Mixed Blessings
Mixed Blessings
My immediate instinct was to swear to no one in particular, "You idiot, is Tony Blair just an imaginary friend of President Bush? Has the acquiescence of Congress, not to mention France, China and Russia, escaped you?" But then I thought about the Anaheim Angels' Troy Percival retiring the overrated Nick Johnson on Saturday afternoon to end the latest New York Yankees dynasty and gratefully returned to a temporary cocoon.
I'll get to the wipeout of the Yanks shortly?like the unadulterated joy of seeing Bernie Williams dogging it on a blooper by Darin Erstad in the fifth inning of the deciding playoff game, causing David Wells' meltdown?but first a few other anecdotes that've helped me blot out the news of the day. After all, when you've got Mayor Mike frittering away his time mouthing off about noise pollution in the city, trouble's on its way, and sometimes it's better to turn off the spigot of disgust.
Who needs a bleeding ulcer when the fireworks outside aren't a planned event? As a former Boy Scout, I vow to Be Prepared. Naturally, the Times agrees with Bloomberg's silly edict, editorializing on Oct. 5: "Now, as part of Operation Silent Night, police officers, some carrying noise meters, will give tickets, tow cars and make arrests." I wonder which lucky cop will give a ticket to the lunatic who blows up Rockefeller Center.
The Mayor has also scheduled tax increases for next year, which will hasten the flight of companies to other states, creating a loss of jobs and income in the city. Out in California last week, a scummy trial lawyer bamboozled a jury into awarding a lifetime smoker, now 64, $28 billion in damages allegedly inflicted by Philip Morris, Inc. That verdict won't stand, but it's business as usual: people aren't forced to smoke, and if they do, a large measure of personal responsibility is in order.
I need to take a deep breath.
Two Sundays ago, Mrs. M and I escorted our sons and five of MUGGER III's schoolmates to brunch and a movie at the Battery Park complex on West St., which includes the fine Embassy Suites hotel, a 16-screen cineplex and a bunch of restaurants. First stop was Applebee's, where the boys devoured plates of ribs, burgers and fries and too many sodas, and tried several times to start a monster food-fight. Our table, after just 15 minutes, was a Dennis the Menace slop pit, but the waiter was understanding, pleasantly numb with an I've-Seen-It-All-Before expression, and treated the youngsters like they were Hollywood VIPs. And here's an amazing fact: the tab, which included a ton of grub and half-price movie tickets for nine, came to a paltry $112, and that included the mandatory gratuity for parties of six or more. I slipped the guy another $30 and we all walked next door to see Jackie Chan's The Tuxedo.
It was a fairly entertaining film, although I preferred Chan and Owen Wilson in 2000's Shanghai Noon. We got a charge out of the whippersnappers, on the walk back to our loft, practicing their karate moves, kicking and chopping in the air, even as the depressing sight of Stuyvesant High School's decimated playing field was right before our eyes. As usual, the theater's thermostat had been set at about 45 degrees, a throwback to Pat Buchanan's youth when most people didn't have air conditioning at home and escaped to the movies for relief.
Those days are over, industry execs. Granted, I hate cold weather, but when you're forced to wear a sweater and jacket in the middle of summer to endure a two-hour show, and then strip off layers of clothing once you get back out in the sunshine, it's a real incentive to wait for cinematic hits to be released on DVD. Funny that you never hear about the absurd waste of energy in theaters, malls and office buildings when flaps about energy conservation come up. Just once I'd like to hear Sen. John Kerry, when ranting about saving a few caribou in Alaska, also point out that Americans, including his constituents and 2004 primary voters, simply aren't going to give up gas-guzzling cars or excessive air conditioning.
Whoops. I'm getting out of the compartment. Well, as long as I'm on the loose, what about that Oct. 7 front-page poll about the economy in The New York Times? The shocking finding was that most Americans are discouraged about the economy, at least according to the data recorded from the 668 adults?not identified as likely voters, by the way?the Times surveyed in its attempt to divert attention from Iraq.
I happen to agree that President Bush has made a number of mistakes on this vital domestic front. Why Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill still has a job is beyond me. And one can only hope that after the midterm elections Bush will propose serious tax cuts that will stimulate commercial activity and employment. Deep in the Times' A-1 story is the fact that two-thirds of those polled support military action against Iraq. One sentence, however, reveals the Times' real motivation: "But the Times/CBS News poll suggests that no matter what is happening in Washington, voters are more concerned with the economy and domestic issues than with what is happening with Saddam Hussein, presenting the Democrats a glimmer of hope as Congress prepares to vote on the Iraq resolution and adjourn to campaign."
In other words, Howell Raines is pissed off at Tom Daschle and other Democratic leaders for failing to bury Iraq as an election issue, not to mention the visit of Reps. James McDermott and David Bonior to Baghdad, where the former called Bush a liar and insisted we take Saddam at his word.
