Catholic priest John Geoghan was judged by his peers when he was convicted on child molestation charges. Now, after his brutal murder in prison, he must be judged by a higher power, writes Vince Guerrieri.
By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]
You don’t make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit and you know it.
--Charlie (Harvey Keitel), Mean Streets
When news filtered in that John Geoghan, the defrocked priest and convicted child molester, was killed in prison, my first reaction was “Good!”
It was a reaction similar to that of many others throughout the country. By most accounts, Geoghan – who was beaten and strangled – molested 150 boys and started a sex scandal that has left few Dioceses in America untouched (pardon my choice of words). It was a knee-jerk reaction as my Mediterranean eye-for-an-eye bloodlust peeked through.
And it was wrong.
People said he deserved his end. People said he was rotting in Hell. And that very well might be the case. I don’t pretend to have a window into anyone’s soul but my own (and even that one’s kind of fuzzy at times). But the fact of the matter is that if he asked for God’s forgiveness for his sins and got it, he’s in Heaven.
The beauty of Catholicism (and really, most sects of Christianity) is that there is no soul beyond redemption. Unfortunately, it was just that sense of forgiveness and recovery from sin that put the Rev. Geoghan back into parishes and thousands of boys into harm’s way. And since this scandal has exploded onto the national scene, nobody within the church is quite sure how to deal with it.
Once upon a time, nobody knew anything about sexual deviance. People thought that homosexuality and pedophilia were “diseases” that could be “cured.” There was no such thing as chemical castration. Nobody had ever heard the word “recidivism” or knew how prevalent it was among sexual offenders.
Geoghan was a child molester, that much is clear. More than 150 people have come forward to accuse him of as much, and he was imprisoned for indecent assault against a 10-year-old boy. (However, in one of the ironies of this case, Geoghan’s conviction was overturned after his death. Massachusetts law mandates that charges be dropped if the criminal dies during the appeals process, which Geoghan did.)
Yet every time he told Cardinal Bernard Law that he finished treatment and was “cured,” Geoghan was shuttled to another parish. Perhaps Law didn’t want to confront the situation. Perhaps it was the shortage of priests. Perhaps Law really believed Geoghan when he said he was cured.
But Geoghan wasn’t cured. He continued to molest children. Many other priests were engaged in similar activities, but Geoghan, who was defrocked in 1998, stood as the poster boy for pederast priests, in part because the investigation in the Boston Archdiocese started the ball rolling at other dioceses.
And now he’s dead. Many of his alleged victims are more saddened than angry. Some said he didn’t deserve to meet the end he did, that he should have a long, healthy prison term to think about what he did. He can’t be called to account, at least not in this plane of existence.
But he will be called to account in another plane of existence, if what he believed is correct, and we won’t get the satisfaction of knowing what that judgment is. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be judged.
And what are we supposed to do? Revel in the idea that karma got John Geoghan? Curse the fact that he won’t be held accountable in this world for his crimes?
I’d just pray for his soul, and the souls of all the people affected by his life and death.
With Isiah Thomas out - and Rick Carlisle apparently in - at Indiana, Dan Nied writes that the web between the Pistons and the Pacers just got a little more complicated.
In Detroit, we saw this coming last month.
Actually, the entire sporting world saw this coming last month, but in Detroit, it hit us like a heat-seeking missle.
When Larry Bird took over as President of Basketball Operations for the Indiana Pacers seven weeks ago, his eyes diverted from head coach Isiah Thomas and focused squarely on the newly available Rick Carlisle, late of the Detroit Pistons.
Yesterday, Bird fired Thomas and reports say that -- surprise -- Carlisle will be the next head coach of the Pistons' division rival, the Indiana Pacers.
As the Pistons head coach, Carlisle won 100 games in two seasons and lead the team to the Eastern Conference Finals last season. Despite that, he was unceremoniously fired after the seaon and replaced with Hall of Fame coach Larry Brown.
Carlisle’s firing was a controversial move in Detroit when it happened, and it will be even more controversial now. In the fans’ eyes, Carlisle, along with team president Joe Dumars who preceeded him by a year, was viewed as a savior for a mediocre franchise. Before he came to Detroit, the Pistons couldn’t find any stability in head coaches, players or management. After Chuck Daly left in the early 1990's the Pistons went though a series of no name coaches: Ron Rothstein, Don Chaney, Alvin Gentry George Irvin. The only mildly successful one was Doug Collins, who boiled over after three years.
Cue Carlisle and the Pistons win two straight Central Division championships and make the Eastern Conference finals last season.
Then he was fired.
The only reason Carlisle was hired in Detroit was because the Pacers front office decided to hire former Pistons star Thomas over Carlisle in 2001. Carlisle was an Indiana assistant for Larry Bird’s three seasons as head coach. It was widely believed that he was being groomed to be Bird’s successor. But when Bird stepped down in 2001, Thomas got the job and Dumars scooped up Carlisle. When things didn’t work out in Detroit, Carlisle was on his way to the broadcasting booth until Bird stepped in at Indiana.
Now he will get his chance to flourish under Bird as Dumars is still calculating the risks of letting Carlisle go and hiring Brown, a fine coach, but may not be the perfect fit Carlisle was.
When Carlisle was let go in Detroit, everyone saw this coming. Perhaps the main reason the Pacers could not get past the Pistons in the Central Division was that Carlisle was such a better coach than Thomas. Carlisle got the most out of basic talent. Thomas basically got the least out of the most talent. When Carlisle became available and Bird took over in Indiana, the writing on the wall couldn't have been larger.
Here was Carlisle, a mix of Larry Bird pedigree, more available than a fat girl on prom night. And here was Isiah, who, back in his playing days, said that if Bird were white, he would just be another good player. Isiah was a thorn in the side of Bird's Celtics. The history of bad blood between the two goes so deep that you have to be surprised this didn't happen the day Bird took over in Indiana.
It may be better this way, at least if you are a Pistons fan. It always felt wrong watching Isiah craft a division rival in his "Bad Boy" image. It was easy to hate the Pacers, until you realized how much you loved those Isiah-led "Bad Boy" championship teams in 1989 and 1990.
Where we had Dennis Rodman, Isiah went out and got Ron Artest. Where we had Bill Laimbeer, Isiah’s Pacers had Jermaine O’Neal. Where we had Isiah, Isiah had Reggie Miller. It was hard to root against him, knowing that rooting for him was the one thing that really got under the skin of basketball fans in the early 1990's.
At the same time, it never really felt right rooting for Carlisle in Detroit. No matter how good a coach he was, we all knew that he belonged to Indiana, that he was screwed over by management and that we got him by default. In reality, we all knew the jobs should have been switched, although that would have made the Pistons much worse off.
