Hank Aaron and the Other Guy

A homerun of alleged significance was hit this evening. The whole thing saddens me to such an extent that I'm at a loss for words. So I'm going to let some of the great baseball writers at ESPN do the talking for me:

I've never been comfortable with the knee-jerk label of "cheater" to describe every athlete who stretches the moral boundaries for an edge. Willie Mays liked red juice, Pete Rose took "greenies" to lose weight, and Barry Bonds, we're told, used performance-enhancing drugs because he was jealous of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Pass around the truth serum, and you'll find it's not a very exclusive club. Was Bonds' decision regrettable? Sure. Did it tarnish his achievements? I'll buy that. But the lure of public acceptance, money or immortality can entice men to do strange things. When we're talking about drug use in relation to NFL linemen, Tour de France participants or home run hitters, we can be awfully selective with our outrage. Personally, I'm as put off by Bonds' lack of human relations skill as the contents of his medicine cabinet. Few athletes in history have been as consistently boorish, joyless, self-absorbed or seemingly oblivious to the impression they create. Yes, we know Bonds has emotional baggage. But does the rest of the world constantly have to lug it around for him? Record-setting runs are as much about the warm feelings and enduring memories they generate as the numbers in the Baseball Encyclopedia. If we can't embrace Bonds because of his personality and we can't admire him because of the short cuts he took, why should anybody care that he's baseball's home run champion? The answer is, lots of people don't. Now that Bonds has No. 756 in the bank, most folks outside San Francisco wish he would just pack up his bats and size 8 hats and go away. Are you happy with that legacy, Barry?

-- Jerry Crasnick

The record book may now indicate Barry Bonds is the new home run king. But that doesn't mean fans -- both outside and inside the game -- have to recognize Bonds' spot above Hank Aaron. The beauty baseball has always maintained over other sports is accountability in the fans' perspective. You can trust your eyes in baseball. An error is an error. A missed bunt attempt is just that. What you see is, well, what you see. A pitcher who is throwing 88 mph at the end of one season and is magically hitting 98 on the gun the next spring? That's just not humanly possible, at least not without some form of help. Same goes for home run hitters, and Bonds tops this list. Not just because the only time he ever hit more than 49 home runs was when he reached 73 in 2001, but also because of the numerous allegations that Bonds used chemical help to reach late-career highs. Whether baseball or its fans want to admit it, these last 15 years will forever be viewed as the steroids era. Some say Bonds is being unfairly picked on. Maybe, but remember, the lab he used, BALCO, was the one the federal government raided. Bonds' name was front and center in the BALCO investigation and it's front and center among a large faction that simply does not believe he is the new home run king.

-- Pedro Gomez

I will acknowledge Barry Bonds for what he has done: hit more home runs than anyone in history. It is a fascinating accomplishment, one that's worthy, on some level, of celebration. We have never taken records away in baseball history, and we should not take this one away unless we're prepared to take away a whole bunch of records and achievements during this era. We shouldn't put an asterisk next to it, either. There already is -- and always will be -- an imaginary asterisk next to this era. We should do what baseball has always done with its records and controversies: attach a story to them, and then let our best baseball fans -- they believe something fishy went on here -- decide how to recognize this achievement. As for Hank Aaron, he no longer will have the most home runs of anyone in history, but his legacy will not be lessened. Bonds' chase has given us another chance to celebrate the greatness of Aaron's career, and the strength of his purpose. His legacy might even be strengthened because, as far as we know, he hit 755 home runs naturally, legally and honestly.

-- Tim Kurkjian

The biggest tragedy of the steroids era is that it has robbed us of the magic -- the magic of the greatest numbers in sports. People used to walk down Main Street -- in your town, in any town -- and hear those numbers rattling around their brains. They knew what 60 meant. And 61. And 714. And 755. They weren't just baseball numbers. They were milestones from our entire culture. You didn't have to be some geeky baseball fan to know them. Women and kids and grandmothers knew them. They were numbers so powerful, you could hear the home run calls in your head if you listened hard enough. No other sport had any numbers like them. And no one should ever underestimate the importance of that. It's because of what those numbers used to mean that No. 756 and the man who hit it are still enough to make that home run a momentous news event. But it's what we've lost that's the bigger story, to me. We've lost the ability to witness these moments and hear our hearts thumping, or feel our emotions flowing. Too many people now are cynical about what just happened and why it happened for these numbers to feel the same again. And not just 756. All of them.

