the next maybe even feeding that movement, making the more western territory seem just that much more separate, just that much more safe, just that much more secure. If only there were a drawbridge, as there was certainly a not-so-secret code explaining who was welcome and who was not. So much of a code that it never would have occurred to those fine white folks that any kind of immigration from the wider world would have anything to do with them. But, time and progress march on, though, further and further west, even to towns not so fortunate as to have their own moats (save for those who dig their own out of the fertile floodplain soil), eventually making this old river town a bit more of pit stop than a destination.

But as the white people move on to places with bigger subdivisions and fancier strip malls (no accounting for taste), the interstates keep rolling through and the restaurant dishes still need to be washed, and the toilets still need to be scrubbed, and the grass still needs to be mowed, and the food still needs to be fried, and the laundry still needs to be washed, and the motel beds still need to be made, and the carpet still needs to be laid, and the shingles still to be nailed, and the tables still need to be bussed, and the rent becomes affordable, and the apartments are available, and the accessible neighborhoods are mostly livable--the immigrants, hardest working people in America, as far as I can tell, arrive. Are there. And will stay, despite any piece of legislation, including the current proposal that seems to prefer they didn't exist. And the same patterns that have fed the town for years continue, though the complexion and the accent begin to change. It's the most American story there is, really, though some people around there think it's brand new.

Leave it to Congress, where no reality is so real that it can't be gussied up, outright ignored, or compromised out of existence, to design a proposal that rewards immigrants with education and sophisticated job skills despite the fact that our economy is built on the backs of people with neither of those things. That's not the only flaw in this week's surely short-lived plan, of course, but it is one of the highlights. Just as a certain faction of this old river town enjoys its restaurants and lawn care and expert, cheap roofing when the hail storms sweep through but gets a certain narrow-eyed look when changing demographics, barely noticeable as they are, are pointed-out, so many Americans want cheap chicken from Tyson and cheap oranges from Florida and a college-educated third-generation Guatemalan-American to harvest them both. That's just not how it works, either now or in the past.

This, however, is how it works, or how it will work, and, perhaps, what we should really be alarmed about, because it does represent a future that is different than the past:

"The Labor Department estimates that 37 percent of all new jobs in the next decade will be filled by people with a high school education or less. Of the 10 occupations expected to see the largest job growth, only two require a college degree. On-the-job training is usually enough for the other occupations, like retail sales clerks, home health aides and food service workers, the department said."

Welcome to America! Crappy jobs for everyone! Even the Americans. Forever! No way up, no way out. But don't forget to blame the brown person to your left.

Tony Soprano may have saved a life tonight

Tonight I gathered with my sisters and our families at the Olive Garden to celebrate my mom's 70th birthday. Nothing but the third or fourth best Italian restaurant in town for dear old mom.

Greeting one another with a hug and kiss, she thanked me for putting her picture in the Milestones section of the paper. I tried not to show that I had nothing to do with it and no knowledge of it (if I had, it wouldn't have included a low-resolution, pixilated image that was undoubtedly taken with a cell phone).

We're not the closest family, in fact we're quite fractured. Dysfunctional doesn't quite fit. Nonfunctional seems more accurate. Though we live in the same town, family gatherings are rare. That's just fine by me, though mom said repeatedly tonight how she wished we'd get together more.

Don't hold your breath, Mom, not at your age.

Someone always seems to be feuding with someone over something stupid. On the rare occasions of civility, we're still asking for trouble. For example, this past Christmas resulted in an ugly political and religious discussion between my surprisingly conservative know-it-all brother-in-law and my liberal-leaning nephew and bible-thumping niece. I participated for as long as I could stand it, but decided there was no room for politics or religion in Christmas and walked away.

Tonight seemed to be going well as I kept a close eye on the time for fear of missing The Sopranos. I didn't even mind the look on Mom's face when she opened my gift and, instead the gift certificate she coveted (according to my sisters), found an arrangement of imitation flowers that reminded me of the real ones that bloomed heartily at my childhood home. I neglected to mention this, not wanting to open a can of worms.