Isiah should have been groomed to coach Detroit, much the way Dumars was groomed to run the front office. At the same time, Carlisle should have been introduced as the Pacers’ coach at Bird’s retirement press conference.
But now there is this incredibly complicated web of coaches between the two teams. The Pistons earlier rejected Thomas in favor of Carlisle, and then rejected Carlisle in favor of Brown (Who also coached the Pacers from 1993-1996) ). The Pacers rejected Carlise in favor of Thomas two years ago but then rejected Thomas in favor of Carlisle this week.
But, the scary thing is that while the Pistons might be better under Brown, the Pacers have a good shot at being better than the Pistons under Carlisle.
So, even if the Pistons win 58 games next season, if the Pacers win 59 and go further in the playoffs, that will make dropping Carlisle look like an unmitigated disaster.
Does anyone need a drink?
Todd Merriman revisits this classic tale of ass-kicking and revenge.
The Crippled Masters
Rated R
Starring: Frankie Shum and Jack Conn
Directed by: Joe Law
90 minutes
GRADE: B
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs who practices kung fu?
You’d better call him sir, or you may be in for an ass-whipping.
That’s the underlying moral of Joe Law’s 1982 chopsocky freak show, “The Crippled Masters,” in which two men, one without arms and the other without functional legs, team up to exact their revenge on the evil warlord that maimed them.
It’s a story of determination in the face of adversity that would put any human interest piece on “Dateline NBC” to shame. A disabled skydiver has nothing on an armless guy who can twirl a stick with his stump or choke someone to death with his toes.
The handi-capable duo learn their fighting basics from an old master who sleeps in a large basket, his ankles tucked neatly behind his head. In eturrn for their training, he asks them to steal from the warlord a box of green knickknacks called the “Eight Jade Horses, which, if studied intensely enough, will unlock the secrets of unbeatable kung fu.
And it will take unbeatable kung fu to defeat the evil warlord once and for all, for he rules over his village with an iron fist and back.
He has a scar on his face that changes size and position from scene-to-scene, and a hump that’s never explained. Suffice to say that it resounds with a defensive clang when struck by an opponent in battle. When used offensively, it sounds like a desk drawer opening.
“ Crippled Masters” offers the usual low-budget Hong Kong action fare -- bad dubbing, portions of film removed to quicken the moves in combat, and preposterous dialogue.
When a coffin maker introduces himself to the armless man early in the film, he says, “When I see gold, I become very happy, so everybody calls me Chin.” Something must have gotten lost in the translation.
While the warlord is an expert combatant, he seems to need help with his smack-talking. Ina showdown with the old master, he says, “If you don’t be quiet, I’ll break every bone in your body,” then adds, “What do you think of that?”
The old man doesn’t respond verbally, which is probably for the best considering other reactions to the warlord’s threats. In an exchange with a business owner, the warlord says, “If you don’t let me have this place, then I’ll destroy all of you.”
“Good!” the business owner shouts. And then they fight.
What distinguishes “The Crippled Masters” from other kung fu non-classics is the old-fashioned sideshow tradition of being able to gawk at people missing limbs as they perform tricks and stunts.
There aren’t any special effects like those used in “Forrest Gump” to remove Lt. Dan’s legs, either. The film stars real-live cripples--men who, despite what the story line says about swords and acid, appear to have been born that way. The armless man has at the end of his left stump a thumb-like appendage that would take some pretty tricky carving to create.
Lest I be dubbed insensitive for even reviewing this movie, I’d like to point out that the warlord does seriously underestimate the abilities of those he maims. When he pours acid all over one of the title characters’ legs, he says, “All I know is those against me, like you, die... You wanted to be a success. Now I’ve destroyed your legs. See what you can do without them!”
And that’s just not cool. There are plenty of jobs people without legs can hold down -- telemarketer, concert pianist, astrophysicist, and publisher of hardcore pornography, just to name a few.
Out of a six-pack, I give this movie four beers. Watch at your own risk.
As we roll into the "everyone's getting married" phase of our 20s, Natalie Miller examines those feminine traditions -- the bridal shower, the baby shower, and the bachelorette party -- and posits this: Maybe it's time for a change.
By Natalie Miller
210 west Content Editor [send email]
Having gone to a baby shower, two bridal showers and a bachelorette party recently, I got to thinking about women and their rituals. The above traditions are unique in that they are rituals, yet only have social -- not religious -- significance. They’ve developed over the years, and many women have attended them, and many have been the woman of honor. It’s a continual tradition that has evolved from a time when a woman’s peers gave her gifts because her father couldn’t or wouldn’t give her a dowry. I have not heard where the baby shower tradition came from, but imagine it sprung from passing on baby clothes and things to the next generation or to help get a young mother-to-be on her feet.
But now I wonder, can showers evolve into something more meaningful, or is it time to phase them out all together? The bachelorette party serves as sort of a shower into the bedroom part of marriage, while the actual shower is about creating a home – the more domestic sphere of marriage.
But as the marriage age gets higher, is it necessary to shower the couple with homemaking gifts? And when I say “the couple,” why does it mean we give the gifts to the man through the woman?
Registering changes everything – the surprise of the shower is no longer. The bride and groom have already picked out the mixer they want, what kind of plates and the bathroom décor theme. So opening the gifts becomes “my mixer” “my plates” and “my towels.” It’s really not all that fun to watch people exclaim over gifts they were already expecting to get. Especially if they get more than one set. Modern wedding tradition has extended into registering for kayaks and backyard grills, as well as honeymoon travel. As I heard one old lady say “why should I pay for them to have sex in a tropical location?”
But despite the revulsion of consumption, I enjoy the all-female aspect of showers and the like. Most modern social occasions are co-ed. I like just hanging with my girls. But adding the older female element usually tones things down. Despite the unusually high number of women, it's not all chummy -- showers are a mix of the bride’s peers and relatives, and possibly the groom’s relatives. This creates an air of formality rather than intimacy. It’s food and gifts and small talk. (Careful, don’t say anything off-color to shock the groom’s mother.)
I think that the modern bridal shower could be revamped as a time of closeness for the bride, her friends and close family. They could give her surprise gifts as more of a rite of passage than a consumerist orgy. Family heirlooms could be passed on, advice on marriage given and memories shared. Less people may mean less gifts, but I think it could be potentially more meaningful. Who will go for this? I’m not even sure many women I know would because it’s a radical idea. But I just have to put it out there – tradition for the sake of tradition is a waste, in my opinion.