-- Jayson Stark

Whew, I feel beter already.

A Suggestion

Inspired by the prospect of another weekend in the woods of Mississippi battling orcs and dragons, I simply wish to suggest that perhaps the reader do something they would not normally.

It just makes life fucking better.

When you're done, perhaps you could leave a little note describing the fun you had? Just a thought.

I'm Giddy

I'm going to be a part owner in a professional sports team. Some of you might have received an email from me a little while back regarding a chance to purchase part of an English soccer team and already have an idea of what I'm talking about. For those of you who did not or simply deleted without reading, let me explain.

A group of guys in England got together and decided it would be really neat if they did something similar to what the Green Bay Packers did when they first formed up: have a team owned by Average Joe's. They figured they would need about 50,000 people paying around 75 dollars, U.S. in order to make a bid on a lower-level club. So, they started their own website trying to sign up the target number. It got out in the media and low and behold 53,000+ registered. So, yesterday, they began to take payments from everyone, and I was one of them.

But the really big news is that four teams have already approached the group about a possible takeover. This means that I'm essentially a hair's breadth away owning part of a football club. The excitement is killing me.

Now, I know it could turn out to be a mess. Everything is being put to a vote, from who the coach and players will be to the game-day strategy. Weekly fiascos probably will ensue. But I don't really give a shit.

The idea of owning part of something so real is just enthralling to me. The notion that I can say that the guys I'm wactching are literally "my team" sends my heart aflutter. Not to mention that this demonstrates my point of the great unifying nature of sports. People from all over the world have sent in their money already.

And it's not too late if anybody else wants to join. Check out http://www.myfootballclub.co.uk/
I salivate at the thought of co-owning a team with my friends. Seriously, it costs less than a 100 bucks.

Das Fed

On Monday, a client took a plea bargain at the last minute, relating to various drug and gun charges the U.S. Attorney's office had brought against him. My co-counsel and I are figuring that he's probably looking at between 25 and 30 years when he's sentenced. Now what might prompt a 30-year old man to take the all that time, rather than roll the dice at trial?

Well, early last week, the actual U.S. Attorney, i.e. the one appointed by the president, sent notice to my co-counsel that the government would be seeking a sentence enhancement in the case. If convicted, my client would be looking at a mandatory minimum of life. The reasoning offered was that the U.S. Attorney wanted to start sending a strong message to those who sold crack cocaine.

My client's black. I know a lot has been written about the race and class implications of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines when it comes to drugs, and I'm not even going to bother adding my redundant voice to that, except to say something even more worn. It's always difficult to actually witness an inequity about which one has spent considerable time studying and reading. So, as a way of therapy, I'm going to ask that anyone who has had a similar situation and feeling to the above, leave a comment. As my mom says, misery loves company.

Don't Pet Sweaty Things: Tom Snyder, 1935-2007

Radio and television personality Tom Snyder died of complications arising from his battle with leukemia Sunday, according to reports in Monday's news. Snyder is most remembered as the host of NBC's "The Tommorrow Show," which this writer is unfortunately too young to have viewed. Luckily, I did have the chance to see his return to television in 1995 when he began a few year stint as the host of the "The Late, Late Show," and instantly I was captured.

Snyder ran a show different from most on during those hours. There was no live studio audience. He would sit in front of a backdrop of Los Angeles and just talk to the camera, which would pan in so close that the viewer could clearly see Tom had been a smoker for quite a number of years. The discussion ranged from the news to the latest Hollywood gossip, from the earth-shattering to the trivial. But whatever it was, Snyder covered it in such a way that you felt as if you were having a conversation with your best friend. He was funy, serious, mischevious, intelligent, and just what a great entertainer should be.

What also set him apart from many of the monkeys on late night was that he could also fucking interview. What some (cough...Jay Leno...cough) don't understand is that in order to really make an interview worthwhile to watch is that you have to listen to the answers which come our of your subject's mouth. It sounds basic but so many people just don't do this. Fortunately, Snyder did. He also demonstrated his genius by having the person sit a couple of feet away with nothing in between them. The setting was certainly more intimate, and the results were terrific. His rewardwas to score some big ones: John Lennon, Charles Manson, and Johnny Rotten.