But things took the inevitable turn for the worst when Mom steered us down memory lane, remembering how I used to constantly shake my leg. Among all my childhood memories -- good, bad and indifferent -- this doesn't even register. Then my loud-mouth little -- make that younger -- sister chimes in from across the room.

I bit my lip, refusing to take the bait, and said I didn't have time to debate a matter that a) isn't true, b) doesn't mean squat and c) might interfere with my viewing of The Sopranos. Who says you can't choose your family?

And to top it all off

"Someday," said the special ed teacher I don't really know, having made a special point to stop and share this pearl of wisdom with me as I tried to finally, for the first time this week, get to class on time, "this will be a funny story."

Lady, this is a funny story now. Because if you actually knew me, and had been living this week along with me, you'd know how far down the list of Bad Things That Happen to Good People, 5/14/07 - 5/18/07 edition, being pulled over by friendly officer jackass smack in front of the high school for doing 42 in a 30 actually ranks. For this one, I don't need commisseration: I just need a punch line.

Turns out being the punch line was what it took to finally escape an actual ticket for the first time in my driving life. No tears shed, no eyelashes batted. You live where? And work here? Aren't you embarrassed? A teacher? For how long? And three dollars a gallon? Insane, I know. Go Warriors.

I should have known something was up when he waved us through the 4-way stop all out of order just to get to me, who had at least signaled and come to a full and complete stop and even stayed conscious as I came to the top of speed trap hill. I wasn't even late for work, technically. Today had all the makings of a perfectly normal morning. And this week, that should have been a sign.

1-0 or 0-1?

It was a night for bonfires and stadium blankets, out-of-season sweatshirts and shivering knees, and a vocal but good-natured crowd huddled on aluminum bleachers: what else could it be but a mid-May softball game, the first of the season?

In some ways, except for the fluky weather, it was all as we remembered it. The girls just excited to play. An opposing team which seems to have spent all its practices learning cheers (!) designed to rattle the pitchers and drive us parents insane "all the way to Mexico" (done and done). T-shirt uniforms sponsored by a bank and a dentist and a pizza place and Ashleigh's mom's real estate company. We've--yes, we--have been playing ball on this diamond since first grade t-ball, and some things haven't changed at all.

On the other hand, the fact that the scoreboard no longer seems to work is not the only thing that's different. The girls are growing up and so is their game. The catcher, so fun to watch, hangs tough inning after inning, thanks to those big brothers of hers. I'd swear the star player has not uttered a voluntary word in the four years I've watched her as a player or girl scout or classmate, but that pitch and that swing of hers speak surprising volumes, and I can't help but wonder--already--how things will turn out for her if she lets her skill do the talking. My own player did better than I thought she might--perhaps it's the ritualized cleat-tapping she's somehow acquired-- and I can't help but smile at what a kick she gets out of scoring even when she's walked in.

I'm not sure how this season will go--we seem to have most of the fearsome pitchers, but for some reason our coach was flummoxed that the other team made them pitch and we walked in plenty of runs. Regardless, I intend to enjoy this season for what it is: nearly the end of the not-so-competitive line. Soon enough, the days of everybody plays will be over, and because that may mean my days in the stands are over, too, I'm a little ambivalent. But, notice I never said anything about non-competitive: what's the point in that? Softball is a sport: while the point is how you play the game, somebody does win, and somebody does lose. And somebody really needs to fix that scoreboard.

Leave it to The Onion

Leave it to The Onion, a newspaper that parodies events in the news, to put a comical spin on the recent news surrounding Green Bay Packers quarterback Brett Favre and his frustration with management.

Brett Favre Demands Trade To 1996 Packers

GREEN BAY—Three-time MVP and undisputed future Hall of Fame quarterback Brett Favre, disappointed with the Packers' refusal to aggressively pursue receiver Randy Moss and frustrated with his team's apparent indifference to making immediate...

Jerry Falwell mea culpa

Yesterday I posted about the death of Jerry Falwell, whom I labeled as an "inspiration" in the headline. An anonymous commenter, my favorite kind, took me to task and advised that I seek forgiveness for my blasphemy.