As for bachelorette parties, these fairly modern inventions that are seemingly more modern than traditional showers. It’s where the bride’s friends take over and everyone lets loose. Or the bride’s friends try to embarrass and sometimes humiliate her. (With friends like these…. ) I used to work at a bar that was very popular with bachelorette parties, and I saw a lot of bachelorette gangs with veils and “suck for a buck” T’s and penis paraphernalia. The tradition seems to have been created to mirror the legendary debauchery of bachelor parties. The whole “last night out” concept goes both ways. But is this bonding? It certainly does not reflect the relationships of most women I know.
So it happens, people dance, get drunk and have fun. Nobody gets hurt. It’s harmless – but is it meaningful as a wedding tradition? Why does the bride get all that attention? Is it to purge her wildness before she takes the plunge? The male tradition seems to include a lot of ribbing about his change in status -- the last night out of freedom before the old ball and chain is attached, ad nauseum. But do women feel the same way about marriage? Should they be subject to the same ribbing for the sake of equality?
It seems to feed the wedding machine – another tradition that should be followed, involves lots of planning and spending money. I think it should be up to the bride, and there shouldn’t be any pressure to conform from the friends to their idea of it. I just met my best girlfriends for a weekend in Chicago to catch up a month before the wedding, and that satisfied me totally of the concept.
Baby showers are something I’m not that familiar with, but it runs along the same concept. The most recent one I went to had an odd assortment of people. There were more tertiary relationships than you could shake a stick at: the wife of a guy who works with the father of the baby, the mother of a woman who works with the husband’s mother and the girl dating the brother of the husband. For being the reason for the shower and the center of attention, the mother-to-be only had a few close friends in attendance. This is another time when there could be great passing on of advice and information about women’s lives and what having a baby is like, etc. But instead it was food, games and gifts. Including a game the mother-to-be didn’t want to play. And food that she couldn’t eat. So it seemed like an excuse for the hostess to have a bunch of ladies over to impress them.
But as with most things female, I’m sure everyone’s intentions were good. It’s just that no one is willing to say “stop” – let’s do something else. It’s extremely hard to say no to people trying to do something nice for you, and most women think it’s bad manners to do so. But I say it erodes real relationships and prevents an intimate, memorable gathering, substituted instead with forced smiles and interest in what the other person is saying about her first son’s diaper rash.
Anyone else out there have comments?
Natalie Miller is feeling a little overwhelmed by the Religious Right, and wonders: Where's the middle ground?
By Natalie Miller
210 west Content Editor [send email]
I’ve been having dreams this week about the Religious Right chasing me – the people I believe to be neither religious nor right. In the dream scenarios, they always try to take me away and my voice is not loud enough – but in the end, I do wiggle my way out of the situation.
Talking about dreams sometimes makes me seem like a raving lunatic, but I believe this set is indicative of my daily news habit. Lately, there’s been tons of religiously controversial news, and that’s sinking into my subconscious. Justice Roy Moore and his cronies – the people who helped him sneak the Ten Commandments monument into the rotunda, and who prayed around it as he was lead away. The pedophile priest court cases. The anti-homosexual statements of the Pope, the President and all those “abomination” folks.
Here’s what scares me – even if religious right types are in the minority, they are so well-organized and drawn to controversy and publicity is drawn to them that it seems that their views are overwhelmingly popular. Now, most people that I know are reasonable about social issues – civil rights, separation of church and state, churches having to follow the law – but they are not organized into any kind of form or forum. This means that when a poll shows 51% percent of people are against marriages between people of the same sex, the headline uses the words “overwhelming” and “backlash.” To me, this means this is an issue where people have sharply divided opinions, pretty much right down the middle.
I guess this is a continual problem – the people who are radical on an issue are the ones who get the attention. I’m sure there are tons of people out there saying, don’t worry, that will never happen to whatever the slightly off-kilter suggest. But, my alarm bells go off when the Senate Majority Leader and the President both refer to an amendment making marriage between a man and a woman. Hardly necessary, and slip-sliding down the religious/legal slope.
Here’s one of the things I cite as to why our country has very little discourse about religion – there’s seem to be two major factions – people who believe this should be a Christian nation (but everyone seems to want it their way of being Christian) and the other side, people who ignore religion successfully most of the time. So, your choices are: take what you are fed spiritually, or feed yourself in other ways. Wait, couldn’t another option fit in there? Possibly searching for spirituality in nature, in world traditions, learning more about the faith you were raised in and other religious pursuits? Not a very publicized option, is it?
I wrote two columns in college about how I thought religion was a necessity for people, but that the rigidity was a turnoff for most college students. I cited a few key elements I thought religion should have: the Golden Rule, social justice and ways of expressing spirituality. That was the column that got the most letters – almost all of them advocating their churches. One of them was Unitarian Universalist, the church I now attend. I’m active in the church, and excited about being there, which makes me an anomaly due to my age. I would say that out of my peers from college, I am one of few who care this much about my spiritual life right now.
Unfortunately, the people I see in their 20’s follow this pattern: go along with religion to the extent that their parents are concerned with it, reject or ignore it in college, and try not to think about it after that. An occasional philosophical discussion might occur, but only under the influence ,when people get loose.
A strange trend is people returning to religion when they decide to get married – but it’s not always a true return, only a temporary one. They just need somewhere to have the ceremony, and always imagined it would be in a church. There is a trend in churches to try to capture the people who get married there into the congregation, by making it harder to get permission or by asking them to join. (In the far past, this was not an issue as people got married in their own home churches, of which they had been a member and grown up.)
As people become parents, I think there is more of a pressure to join a church and get those kids a proper religious education. I think that many church memberships made for this reason are a façade of belonging to the community, rather than undertaken for personal spiritual growth.
I think that people go that route, where they go along with the church because it feels like the right thing for them to do. Or they don’t go anywhere, and wonder why other people seem so hopped up on their “church thing.” Honestly, when people in the past tried to talk to me about their churches, I would try to end the conversation with them as soon as possible. Because what I had found was that everyone is supernice and welcoming until they spring “the rules” on you.
“So great that you could come. But, women should know their place is in the home.”
“You should try my church. Boy, it’s too bad everyone else is going to hell because they don’t go there.”
“Could you donate some money to convert the savages?”
I don’t think my views about equality, tolerance and respect are radical, but for a long time I thought they were the anti-thesis of religion. I’ve found that I’m wrong, but liberal religion is not nearly the force it could be if more reasonable people would discover it and use it for spiritual growth. Until they can mobilize to counteract the religious right, the world will be subject to vitriolic and ignorant rants. I just hope it will not disturb my sleep any longer.
James Eldred could have been more scared while watching Freddy Vs. Jason, but this epic battle still left him clamoring for a sequel.