He didn't last long on national t.v. in the 1990's, just 3-4 years. His product was as distinctive as his laugh, but it was probably also his undoing. In a time where people want to think less and less about what they consume through their eyeballs, Snyder's show no doubt commanded too much from Joe Schmoe. Too bad. CBS replaced him with Craig Kilborn and a traditional late-night set. Blech. Oh well, maybe one of his old, smoldering butts will burn the place down.

"Fire up a colortini, sit back, relax, and watch the pictures, now, as they fly through the air."

Sunshine

In order to get away from everthing, I will often times go see a movie late at night and that's exactly what I did yesterday. I was struggling to find something until I saw that the new Danny Boyle picture had finally gotten here. With the exception of the god-awful adaptation of The Beach, I've really enjoyed Boyle's films: Millions, Shallow Grave, Trainspotting, and my personal favorite, 28 Days Later. (Hey, it's got zombies in it. What else do you expect me to say?) He has also exposed me to a couple of my favorite actors in Ewan McGregor and Cillian Murphy.

I was beginning to get excited, but also a little anxious, too. I knew that it was science fiction, and so often that can go terribly wrong. I was really hoping not to be disappointed. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about.

The movie focuses on a group of astronauts who are trying to re-ignite the sun after some sort of scientific anomaly has caused it to lose energy. It has spectacular special effects, with Boyle affectly using the contrast between light and darkness. But it also largely character driven as well, with a surprising acting turn by Chris Evans, who up to this point I thought was simply capable of making smart-ass comments.

Additionally, the movie has all the essential elements of good sci-fi: a villian, cool technology, and smart action. Boyle's directing gets you to feel the right emotions at the right time. So, it's not only pretty to look at but smart as well.

He's able to accomplish this with the smart writing of Alex Garland. What his writer does is well is examine the issue of Atheism versus God in the face of a crisis. It's subtle, but adds a nice layer to what otherwise would have been a pretty good popcorn flick.

3/4.

The Lions' Roar

Too often it seems as if sports are defined by the worst of those who participate. Whether it is because of gambling addicts as referees, animal torturers as quaterbacks, or steroid monsters as 'legends,' it has been difficult to remember why fans treat their favorite athletes as heroes. Or better yet, why sports unite individuals in a way nothing else can.

Ever since I was a wee-thing, I have followed sports. One of my earliest memories is watching a Bear game with my dad at my great-grandfather's home when we were on leave, and him jamming a pennant into my hands after the Monsters of the Midway scored a touchdown. As I grew up, these type of moments are what kept my dad and I together, when many other things did not.

But on a much larger scale than father-son, there is also like nothing like walking into a football stadium or racetrack with 90,000 other people who are all there for the same thing. I have no problems going to events by myself. I know that it's always possible to turn to the person setting next to me and strike up a conversation that could last the whole game.

And why are people so willing to do so? Maybe it is because a game can make a person forget about how shitty their lives are. For a few hours, they can cheer, boo, celebrate and console with their best friends and total strangers. Their first worry is not how the bills are getting paid or when they are going to leave their FEMA trailer. Instead, it is simply whose going to score the touchdown to beat Ole Miss or USC.

***

In international soccer, the world is divided into varying regions. And during the summers in which a World Cup is not held, these regions have their own tournaments. This summer the Asia regional held theirs, and among the teams that participated was the Iraqi National Team.

Not much was expected from them, as Iraq does not have a rich history in international competition. The Middle East is often dominated by Saudi Arabia and Iran. But the team's make-up was an inspiration for a country bogged down in civil war. Shi'ites, Sunnis, Kurds and Christians were all represented. Just going there was a victory in itself.

But then something special started to happen. They won their group and advanced to the knock-out rounds. And earlier this week, they defeated a vaunted South Korean team on penalty kicks to move on to the finals.

Their opponent in the finals was Saudi Arabia. The Saudis, a three-time winner of the competition, are also a perennial World Cup qualifier. The Kingdom pumps a sizeable amount of money into the team and their investment more often than not pays off. So, many figured that today's result was over before the game even started.

Too bad those folk forgot that sometimes miracles actually do happen. The greatest moments in sports are when underdogs win. And today, the ultimate underdog did. In the 71st minute, Iraq's captain headed a ball into the back of the net and the team won 1-0.

The victory doesn't solve much on a political level. At least three members of the team have had relatives killed in the past two months. And the team wore black armbands in memory of the fifty people killed during the celebration of their win over the Koreans. But perhaps it does something even more important.