I'm always open to suggestions and constructive criticism, so I sought forgiveness. In the process, I came across this from Jonathan Alter in Newsweek:

Don’t Believe the Hype
Jerry Falwell built a megachurch, and created a university-both laudable feats. But his influence on American politics has been vastly overstated.


It must suck to realize your "guiding light" was a dim bulb. I'm no more a blasphemer than Falwell was an inspiration. I apologize for labeling him as such in the headline.

Jerry Falwell was an inspiration

Now there's a headline you wouldn't expect on this blog, but it's true. TV evangelist Jerry Falwell, founder of the "Moral Majority"** and the face of the "religious right,"** died today at 73.

This occasion gave me cause to examine my personal relationship with Jerry, which was best reflected in one of my favorite Halloween costumes.
Inspired by Falwell's 1999 outing of the purse-toting "Teletubbies" character, I was Tinky Winky for the day. (I'll try to find a photo, but that was pre-digital.)

I still laugh at my then-three-year-old daughter's objections to my using her purple purse as my "magic bag." And though I can't remember why I was walking downtown in full costume and broad daylight, the memory makes me smile. But my favorite part -- my moment of zen -- was the image on my tummy television: a picture of the Rev. Jerry Falwell.

** Their terms, not mine. I would argue that the "Moral Majority" is neither, and the "religious right" is wrong, but that's another post.

My kind of town

The New York Times loves St. Louis. Not loves in a pack-your-bags-and-abandon-Manhattan kind of way, but at least in a there-by-the-grace-of-God-or-a-one-way-ticket-out-of-Palookaville (or St. Louis!)-go-we kind of way. Or at least that's how it seemed after April's "Hope for a Renaissance After Exodus in St. Louis" story about the city's official population number (complete with charts and graphs and photos of abandoned buildings, though it's now behind the Select wall) and May's "Development Rises on St. Louis Area Flood Plains" story. The latter seems written in hopes that the Missouri River floods would take out some of the surely ill-advised construction in areas that were flooded in the deluges of '93, and while I have to say, NY Times, we kinda hope so too, I also had to say, after reading both articles, what the hell? What did St. Louis ever do to you, 'cept make you feel superior?

Now, I'm not saying there aren't valid points in these articles. The Exodus story goes over well-traversed economic and educational terrian but ignores the landmarks that seem significant to us locals--or that don't serve its gloom and doom thesis. I'd quote it, but I ain't paying for it. The flood story seems more realistic, but maybe just because I agree with it more. This chunk, for example, refers to the same development I made fun of the other day, but gives the buyers a bit of a pass:

Fear of flooding did not appear to scare off prospective buyers at the New Town at St. Charles, a housing development whose sales office hummed with activity on Sunday, even as the Missouri River was rising. Although the community is near the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, residents are not required to have flood insurance, because they are beyond the 100-year flood plain.

The location was a selling point for Ken Snider, a high school teacher from St. Louis.

“It’s not going to flood here for another 100 years,” Mr. Snider said, “and I won’t be around by then.”

So, even though New Town is supposedly safe, I'll point out that "100-year flood plain" actually means an annual 1% chance of flooding in that spot. Which, while it would defy odds out the wazoo, could happen every year, and, whenever it happens, will not be by a pre-determined century-long schedule. But if it did happen, I'm confident the Times, or at least reporter Susan Saulny, would be practically beside herself with excitement, given that today's caption, since deleted (the cheaters), referred to already-disapaiting floodwaters "rushing toward downtown St. Louis," darn that 30 foot flood wall. Because it's the can-you-believe-people-live-here tone of these articles as much as their existence that kind of amuses me. Are there not other cities in the great fly-over that are also not what they used to be?

I was all set to be further amused if Saulny, the reporter of both stories, turned out to be from St. Louis, but my friend Google suggests she's from New Orleans. She has a good story herself, having met her doctor husband on 9/11 as she reported from ground zero; life works in mysterious ways. Newspapers, though? Not so much. My guess, from a look at her story list, is that these City of the Apocalypse stories were initiated or inspired when she was here for the Shawn Hornbeck kidnapping story. I still think it's kind of funny they keep getting published, though, at the same time, I do kind of hope the series isn't over. How else will I know what's terribly wrong here?