Freddy Vs. Jason
Rated R
Starring: Robert Englund, Ken Kirzinger, Monica Keena, Kelly Rowland
Directed by: Ronny Yu
100 minutes
GRADE: B
By James Eldred
210 west Writer [send email]
The children of Springwood don’t know that Freddy Krueger ever existed, and without their fear he is powerless. Since he can’t return to life to kill them until they fear him, Freddy finds Jason in hell and sets him free to kill for him. Knowing that everyone will blame him and reinstate the small town’s fear in him, letting him reign free again.
The ‘vs’ part of the film comes into play when Jason just won’t stop killing those horny little teenage bastards, robbing Freddy of his precious victims.
Trapped in the middle of this evil super battle is Lori (Undeclared’s Monica Keena), the current resident of Nancy’s old house on Elm Street, and her ever-decreasing amount of friends.
Sure the pretense is preposterous, but it gets the job done. For the most part the murder scenes aren’t very scary, but they sure look cool. Freddy’s more intense and disturbing than he’s been in nearly two decades, reminding us all why he was burned to death in the first place. He’s still a sarcastic son of a bitch, but not to the point of comedy. Meanwhile, Jason is more over-the-top than ever, with series producer Sean S. Cunningham still finding new ways for drunk teenagers to face death by machete (sure, death by machete has been done, but how about death by FLAMING machete?).
The scenes with Freddy and Jason are so well done, in fact, that the movie suffers tremendously whenever they aren’t on the screen. As Lori, Keena is a slasher heroine on the level of a straight-to-video sequel to The Leprechaun. Too perky, too pretty and too emotional, the chick can’t even scream right. She’s not only constantly upstaged by her fellow bad actors, but by her breasts as well. And let’s not even talk about Kelly Rowland’s acting debut as Lori’s best friend Kia -- you can almost feel the cue cards when she’s on the screen.
Thankfully the filmmakers must have known this too, so the time that neither killer is on screen is very brief. And when they both show up together for the ending, a jaw-dropping gore-fest brawl between the two that takes over 20 minutes, every bad line reading or stilted gesture can be forgiven, because it somehow manages to live up to years of expectations.
While Freddy Vs. Jason never sinks to the levels of self-parody that later films in both series did, it also never rises to the levels of the originals.
What we’re left with in the end is an enjoyable romp that comes off more like action film than a horror film, but is still a blast to watch. And unlike the countless slasher flicks of the '80s, this one actually ends with you wanting another sequel.
Joel Hammond sees Kelly Holcomb's starting position as just another gaffe for sorry Browns fans and all of Cleveland sports.
By Joel Hammond
210 west Writer [send email]
There's been a helluva lot of talk in this space and space elsewhere throughout the state of Ohio about the plight of professional sports teams in Cleveland.
You know, the old argument that the city on the Lake (not the only city on the lake mind you, but they pretend it is -- that's another column) is so cursed that the powers that be will never, ever let their precious Brownies, Cavs or Tribe win a title.
These guys and gals will have you believe NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue and former Browns owner Art Modell were in it together, just trying to screw Cleveland and not, in some crazy money-making scheme, trying to get out of a town that had lost interest in its once-storied franchise (why did Cleveland fans wait until Modell moved the team to pay attention? Once again, that's another column).
The same theorists will have you believe the the Cavs' savior, 'Bron-'Bron, will be hurt in his first game, and that the Cavs will once again be one Zydrunas Ilgauskas broken foot and one more Ricky Davis shot at the wrong hoop away from another 17-65 season.
And then, in one fell swoop, Browns head coach Butch Davis reminds us all that it's not karma that's holding these three franchises back -- it's idiocy.
Forget karma. And for the purposes of this column, forget about the ineptitude of the front offices of the basketball and baseball franchises in the city.
The fact is that I don't, nor does any other critic of Davis, have any statistical evidence to condemn his decision to make career-backup Kelly Holcomb the starter for the regular season over four-year starter and one-time franchise savior Tim Couch.
Holcomb started two games for the Browns a year ago for injured starter Tim Couch, and relieved him in parts of three others. He was, statistically, impressive. He completed over 60 percent of his passes and threw twice as many touchdowns as interceptions.
Couch's numbers don't quite stack up to those, despite completing more of his passes (61.6 percent) in 14 games a season ago. Couch threw 18 interceptions and his yards per attempt average was over a yard less than Holcomb's.
So the statistics do add up to Holcomb being the starter, especially after a stellar performance in the AFC Wild Card playoffs, where he threw for 429 yards and nearly led his team to an upset of the hated Steelers.
But what doesn't add up is my own gut feeling. Davis went with his gut feeling when he made the decision, but I get one of my own when assessing the situation. I don't know the reason -- perhaps it's because Couch was in Cleveland before Davis, therefore Timmy was not Davis' guy -- but Couch was doomed from the start.
In watching several Browns games over the last year, one thing seems clear: Couch did not get the opportunities Holcomb does.
For the first three years of his career, Couch had David Carr-like
numbers in the "times sacked" category, including years of 56 and 51, and 30 last year. Couch was sacked just 10 times in 2000. That's because one of those sacks led to a season-ending injury.
Last year, I watched two Browns games, their Sunday night game against Baltimore and the playoff game in Pittsburgh (as I was stuck in Maryland in a level-3 snow emergency; once again, another column).
Couch gets hurt against Baltimore with the Browns trailing by 16 and 10 minutes left. Naturally, Baltimore plays a bit conservatively on defense, and Holcomb, against a prevent defense 210 West Editor Dan Nied and I could pass on, leads the Browns to two more scores. Then, down two, Holcomb throws his second interception of the game with under a minute to go, and the Browns lose by two.
I could already read the headlines: "Holcomb nearly covers for Couch's mistakes," or "Holcomb should start."
If Tim Couch would have thrown two interceptions in less than 10 minutes, he would have been chastised.
Then, Holcomb gets enough pass plays called for him in Pittsburgh that he is able to put on a show, dissecting an anemic Pittsburgh secondary. But the Browns lost. 36-33.
Therein lies the point: For Couch, a good effort was never good enough. He had to win. For Holcomb, he just needed good numbers.
For the defining evidence on the hypocrisy Davis used throughout his self-created controversy, this pre-season is the place you need to look. The pre-season doesn't matter? Holcomb had more passing plays called for him, and had the better numbers. Davis said he wanted to firm up the running game when Couch was in the game.
Yeah, sounds like a gut feeling to me.
My gut feeling is that Couch will be traded this season or off-season, and whenever he plays the Browns for the rest of his career, he will throw for 429 yards.
And no interceptions.
It is just another idiotic move for a Cleveland franschise.
While he agrees that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent crap, Vince Guerrieri isn't so sure about the works of Kevin Costner.
By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]
God help me, I might be a Kevin Costner fan.
I guess I’ve been in denial about it for, geez, at least a decade, and probably closer to 15 years.