It shows the Iraqis that not everything they get their hopes up over turns to dust. These atheletes are not politicians, but they seemingly accomplished more in a few weeks than the new government has accomplished in 4+ years. They are good men who were able to put behind them whatever ethnic differences separate their countrymen in order to achieve a common goal. When was the last time you heard that phrase relating to a story coming out of Baghdad?

Duplicity

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Joyce Collins, 1929-2007

My grandmother was born on July 25, 1929 to Harry and Grace Boynton in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa. Those who know their history might recognize this was only a few months before the great stock market crash of the same year and the beginning of the Great Depression. As a result, when her brother, Jack, was born a couple of years later, the family had to make some rather difficult choices.

Joyce was sent to live with her Aunt Irene ("Gog") and Uncle ("Poppy") Harold. It is believed that Gog had up to twenty miscarriages during the course of her life and, in fact, had lost two sets of twins. Naturally, she was left without the ability to have children. Gog and Poppy took Joyce in and raised her as their own. Many, myself included, believe my grandmother got the better end of this deal than Jack who stayed with their natural parents. Gog and Poppy were extremely caring and nurturing individuals. And gave her the best life possible during this arduous time in American history.

***

In the early 1950's, Joyce met Dean Collins. They were married for approximately twenty-five years and had two children: Mike, my father, and Tracy, my aunt. Dean left her for what would become his second wife, and while my father was a grown man, Tracy was still a young girl. So, my grandmother became of one of the millions of single mothers during the middle of her life.

Up until July 15th of this year, Tracy had spent every day of her life, minus the occasional vacation and six week marriage, with Joyce. Knowing that life was tough enough for a self-described, "chubby teenage girl," Joyce spent every penny she made on Tracy. Accordingly, Tracy always had the best clothes, make-up, and music of any girl in her school. It was something she gladly did, because as grandma herself admitted, her daughter was the only reason she didn't kill herself after Dean left.

***

Joyce spent much of her life as a book-keeper. But as computers pushed out hand-written ledgers and adding machines, my grandmother decided it was time for career change. She became a in-home care-giver for the infirmed and elderly. By all accounts, this was a profession she should have picked up at early age because all of her clients loved her. Even as her life and health deteriorated, she kept working, giving selflessly when she should have been sipping pina colodas on a beach somewhere.

Part of the reason she never retired was because in 1999 she gained a client very close to her heart: Tracy. My aunt was diagnosed as having MS and my grandmother was the obvious choice to be her caregiver.

But Joyce also worked because she had no other choice. Like millions of Americans, my grandmother was consumed by debt, paying off credit cards with credit cards, taking out as many loans as possible, etc. She had to work to save herself and Tracy.

And never once did she complain or ask for help. In fact, I always got a birthday card with a check. She had survived Dean and she seemed bound and determined to get through this.

***

On July 15, 2007, Tracy called Joyce to check where she was. My grandmother replied that she was out running some errands for Tracy, but would be back in less than twenty minutes. Shortly thereafter, they said they loved each other and hung up.

The coroner believes that my grandmother had an aneurysm, causing her to slump over in her seat and hit a tree head-on with the car. Beginning last year, she started having mini-strokes. The doctors were unwilling to operate because of her age. So, it was thought her time might be limited, but no one expected this. She deserved better.

***

It was widely believed that she never loved again after Dean. But at her funeral, one of the mourners approached me, and identified herself as the daughter of a man I simply knew as Bud. He was ex-CIA, for real. The only thing anyone knew was that he was one of four men sent to the Phillippines in the 1960's, and he was the only one who returned alive. But Bud met my grandmother, long after this was past, and they developed a deep and meaningul friendship. Bud had numerous marriages, and whenever they broke-up, he turned to her.

Bud got cancer and passed away in July of last year. Everyone knew this. What no one knew was that he had asked Joyce to marry him two months prior to that. Her response: "You wouldn't marry me for all of these years, It's too late now." That was her.

***

For various reasons, I really didn't know my grandmother until college. But I loved her. And I hurt in a way now I never would have expected. Life will go on. It'll just be a little less complete.

"I don't think there's any point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually."

--- Pat Moynihan, upon learning of JFK's death.

Thank You David Chase

The last time we physically saw Tony Soprano he was breathing. But the debate among the fans seems to be whether by the time the credits rolled that was still the case. All that I know is that my favorite show is done (for the time being) and I loved every minute of it.