Those wascally neocons at The Weekly Standard ran an astute editorial this week on McDermott's Jane-Fonda-in-Drag routine. David Tell wrote: "The Bush administration makes a wise choice to remain silent here, we think; Bonior and McDermott do not deserve the dignity of presidential notice... But nervous bewilderment does not constitute disloyalty; no one can fairly say that the Democratic party has apologized for Saddam Hussein. David Bonior and Jim McDermott are freaks. They do not speak for their party. And their party, it seems to us, should say so."
Several weeks ago, my in-laws were here from Los Angeles, and though they didn't care much for the Tribeca Grand, they made the most of their first visit since 9/11. Mrs. M's dad, Rudy, an old-school kind of guy reared in Illinois, is one of my favorite relatives. We can talk baseball for hours on end?he's a lifelong White Sox fan?and a perfect guest, insisting on picking up checks at restaurants, doting on his lovely daughter and grandchildren and indulging my repeated jabs at Gray Davis and Barbara Boxer. And Daisy would certainly be a fine replacement for the Times' awful critic Ben Brantley, as she meticulously picked apart the unsuccessful revival of Burn This that we saw at the Union Square Theater.
Aside from Edward Norton's explosive 15 minutes onstage, this dated three-hour production is more suited for a straight-to-cable movie than an expensive Off-Broadway show. The gay character's one-liners might've tickled playwright Lanford Wilson back in '87, but in 2002 they're not a whit more daring than anything you might see on a primetime network series. At times it was hard to keep from dozing off, but then I'd marvel at how much the character of walking-contradiction Burton reminded me of Al Gore: spoiled, born into wealth, selfish and craving a love that no one's willing to give.
Last Saturday, I took the boys up to Brooks Brothers for a dreaded shopping excursion, which they equate with a trip to the dentist. It was relatively painless, although they didn't care at all for the laborious tailoring process on their winter corduroys, and squabbled over who got the bigger fitting room. I don't think the salesman was delighted by the running commentary with my sons about the necessity to invade Iraq, the wretched state of the FBI and CIA after post-Watergate "reforms" or the repetition of my mother's favorite slogan, "Democrats eat fried rats." What the hell?pardon my German?I thought, this guy was getting a nifty commission on a morning when the store was nearly deserted. Let him vote for Carl McCall with my dollars in his pocket.
As a sweetener, we then took a cab down to the Virgin Megastore on Broadway?our outlet of choice for CDs and DVDs?and then a stop in at Forbidden Planet for a videogame, and finally hot dogs and sodas from a vendor on 8th St. I find it somewhat fascinating to chart their change in tastebuds: Junior's now added mustard as a condiment for his frank, while his brother is still stuck on ketchup. Can sauerkraut be far behind?
Back to the life-affirming MLB playoffs. I didn't care much for the television commentary?Rick Sutcliffe and Tony Gwynn are human tranquilizers?and in light of the Yanks' disaster I wished the games were shown on George Steinbrenner's YES channel. At the beginning of the season I couldn't stand Michael Kay, with his "see ya's" after each homer, and constant propaganda about America's most storied sports franchise, but as the months went on he clearly emerged as the smartest guy in the booth. While Jim Kaat shamelessly shilled for the players during the labor dispute, Kay was far more objective, realizing that both sides were to blame. And when he sprinkled in $10 words like "abstemious" or "counterintuitive," leaving Kaat, Ken Singleton or Bobby Murcer in the dark, it was always good for a chuckle.
Jon Miller was once a topnotch announcer, but now he's apparently just bored with the game, if his Ralph and Alice Kramden routine with Joe Morgan is any indication. On the other hand, for all his motormouth observations, Tim McCarver is still pretty sharp. One example was when Derek Jeter threw a ball away after making a terrific stop on a hit to short. Jeter, who had time to make the play conventionally, opted for his patented acrobatics and blew it, something about which the YES men would've said, "And Jeter almost pulls it off again!" Instead, a more sober McCarver said something like, "There was no excuse for that play. Jeter's had some success in the past with that style, but he doesn't have to do it every time."
Junior and I joined my brother Jeff and his friend Marshall for the first Yanks-Angels game at the Stadium on Oct. 1 and were lucky enough to snag second-row seats from my nephew. I agree that postseason games start way too late, excluding kids from seeing the action, which is a dumb marketing move, since they're tomorrow's audience. As it was, Mrs. M gave me the hairy eyeball for taking our nine-year-old to a game that began at 8:17 on a school night, and I could hardly blame her. He was exhausted the next day.
That's not to say baseball should return to the olden days and schedule afternoon games exclusively; some romantics might wax about the joy of bringing a transistor to school to follow the World Series, but as a kid I'd have rather seen it on tv. So why not a compromise, with games beginning at 6 p.m. instead of two hours later?