It started innocuously enough. I was talking to a friend of mine last week who recounted the story of his brother, who asked, “How can I like so many movies Kevin Costner is in, and hate Kevin Costner?”
That got me to thinking, and I think it’s OK to like a couple of Kevin Costner movies and not call yourself a fan. But more than you can count on one hand, well then, you might be a Costner fan.
Now, let the record show that Kevin Costner inspires severe dislike in me. I sat through Waterworld, and I’ll never forgive him for that. However, Chuck (my father, to the uninitiated) liked it. But then again, Chuck is drawn toward bad movies like Tank Girl (although that movie introduced me to Naomi Watts…homina homina homina…), Starship Troopers (he’s still pissed that wasn’t nominated for an Oscar), Battlefield Earth, need I go on? But that’s another column for another time.
The premise of The Postman still gives me a headache. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor gloom of night nor nuclear holocaust will keep a mailman from his appointed rounds? Gimme a goddamn break! If someone dropped the Big One, the last thing I’d want is to see my mailman getting my Mastercard bill to me. In fact, if the end is imminent, I’m going to start smoking again and run up a fortune on my credit cards because if I die with a pack of Camels in my pocket and a balance on my Amex, then I win!
I still think that Marty Scorsese should have won at least one Oscar in 1991 for Goodfellas. Instead, Costner took home the gold for his interminable horse opera Dances With Wolves (He has a thing for interminable horse operas…Wyatt Earp, anyone?). I hate that movie so much I can’t sit through it. But Costner seems to be taking a page from the Hollywood lightweight handbook. Many pretty boys before him took home Oscars for directing, not acting (Warren Beatty in Reds, Robert Redford in Ordinary People and most recently, Mel Gibson in Braveheart).
But still, there are some Costner movies that I will drop everything to watch.
The Untouchables This was the first R-rated movie I ever saw, and it was a good one to start with. Costner plays Eliot Ness, a straight-arrow T-man determined to bring down Chicago mob boss Al Capone. It was Costner’s first big movie, and although he was overshadowed by Robert DeNiro and Sean Connery in his Oscar-winning performance, only someone as wooden as Costner could have played Eliot Ness, regarded as a savior in Chicago (but he still couldn’t solve Cleveland’s Torso Murders). I still quote this movie, but mostly lines that belonged to Connery (What are you prepared to do?).
Sizzle Beach U.S.A. Costner’s first movie, shot in 1974 but not released until a decade later…there’s a reason for that. But still, women show their tits. Need I say more?
Bull Durham Dan Nied, the intrepid editor of this whole racket, wouldn’t let me post this column without mentioning this movie, about America’s National Pastime. Oh, and it’s about baseball, too. Costner’s role as a washed-up catcher mentoring a pitching prospect with a “million-dollar arm and a ten-cent head” was originally for Kurt Russell, who played minor league baseball. But I can’t imagine anyone but Kevin Costner actually teaching Tim Robbins to speak in clichés (which is one of the reasons I got out of sportswriting). He recites a credo that could be adopted by many men, including me. I also believe Susan Sontag’s works are self-indulgent crap, that the designated hitter and artificial turf are tools of Satan... I’m not going to say any more because my mother will probably read this.
Field of Dreams The first President Bush couldn’t understand this movie. It’s Citizen Kane on a baseball field. Every man is looking for his youth or a chance to atone for this sins with his father on some level, and any man who says he doesn’t cry at the end when Costner asks his father with a quake in his voice, “Hey Dad, wanna have a catch,” well, he’s either a liar or doesn’t have a heart.
For the record, Field of Dreams falls into a subset of movies where it’s OK for men to cry. They involve baseball and the father-son relationship, always complicated due to things left unsaid. Two other good examples would be The Natural, which ends with Robert Redford (again with the Costner comparison) playing catch with his son, and The Rookie, when Dennis Quaid gives the game ball from his first major league appearance to Brian Cox, his father.
For Love of the Game Costner seems to like baseball movies, and they’ve been good to him. This movie makes the list because Costner threw a perfect game against the Yankees, and I always like to see the Yankees lose. I quote this movie, but this time, it’s Vin Scully: If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs, you probably have no grasp of the severity of the situation.
Tin Cup Some dismissed this as Bull Durham on a golf course, but it’s still a great movie. It’s worth it just for the scene where Costner engages in the Quixotic labor of trying to get over the creek with one mighty swing.
Thirteen Days Costner also seems to like movies centering on John Kennedy. The most obvious example of this would be JFK, which, like Dances With Wolves, I found interminable. This movie is almost 13 days long, but it’s worthwhile. After 9/11, I actually found myself quoting Costner from that movie: What is it about the free world that pisses the rest of the world off?
However, Costner’s put-on Boston accent goes down as one of the worst Boston accents in the history of film, right up there with Bebe Neuwirth in Malice.
You know, looking back at this list, I don’t think I’m a Costner fan. I think it is possible to like movies he’s in while not liking him. I like to think it makes me Scott Fitzgerald’s definition of a genius, that I can hold two seemingly contradictory ideas in my head.
At least, I sure hope that’s the case. I’d hate to think I’m a Kevin Costner fan. Maybe I’m still in denial, but I’ll be damned before I see Open Range.
210 West's resident Obsessive Compulsive, James Eldred, has the perfect band for those involuntarily devoted to collecting useless singles and meaningless B-sides: The Godfathers of Grunge themselves.
By James Eldred
210 west Writer [send email]
There seems to be music for all types of people, no matter their mood or disposition ... except the mentally ill.
Sure, there are exceptions: If you are depressed you got Goth, if you are manic you got techno, and if you are mentally retarded you got Rush, but what about the rest of us basket cases, what’s out there for us? Well, since I’m not schizophrenic, bi-polar nor a sufferer of multiple personality syndrome (at least I haven’t been diagnosed with it yet) I don’t know what music to recommend for those that are. Sorry. Please send only one hate mail per voice in your head.
However, I am obsessive compulsive. So, for my fellow OCDers out there, may I recommend not only a band that rocks more than 90% of the bands out there, but one that will also give you enough bizarre habits and completist rituals that that will keep you occupied for years. Who is the mystical band that speaks to the compulsive hand-washers and light-switch flickers of the world?
It’s Pearl Jam.
Not the answer you were expecting I know, but it is true. I didn’t begin to develop moderate OCD symptoms until 2001, about the same time I became a die-hard Pearl Jam fan, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
Pearl Jam has eight studio albums, but that only scratches the surface of their catalog. They have over 30 singles and EPs, the content of which can vary from country to country, but there’s more. Since 2000, Pearl Jam has released nearly all of their concerts on CD, so that’s about 150 CDs.