For those of you who didn't see the finale, the last few shots are of several suspicious looking fellows entering a restaurant while Tony, Carmela, and AJ are enjoying a basket of onion rings. One of them gets up to go to the bathroom, another reads the paper, and the last two are at a jukebox. Meadow is outside trying to parallel park and getting rather flustered with how poorly it is going. She is just coming into the restaurant when the screen goes completely to black for a few seconds and then the credits roll.

Now, I really don't want to sit here and bore non-fans with minutiae because there are more universal themes I want to touch on. But based upon certain foreshadowings, occurrences in the last scene, plotlines, and just the overall tone of the show, what the blackness represents is most certainly arguable. And to me that demonstrates why this show was beautiful, intelligent, and a masterpiece.

I would like to think by the end David Chase realized what he had created. It was a family made up by everyone who stayed up all hours of the night watching the box sets, who had friends over Sunday to eat and view, who talked about what was going to happen and what it all meant. But
perhaps most importantly it was made up by all of us who invested ourselves into these characters as if they were our actual loved ones.

And if Chase came to that understanding, maybe he also knew that we were all entitled to write our own ending. Maybe that guy walks out of the bathroom and pops Tony in the temple. Or maybe, like so much of the show, it is smoke-and-mirrors, made to get us thinking about the possibilities which never materialize, and Tony keeps going on and on, like the Journey song playing in the background says. Other than Chase, who really knows? And isn't that really beautiful in its own right?

There are moments in life when imagining what may come beats the resolution. And in fact, can't what actually happens seem somehow less meaningful because any mystery there was is now taken away? I hope maybe this was going through Chase's mind as he penned the final scenes. And that he knew better than to give a definitive ending to a show which was never really about that.

To me the show was art. And like great pieces, some action was visible and obvious. But the real awe-inspiring aspects lay hidden within, waiting to be found. Like a painting, it gave the viewer possibilities, but was unconcerned with always providing answers. For it knew that people had a right to their own dreams and hopes. It knew that it was a starting point to immerse oneself in. And that while truth was reflected in it, it provided a way for people to think about something else besides their shitty lives.

I'll miss it deeply.

A Battle for America's Soul

Many have tried, but none have succeeded. Since 2001, one man has ruled with an iron fist, slaying anyone who might try to rise up and challenge his authority. Who is this modern day King Arthur? He is Takeru "Tsunami" Kobayashi, and, as his nickname suggests, he leaves bodies strewn in his wake when he falls upon the land of Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Held every Fourth of July on Coney Island, the Contest is the Super Bowl of the International Federation of Competitive Eating's season. It is a crowning achievement to win this prestigious event and a source of national pride when the champion heralds from within your borders. And for many years, Americans could walk around with swollen chests knowing that a hero rested within it's borders. And heroes they all were. Men (and I say that word in the manliest of ways) such as Frank "Large" Dellarosa and Mike "The Scholar" Devito, who could average a healthy 20 dogs in 12 minutes.

But then in 1997, we avid followers were given a glimpse of what lay on the Eastern horizon. For it was in that year, the Japanese struck American soil for the second time in the twentieth century, when Hirofumi Nakajima sauntered in and put down 24 and 1/2. An American nightmare was upon us. And we had no idea how frightening it would become.

***

July 4, 2001. An uneasy air hung above the crowd at Coney Island that day. Since Nakajima won in 1997, only once had the winner of the contest come from the land of the sleeping tiger. And in fact the previous year saw a clean sweep of the top three spots by Japanese competitors.
But there was a sense of anxious hope among the Yanks, for Japan had sent a beanpole of a rookie to do business that year. Clearly, it was our time to return to glory. The clock started, and Americans hung on to the edge of their couches with bated breath, waiting to exhale in jubilant exultation. The moment never came.

***

50. This is the number of hotdogs Takeru Kobayashi consumed that July 4th. The closest competitor was 19 behind. America was crushed. Children, and Jesus, wept. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. People asked openly, "With such power as that, how long can this man-beast rule the competitive eating world?" The answer appeared to be for as long as Kobayashi wants.

For the following four years, Kobayashi went unchallenged. Left and right, the bodies of lesser men piled up around his slender frame. He seemed gracious enough, and maybe even a little endearing. I even heard people inquire into whether it was possible for Uncle Sam to perform a little trans-Pacific adoption. Clearly, some Americans had driven themselves to delirium with such traitorous thoughts.