Dumb question, I suppose, since Fox, or whatever station has the tv rights at the time, isn't about to wander out of primetime. But when Randy Johnson, one of this generation's superstars, is on the mound for the Diamondbacks and the game starts a half-hour before midnight on the East Coast, who's going to watch the game? I did, for a few innings, and was a wreck the next day when my internal alarm clock rang at the usual 4:30 a.m., before the roosters are even squawking here in rural Tribeca.
I apologize for the digressions, but it's simply a function of the Clinton Rule of rambling on and on till even the ghosts give up. By the way, even Democrats have to cringe at the former president's boorish behavior since he left office. I don't begrudge the guy making millions giving innocuous speeches to obsequious corporate audiences?that's a Gerry Ford specialty?but his violation of the unwritten code of has-been commanders-in-chief openly criticizing their successors is disgraceful.
Clinton's at least more entertaining than Al Gore, whose recent remarks about Iraq and the economy reminded at least half the country of why they despised him in the first place. But when Bill knocks President Bush on foreign soil he's barely more loyal to his own country than Saddam's new best friends Bonior and McDermott. I understand that Clinton's futile legacy-building campaign continues, and will until he's 20 feet under, but you'd think that if he wants Hillary to regain the White House in 2008 he'd zip his lips and talk about golf, McDonald's new cholesterol-free fries and what an asshole Robert Reich is.
Last week, Clinton traveled to Blackpool, England, to attend Tony Blair's annual Labor Party conference. While extolling his host, he bashed Bush, polished his resume, expressed faith in the United Nations and, as every UK daily reported, wowed the audience.
An Oct. 3 London Times editorial said: "America once had founding fathers. It now has shameless sons. In a spellbinding performance of extraordinary audacity, Bill Clinton did not so much rewrite history as transport it to a parallel universe. A serial philanderer, unprincipled operator and habitual rogue managed to repackage himself as a cross between an Old Testament prophet, college professor and international statesman. A period in office that owed more to the Dukes of Hazzard than West Wing was presented as if it were Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."
And while I'm at it, isn't it strange that elite media pundits never referred to Clinton as a "chickenhawk" when he ordered military action in Kosovo? Now, with a Republican in the White House, a day doesn't pass when any number of conservatives are tagged with that label?and don't tell me it has nothing to do with the pedophile scandals in the Catholic Church?because they didn't serve in Vietnam.
Anyway, at the Stadium, Junior was wearing his Bosox hat and Nomar Garciaparra t-shirt, much to the consternation of our neighbors, creating a situation that got all the more dicey when we openly rooted for the Angels. Nevertheless, at one point in the game when the Yanks were leading?and this was the one contest they won?Jason Giambi made the final putout of the inning and on his return to the dugout flipped the ball to a guy in front of us.
What a surprise?especially since we'd been sparring since the first inning?when the fellow turned around and gave the ball to Junior. My son's smile was stuck on his face for hours; lucky for him that we left in the seventh inning and he was fast asleep when Bernie Williams got the one significant hit for the Yanks in the Series.
(Junior's love for baseball notwithstanding, his pick-up of that scuffed ball was a close second to his meeting Neil Swaab, creator of "Mr. Wiggles," at New York Press' annual Best of Manhattan party on Sept. 27. Confronted with Neil, my boy was speechless at first, as if he were face-to-face with the lead singer of the Vines or Hives.)
A buddy of mine, and fellow Red Sox diehard, suggested a month or so ago that we'd all be better off shedding our intense hatred of the Yankees. Sorry, Chris, no can do. Seeing the Yanks humiliated by the Angels was baseball majesty of the first order, even though we all know that Steinbrenner will shake up his roster for 2003 and his team will relearn how to field, strike out less often and steal more bases.
I'll buy the suggestion that the Angels were hungrier than the World Series ring-studded Yanks, but the shock registered by Bomber fans and the local media was thrilling. I love that the team is stuck with contracts for the underachieving Rondell White and Raul Mondesi, and that the braintrust is already considering if Roger Clemens, Ramiro Mendoza, El Duque and even Andy Pettitte will be with the team next spring.
Here's someone else who will undoubtedly keep Steinbrenner up at night: Tino Martinez. How painful will it be for him to watch the unceremoniously dropped Martinez playing in the World Series for the St. Louis Cardinals (assuming, as I do, that they represent the National League). I do think that Jason Giambi was the American League's MVP (along with Barry Zito for the Cy Young award), since he changed the complexion of the team's offense, with about the best strike-zone eye in baseball, and always seemed to be on base. However, his fielding is sub-par, despite the official statistics. How many errors were charged to Yank infielders because Giambi couldn't rescue a rushed throw? How many times (a couple in the playoffs) did Giambi miss shots down the first-base line that went into right for doubles that would have been outs in Martinez's mitt? I wouldn't be surprised if George dictated that Giambi take on the DH role next season. Of course, I also think Bernie Williams with his weak arm and often-lackadaisical attitude should be relegated to that spot as well.