Most people know that OCD sufferers need to repeat the same tasks over and over again, so Pearl Jam is perfect for them. Pearl Jam’s back catalogue is so massive in size that a person with an obsession to buy them could keep busy for months, or even years on end. They’d also be rocking out to some really good tunes in the process.
People with OCD also obsess over minute differences and details that they see in everyday life, another reason that Pearl Jam is ideal. Sure, you may have the US single of Alive, but the Japanese one is different, and so is the European one (and don’t even get me started on their vinyl-only releases.) And while many of the same songs are played on nearly every single one of their live albums, each one has slight differences. Maybe some feature radically different set lists, an obscure cover or b-side, or even just a slightly different solo. It really doesn’t matter, if you’re a true fan (or truly sick) you’ll want to get them all.
You know, like Pokémon.
As Dan Nied writes, America lost a real hero with the passing of coach Herb Brooks.
Sometimes the greatest heroes hide in the background, marveling at the good they’ve served in the world.
Sometimes the names of real heroes aren’t on the tip of our tongues, begging for our approval or even the slightest bit of recognition.
Seconds after Herb Brooks coached the 1980 U.S. Hockey team to an Olympic gold medal and the greatest sports moment we’ve ever shared as a nation, he left the ice without celebrating.
He left that up to his players and his country.
When Brooks, 66, died Monday as his minivan crashed in Minnesota, we all lost a genuine American hero.
Brooks was a man who meant more to hockey in the United States than any other person. He willed that 1980 team to victory in Lake Placid, he coached the U.S. to the silver medal in the 2002 Winter Games in Salt Lake City, he captained the 1968 team, played in 1964 and was the last player cut from the 1960 gold medal squad in Squaw Valley.
When you talk about great coaches, names like Lombardi, Auerbach and Stengel come up. But those men never meant as much to their sports or their countries as Brooks did.
Brooks’ work in 1980 gave us hope in an unsettling time. Those in my generation, born in the late 1970s, were probably too young to remember the Cold War upset over the monsters of the Russian National team that propelled the U.S. to the gold medal game against Finland. No, we have had to scan ESPN Classic to see the game. We have to hear secondhand accounts of the greatest athletic moment in our history.
It is a shame that we weren’t cognizant of the greatness then, but over the course of the last 23 years we have had the good fortune, through various mediums, of watching images of captain Mike Eruzione’s game-winning goal and of goalie Jim Craig draping himself with the American flag with a proud beaming smile on his face.
We know the upset happened. But too many of us don’t know why it happened.
Brooks was a master motivator. He made believers out of a group of upstart college kids. When they took the ice in the third period against the Russians down one goal, Brooks had them certain that they could beat the greatest hockey machine ever assembled.
"You're looking for players whose name on the front of the sweater is more important than the one on the back," Brooks once said.
That quote is a testament to the kind of coach Brooks was and why he picked the team he did in 1980.
In 2002, he made NHL stars play for the “USA” on the front of their sweaters, molding the likes of Brett Hull and Mike Modano into an actual team before losing to Canada in the gold medal final. That may have been Brooks’ most telling accomplishment. The United States had a similarly skilled dream team in 1998 at Nagano but, without Brooks, it failed to make the medal round.
Brooks pulled them together in Salt Lake City.
In those 2002 games, the U.S. once again had a heated encounter with Russia, only this time the field was even and the animosity wasn’t political. The game ended in a tie.
That brings us back to 1980 and a team that believed in its coach and system so much that it knocked off a team that had trained together for years and had a slew of NHL-caliber players, including the great defenseman Slava Fetisov and the Russian Gretzky, Igor Larionov – both of whom would go on to respectable NHL careers long after their prime in Russia had passed.
But Brooks did not live in 1980 forever. Already armed with three NCAA national championships in the 1970s with the Minnesota Golden Gophers, Brooks tried his hand in the NHL, where success was more elusive. However, he was not a failure. He coached four NHL teams, most recently the Pittsburgh Penguins in 1999 and 2000. His career record was just under .500, but teams kept turning to him because they knew what kind of coach he was.
Tuesday, at the USA Hockey office in Colorado Springs, men who knew Herb Brooks mourned the passing of a legendary member of their family.
"Herb Brooks’ tremendous ability to lead was only surpassed by his brilliance as a hockey strategist,” said Lou Vairo, who coached the 1984 Olympic team, on USA Hockey’s website. “His outspoken opinions were and are of great value to the U.S. hockey family and should never be forgotten.”
Art Berglund assembled the 2002 Olympic team as director of player personnel and named Brooks coach.
“We’ve lost an Olympic hockey icon both as a player and as a coach,” Berglund said. “I’ll deeply remember him striving for the gold medal in Salt Lake City. There were many comparisons between 1980 and 2002. His comment was always, ‘that was then, this is now.'”
And, in Brooks’ words, that was then: When communism and the threat of war seemed to deter our daily lives and a group of college kids led by perhaps the greatest hockey coach of all time (certainly the most underrated) gave us something to be proud of.
And this is now: With Brooks gone, leaving us here to celebrate his accomplishments and, more importantly, his life, without him.
Just as he did after the 1980 gold medal game.
In life's trying times Vince Guerrieri always had a voice he could relate to in Bruce Springsteen.
By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]
Hey, ho, rock ‘n’ roll, deliver me from nowhere
--Bruce Springsteen, “Open All Night”
When I was 10 years old, my mother tried to explain the deep personal, spiritual significance of Bruce Springsteen saying, “Tramps like us, baby we were born to run!”
I didn’t get it. But by the time I graduated high school, it made perfect sense.
Springsteen’s life in New Jersey and California (it was just a phase) is a generation and hundreds of miles removed from my own in Northeastern Ohio (although he saw fit to write a song about it – more on that later). He had a physical for the draft. I live in the age of an all-volunteer army. He had already set out on a musical career and his path to immortality at the age when I finished college. As I write this, I’m just shy of my 26th birthday. Springsteen was putting the finishing touches on possibly the best American rock album ever – Born To Run – as he was nearing his.
But if his music is any indication, he knows me – probably better than anyone.
During my senior year of high school, Bruce released his Greatest Hits album. As a child of the 1980s, I was already familiar with the man they call “The Boss” – a term of respect bestowed on him by bandmate Miami Steve Van Zandt, but a nickname he hated. We had “The River,” “Born in the U.S.A.” and his live boxed set on vinyl.
Springsteen’s Greatest Hits album was the first CD I ever bought (I know, I know, our family came late to the game of modern technology…I still don’t have a DVD player, but that’ll change come Labor Day weekend). It spoke to me. As I was readying to graduate high school, I wondered if I’d become one of those people who drank too much and remembered high school as my glory days (yes on the first part, no on the second). As I was going away to college, I felt like Youngstown was the town full of losers I was pullin’ out of to win, or if it was still my hometown…it turned out to be both. Who knew?