But it was easy to understand why this might be the case. Kobayashi set a pace every year that was quite simply un-human. And many had to wonder why God would chose to let loose a second eating monster on the earth.

So, it was with a "here-we-go-again" attitude that many Americans approached the 2006 Contest. And then something amazing happened.

***

June 2, 2007. A young man from the Land of Fruits and Nuts awoke in his Arizona hotel room. He understood the significance of where he was: the beginning of the long road to redemption. For this was the day of the Southwest Regional of the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. He couldn't help but think back to the events of last year, but he also knew the memories could not overwhelm him or defeat would be certain.

***

July 4, 2006. Another Contest had came and went, and the result was the same as it had been the previous five years: Kobayashi triumphed over all. In fact, he had set a world record by eating 53 and 1/2 hot dogs. Except this time there was a difference. At the end, the Tsunami was little more than a tropical depression, as he nearly collapsed in exhaustion. Rather than winning winning by ten or fifteen, he barely escaped. For Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, hailing from San Jose, California, had gorged himself on 52. The clouds parted from before the sun and hope returned.

***

As Chestnut entered the site of the Southwest Regional, a hush fell over the crowd. It was the type of silence that comes over a people when they realize that they are witnessing someone who can be truly great. It's the type of reverence reserved for a man one-part Rocky Balboa and the other Godzilla-killer. Stopwatches were set and the call was given.

The result was never in question, for Chestnut proved that he was no one time fluke. When the count was over, the results were announced to the waiting crowd. 59. A new world record. The place erupted. While not at the competition, Kobayashi had been defeated in spirit. His mark was no more.

"I always thought there was a limit - a limit to the human stomach and a limit to human willpower - but I guess not," remarked one witness. Truer words were never spoken.

***

As the months become weeks, the weeks, days, a crowd of unheard proportions will gather at Coney Island to witness. The hopes of nations rest on the shoulders of two men. But for the first time in a while, a smell will be in the air: the aroma of American victory. It is almost as if God, himself, is sending signals, for Chestnut will be twenty-three, the same age as Kobayashi in 2001.

July 4, 2007. 6:00 Eastern Standard Time. ESPN 2. Destiny awaits. Where will you be? Let the games begin.

U-S-A. U-S-A. U-S-A...

I Cut My Hair

No, really, I did. And I love it.

All Killer, No Filler

On April 28th and 29th, I attended my first-ever Jazzfest in New Orleans. For those of you who are not familiar with it, the event takes place over two weekends, traditionally towards the end of April and the beginning of May. Located at a racetrack in the middle of the city, the music ranges from jazz and blues to rock and hip-hop and can be heard from any of the about eight stages. I managed to check out three.

First up, Calexico. Hailing from Tucson, Arizona, the band, who look like your typical “indier-than thou” folk, play great rawk music, and add a touch of their home-state, too. The group includes a trumpet player and a drummer who throws in some maracas from time to time. Their hour-and-fifteen minute set was lively featuring mostly songs off their more recent albums and made me forget about everything except the fact I was listening to a great band. As the girl behind me said, “They’re, like, my favs, now.”

Next, Ludacris. Let me preface this by saying that I really, really like this guy. I think his rhymes are innovative and funny, and if here were ever able to do something serious, it would be worth of five mics. Unfortunately, Luda demonstrated the many problems with seeing live rap, in that too often it takes on the persona of All-Star Karaoke. Since most beats are machine-made, hip-hop artists often times just have their DJ’s put on an instrumental track and then rap over it. Luda not only did this, but also showed up late and didn’t swear, as “there were little kids in the audience.” I made it about halfway through his set, before I left highly disappointed. To his credit, he only performed his hits, including “Roll Dem Bones,” but it was still sad to think that he couldn’t keep me entertained enough to stick it out.

Finally, Jerry Lee Lewis. Born in Faraday, Louisiana, Lewis is easily in his mid-seventies, and at this point in his life has about the mobility of a tree firmly rooted in the earth. And there I was depending on him to bring me out of my Ludacris hangover from the previous day. By I all estimations, I should have been let down again. But then he stepped out and proved his nickname, because he FUCKING KILLED. Playing about ten of his best pieces, Lewis demonstrated the beauty of music. All great art transcends and Jerry Lee’s piano playing does just that. At his age, this motherfucker is still reaching all of the octaves with a goddamn mic-stand in between his arms.

It reminded quite a bit of when I saw Ray Charles. The acoustics could have been better, and both of the performers were clearly in the twilight of the lives and careers. But they were still performers. They knew what the crowd wanted, gave it to them, and made them leave wishing more was to come. Great musicians evoke all of your emotions during a show and make you believe that when you exit life is somehow never going to be better. Beautiful. Fuckin’ Beautiful.

It was also during Lewis’ performance the coup de grace of the Festival took place. My dad and I were standing together when two guys decided to light up a joint. Mike didn’t realize it, because he turned to me and said, “Is that, um…?” I responded simply, “Yeah.” Several more minutes passed and then my father started looking around. I don’t know exactly the following conversation happened, but I swear the following took place:

“Smells pretty good, eh?”

“I thought it smelled like it was pretty close by.”

“It’s close all right. Right behind you in fact.”

Awkward chuckle.

“Feel free to partake, if you would like, sir.”

I wish I could report that my dad hit it like a champ three or four times, and that the last time I saw him he was heading for the Lake to admire its many wonders. But he declined, and we turned around and rejoined Lewis.

***

In addition to the live music, artists from all over the country, including Native American reservations, display their work. Most of it is rather expensive, but original enough that it makes touring the grounds more than worthwhile. And then there’s the food. Like the art and music, it’s eclectic as well, from Cuban dishes to traditional Louisiana fare. My favorite, the Sweet Potato Cookies, were so mouthwatering good that I made sure to pick up a whole batch before I left. Bottom Line: Much like The Killer himself, Jazzfest made me so happy that I wondered I ever lived without it.

A Brief Memoir

(NOTE: This post was supposed to be about my time down in New Orleans for Jazzfest. But after today, it's hard to even really think about it. Also, the following should be viewed in this context: (1)I have no personal life because I couldn't devote the energy for when it didn't work out.(2)I can't really ever relax. This past weekend should have been a good time, but I would get lost in thinking about different aspects of cases. My mom would ask, "Are you okay?" Truthfully, I would say, "Yeah, I'm just thinking." In the end, I'm a 25 year old parent to 20 people. What else should consume my thoughts?)

My day began sitting in court two-and-a-half hours waiting to be called for an interdiction hearing. Rather than listening and watching the other attorneys, I mostly just sat there thinking about all of the other work, I really needed to be doing. When the judge finally got around to my case, I barely said three words before he called opposing counsel and myself up and told us to do some more work and come back next week. He was being fair, but it's also a case into which I've put over a hundred hours or literally $10,000 worth of my time. So, it was a little frustrating to be told that I hadn't done enough yet and return when he deemed it sufficient.

I hadn't yet arrived to my office when I received a call from a client essentially telling me that his employer was getting ready to fire him, because he filed a discrimination complaint with the EEOC. I had warned him this might happen, but still it's a little tough to deal with when it is actually going. We worked out a plan of action which I think will diffuse that time bomb for a while.

When I got back, I checked my mail and calls. Everything seemed fairly calm, but I needed to get to lunch with my partners. I was hoping for some relaxation as we traded stories about our weekends. Instead, we got into a pretty solid discussion about which of our cases are the shittiest.

Returned from that only to have a deluge of phone calls from three clients wanting a whole bunch of crap done. While they babbled, I mostly thought about ways I could hang myself with my own phone cord. And then the real delight came at around 3:00.

A woman came into our offices to discuss a number of incidents. One involved her ex-husband molesting her, at the time, seven year old son. I read the police report which described how he used to sleep in the same bed with the child and touch his genitals. The kid was traumatized enough to fucking tell people that his father and him were going to have a baby together and drew stick-figure pictures of the three of them.

After I was done looking throught the horrific drawings, I went and visited with my new juvenile client. Since the last time I saw him, their house has had the electricity and phone turned off and the carpet is now covered with trash, giving the place a nice aroma of rotting food. The kid, who is 14, has no priors, but something is clearly now going on with him. A friend of his came in and grabbed the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers booksack that my client had been carrying. Something valuable was clearly in it, and my first thought was of the movie Fresh. And I wondered if he was a runner for some local.

I got back to the office, spent some time researching a hopeless argument, and then started typing this. I get to look forward to going home tonight to a cat that hates me right now, and then repeating all of this again tomorrow. It should be just as cheerful considering I'm doing a trial prep for a gun charge in Federal Court. My client is assuredly going to lose and get the maximum of 120 months. He's got 7 kids and a wife. But on the bright side, he's only 37, so at least he'll be out before 50.