I wound up in Bowling Green with my meager collection of Springsteen music, and set out on the next adventure of my life. My first semester wasn’t always fun. In fact, it was downright traumatic at times. I had some bad luck in an affair of the heart, and my demons got a firm hold of me.
On my darkest days, I’d pop in the live boxed set and listen to the most miserable songs Bruce ever wrote (I know that as a reporter, I’m supposed to refer to him by his last name, but it seems to impersonal to me). When he said that at the end of every hard-earned day people find some reason to believe, well then, that was good enough for me. When I found myself in darkness, I listened to his howls from the darkness on the edge of town.
I didn’t see the same people I’d become accustomed to seeing every day in Youngstown. But Bruce was there, along with the Cleveland Indians, who were on their way to their first World Series appearance since the early days of the Eisenhower administration, when Chuck (my father, to the uninitiated) was a baby.
Chuck procured two tickets to the first round of the playoffs, pitting the Tribe against the Boston Red Sox. The Tribe won, their second win in what would become a three-game sweep, and we set off into the night back to Bowling Green. I nodded off on the Ohio Turnpike, waking up when we pulled into the tollbooth between Interstates 80 and 75.
“Jungleland,” the last song off of Born to Run, was coming to its ending, a tale of the Magic Rat and the Barefoot Girl finding love and then losing it.
Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz
between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy
And the poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all
They just stand back and let it all be
After the Tribe dispatched the Seattle Mariners in the American League Championship Series, Chuck secured tickets for Game 5 of the 1995 World Series – the last game the Indians played in Cleveland that year.
The Tribe won 5-4, on the strength of home runs by Albert Belle and Jim Thome (I think Thome’s shot off Brad Clontz in the 8th inning is still in orbit). People were dancing down East Ninth Street. Horns were honking, and “Glory Days” blared from the speakers at Jacobs Field.
That weekend, I wound up back in Youngstown, and I saw some friends from high school. I didn’t feel very close to a lot of people with whom I went to high school, but they welcomed me back with open arms. Springsteen’s words from “Adam Raised a Cain” hung heavy in my head:
All of the old faces ask you why you’re back
They fit you with position and the keys to your daddy’s Cadillac…
That fall, Bruce released an acoustic solo album, The Ghost of Tom Joad. It included a song called “Youngstown,” about the decline of the steel industry and the town around it. Growing up six minutes from downtown Youngstown (five if I caught all green lights), he’d made a fan for life out of me with that song.
I missed the good old days in Youngstown. Three weeks after I was born, the mills started closing down. My mother’s father and many of his brothers (and for a time, his sons) worked in the steel mills in town, as did Uncle Jimmy, my godfather. Grandpa and his brothers had retired by then. His sons had gone on to other things. Uncle Jimmy suddenly found himself jobless. I bore witness to the aftermath, but never to the days Bruce talked about, when gray skies led to a healthy paycheck for thousands of workingmen.
Of course, a performance in Youngstown was a natural. Bruce played Stambaugh Auditorium on the North Side of town, on the same stage where I had participated in several plays and had walked across to receive my high school diploma less than a year earlier. We were six rows back. I haven’t had seats as good for any Springsteen concert since…but then again, any seats at a Springsteen concert are good seats.
Someone said there were two types of people in the world: those who love Bruce Springsteen and those who’ve never seen him in concert. He performed for more than two hours, singing most of the songs off the new album and some classics that would soon become favorites of mine. He followed “Youngstown” with “The Promised Land,” which is my favorite Springsteen song of all time, and probably my favorite song as well.
I went back to Bowling Green for my second semester in college. The night before classes started, I found myself at one of the secondhand shops in downtown Bowling Green, and picked up Born to Run and Darkness on the Edge of Town on vinyl for a total of about three bucks.
I dubbed tapes of those albums (turntables were hard to come by on campus) and was preparing to send them home with my friend Mike when he visited during Super Bowl weekend of 1996. Instead, I brought them home myself. I got the call on Super Bowl Sunday that Charlie (Chuck’s father, to the uninitiated) went to sleep Friday night and didn’t wake up.
I also brought Springsteen’s Greatest Hits, and we hit I-75 to the machine gun drum roll of “Born to Run.” Mike (who has accompanied me to two-thirds of the six Springsteen shows I’ve seen) tells me that to this day, he gets chills when he hears it.
I was a little off-kilter during my freshman year, as most freshmen who find themselves in a new place 200 miles away from home would be, but after returning from Charlie’s funeral, I was positively wrecked. I listened incessantly to my two new Springsteen albums, along with Tunnel of Love, which I picked up that semester. Tunnel of Love was Bruce’s first album without the E Street Band, and it was thoroughly depressing. Even Nebraska, bleak as it was, had “Open All Night,” a tune to a rockabilly beat. But Tunnel of Love spoke to me as I had women problems. I surrendered to the misery, hoping it would abate soon.
Winters are always tough for me. Any melancholy I evade the rest of the year catches up to me in the cold, gray days of winter, usually with a vengeance. But that winter was the roughest. As a result, there is no day in which I exult so much (with the possible exception of Opening Day of baseball season) as the first day of spring. I’m not talking about the vernal equinox; I mean that first day when the weather breaks and I find myself walking around and luxuriating in the world coming alive.
On that first day in the spring of 1996, I thought of “The Promised Land,” one of those Springsteen songs on Darkness on the Edge of Town I found myself listening to incessantly, looking for some hope in a situation I found hopeless.
The narrator of the song is an honest soul who’s looking for something better than the life he leads. Today, whenever I hear that song in the car, no matter what the weather is, I turn up the radio and roll down the windows, singing along that I ain’t a boy, no, I’m a man, and I believe in the Promised Land.
The last verse sustained me through days that no human being should ever have to live through, those days when you’re trapped in a prison of solitude, when even among a crowd you feel alone, and there’s no way out. It warns of an impending storm, a storm Bruce is headed into with no reservations.
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down that ain’t got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothin’ but lost and brokenhearted
I thought of that verse as I watched the campus in Northwestern Ohio come alive in the spring of 1996, and I felt alive. More than that, though, I felt like a survivor, like I had weathered that storm. I was no longer a boy, I was a man.
After that, I eagerly scooped up all of Bruce’s canon of works. I own every album he’s ever put out in some form (CD, vinyl or cassette), and they all speak to me in some fashion. I’ve even accumulated some bootlegs, as well as several books written about Bruce.
The winter before I graduated from college, Bruce came out with his second boxed set, Tracks. It was a collection of 60 songs that he’d never released on an album, as well as alternate versions of some classics (“Born in the U.S.A.” among them) and his first audition. On Christmas night, I went out with the crew from high school, the people who fitted me with position and the keys to my daddy’s Cadillac, and returned home.