My point in telling all of this is not to purely garner sympathy. But to let you know that for most of us young lawyers doing it ourselves, this is what every day is like. I work myself to the point of exhaustion, go to bed, get up, eat a pop-tart and go back to it. Every goddamned day.

8. Pulp Fiction

This review will be one of the shortest, because if you've seen it, you know why it's here. If you haven't, the only thing I can say is, "FUCKING WATCH IT." There isn't one Tarantino movie I wouldn't watch ad infinitum, and this would seem to be his best (although if Glorious Bastards is made, it might give it a run for it's money). The actors click. The story is brillantly structured. The direction is amazing. And there are just so many small, nice touches, such as Butch keying Vincent's car. Genius all around.

The greatest compliment a movie can receive is that it stands the test of time. For those of you about my age, did you realize that this movie was made in 1994? I was in eighth grade when I saw this motherfucker. I thought it was great then, and today it seems like cinematic gold. And so many movies ripped it off. For those film buffs out there, just think of the movies you saw, good or bad, which borrowed some aspect of this pic. They're too numerous to even begin a list.

And what makes it really great is that he never went back to the well. Tarantino could have made Parts II, III, IV...L, and he's so talented they all probably would have been good. But Tarantino realized what he had captured and was smart of enough to let it be. So, let me add my voice to one of the millions already and declare, "Bravo, Quentin. You made a masterpiece... and thanks for not thinking it was the only thing you could do."

On a side note, a close friend of mine and I had a great discussion about Cho and the topic of my last article. She certainly got me to reconsider some things. Not about whether NBC should have shown it, but how it was presented overall. So, look for a follow-up post after her terrific insight.

The Peacock and Virginia Tech

I awoke this morning to find various talking heads discussing how outrageous it was that NBC chose to air footage of Cho Seung-Hui's rambling diatribe the night they received it. The CNN production team put together a nice little package of the parents pleading with numerous news organizations to stop showing the clips. And all of the meadia members of the panel, except one, agreed. I don't remember much of what happened after that because my brain exploded.

Towards the beginning of the Iraq war, the Pentagon announced that it was going to severely limit the media's access to the coffins of soldiers which had been sent back stateside. The press, rightly, was up-in-arms over the decision. The journalists realized that, no matter how hard those images might be for the families to swallow, the world had a right to see the consequences of war. Furthermore, they also understood that some percentage of the population also wanted to witness it. Simply, the media recognized that deaths resulting from a conflict thousands of miles away was news, and they had a right to document it as such.

Flash forward to the events of this week. NBC received a package in the mail from the man who went on the the largest shooting spree the U.S. has ever seen. Knowing that people would want to see it and tune it, they put it on the air. As Brian Williams said, "By just about any definition, this is news," and they presented it as such. NBC and its cable outlet, MSNBC, made an editorial decision that at no time would the video and pictures take more than ten percent of an hour. And the watchdogs who keep track of these things seem to indicate that they followed this self-imposed standard. In other words, it was not in some sort of 'loop,' as many critics contended.

The whipping NBC has taken since it made its decision appears to be nothing more than a smoke-screen to cover up the harder truth that people are too shy to confront: Victims of a tragedy have no right to attempt to set the news agenda. They have every right to ask people to grieve with them, but they can not be allowed to tell people what is news. And, I'm sorry, but those tapes and pictures are just that. At the very least, the packet tells the story of what happens all too often when people with severe mental infirmaties are not taken care of by the system. While I can certainly understand why it is hard for the families to understand, other Americans do see it as newsworthy and have a right to have it at least presented to them.

The legal system recognized a long time ago that victims should at times be some of the last people to influence certain decisions. It's the reason that criminal trials are stylized, "State of .... versus....," rather than "Person X versus Person Y." Objectivity should rule the legal word, and journalism as well.

Taken to the logical conclusions of what the Tech families are saying, should the History Channel stop airing World War II footage, because we still have Holocaust survivors? Should every single bookstore in America be picketed because they have a copy of Mein Kampf on their shelves? Should Apocalypse Now and The Deerhunter not be lauded, because they were made so soon after Vietnam? Should the news just stop covering the Iraq War?

The answer is of course not. The world has a right to see what influences and shapes the events around them. While one may not personally care for it, that does not mean it fails to shed light and understanding about what happened. And truth be told, I shudder to think of a media which bases all of its content on what people like.