Charlie’s chair sat in the living room. I sat in it and popped in the first of four discs from the boxed set. I watched the lights on the tree twinkle and heard Bruce sing about Growin’ Up. The world made perfect sense to me, and like Bruce, I swear I found the key to the universe.
During my senior year of college, Bruce was inducted into the Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame. I misspent many evenings at the BW-3 on Wooster Street, and the night of the Hall of Fame concert was no exception. The first song Bruce played was “The Promised Land.” I danced around the bar. My friends just didn’t understand.
Springsteen went on tour with the full E Street Band that fall, and I bought tickets to see him in Detroit. The father of one of the girls with whom I went to high school told me after Bruce’s 1996 performance in Youngstown that it didn’t count unless I saw him with the full backing of the E Street Band.
I blew him off, but he was right. It was glorious! He started out with “Dancing in the Street,” and when he got to “Can’t forget the Motor City,” the crowd went nuts and he was off, performing for more than three hours.
During the concert, he spoke of the majesty, the mystery and the ministry of rock ‘n’ roll. Once, when I was about 10, Chuck taught me of the healing power of rock ‘n’ roll. He’d take off the T-tops on his 1978 Corvette Silver Anniversary Edition (Springsteen’s last televised concert was sponsored by Chevrolet…I was never prouder to drive a Lumina) and let rock ‘n’ roll blare. He said that all the problems he might have had disappeared into the air. Being 10, I didn’t have that many problems. Today, the same remedy works for me. I’ll roll down all the windows and let Bruce’s music blare.
“Unlike my competitors,” he’d say of other ministers in their respective faiths, “I can’t promise you life everlasting. What I can promise you is LIFE! RIGHT! NOW!!”
The following year, I saw him in Pittsburgh. Again, it was a religious experience.
The year after that, some people of Middle Eastern descent decided to fly some planes into some buildings as their idea of a religious experience. At that point, I subscribed to The New York Times and subjected myself to the daily heartbreak of reading their Portraits of Grief. I, along with Springsteen, read the portraits and marveled at the number of people, who died at the hands of terrorists, that had Springsteen songs played at memorial services. (In one of the low points of my career, I had the sad duty of talking to a woman who’d settled from England to the Pittsburgh area. She survived the Blitz, a husband dying and open-heart surgery to outlive one of her daughters, who died in the World Trade towers.)
Springsteen played “My City of Ruins” to open the telethon for victims of 9/11. He said that someone yelled at him across the street in New York City, “We need you!” He turned out an album called The Rising and toured. I saw him twice on that tour, in Cleveland and in Pittsburgh.
I saw him again on Wednesday, when he christened PNC Park with its first concert and drew more fans than the Pirates ever will. His performance ran the gamut, starting with the first song off his first album, “Blinded by the Light,” recorded just after my parents graduated high school, and ending with songs from an album that came out seven years after my own high school commencement.
I realize that there are naysayers that still aren’t convinced. They think I’m weird (and they’re not wrong). But Bruce’s music spoke to me, and if you let it, it’ll speak to you.
I was in Manhattan on midnight on a Saturday night, and it sounded just like “New York City Serenade.” It’s not Christmas until I hear him sing that Santa Claus is comin’ to town (and when he closed his show last December in Pittsburgh with that, 20,000 screaming fans almost tore the Mellon Arena down!). I’ve left orders with my friends (and really, anyone else who’ll listen) that when I die, I want them to play “Glory Days” at my funeral Mass. I’m still waiting for the day when I sell my first novel, so I can paraphrase Bruce, telling my friends that the publishing company just gave me a great big advance! I’m still looking for a girl I can love with all the madness of my soul.
One of Bruce’s high school classmates told Rolling Stone that he wouldn’t have remembered Bruce if he didn’t become Bruce Springsteen. As somewhat of a loner in high school, I sought solace in his music. He appeals to the loser in all of us, and gives hope. As a rock ‘n’ roller, he walks with kings without losing the common touch. He’s still one of us. At his concert in Youngstown, someone yelled out “How’s the family,” and Bruce answered him!
As Adam Sandler said, Bruce Springsteen isn’t Jewish, but his mom thinks he is. Springsteen’s of Italian descent, and we Italians make the best storytellers. Charlie spun tales of gangsters, gamblers and hustlers from the same tableau from whence Bruce gave us his first three albums. As a professional writer, I’d kill to be able to turn a phrase like Bruce did in “Spirit in the Night,” about being hurt and a girl saying, “Honey, let me heal it.” She later kissed him just right, like only a lonely angel can. (I got a kiss like that once…just once.)
Michael Chabon, a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist who called Pittsburgh home for a while (I hope someday that’ll be said about me as well) said that Born to Run is the most Catholic album ever made. Springsteen, a failed altar boy and someone who came through Catholic school with scars, evoked images of what a decent Catholic should be (I’m a practicing Catholic, and I hope someday to get it right). The litany he offers in songs like “The Rising” or “Land of Hope and Dreams” (which my buddy Mike wants played at his funeral) is straight out of any Mass. The Catholic honor worn by Chuck (who, like Bruce, was an altar boy from the days when the Mass was said in Latin and ran afoul of several pastors) is evident in Bruce’s music, and they both carry a deep-seeded sense of right and wrong that transcends politics (which I inherited from Chuck and can appreciate in Bruce’s music). He believes in atoning for his sins (any song from Nebraska will tell you that much), but also believes in reveling in the glorious world around him (it ain’t no sin to be glad you’re alive!). He believes in a Promised Land, and goddammit, so do I!
The reality Bruce creates in his music appeals to all of us because we all experience it, but his idealism appeals to all of us because we can experience it, and if we say our prayers and eat our Wheaties, we just might.
“He didn’t buy the mythology that screwed so many people,” U2 frontman Bono said at Bruce’s induction into the Rock Hall. “Instead, he created an alternative mythology, one where ordinary lives became extraordinary and heroic.”
With their new effort, Blues Traveler keeps consistent with the pop-rock genius that made them great. Dan Nied chimes in with a review.
Blues Traveler
Truth Be Told
Sanctuary Records
Grade: B
To say the least, Blues Traveler’s star has fallen in the last five years.
After 1995’s smash hits "Runaround" and "Hook," and a ubiquitous album that infiltrated CD players of real music fans, young and old, the blues rock band became known more for portly lead singer John Popper than its ability to write infectious, integral pop tunes.
Such is life for a band whose music translates 10 times better live than on CD. (That is more a testament to Blues Traveler’s live shows than its inability to create a listener-friendly album. On all accounts, BT’s studio work has been splendid, but you can’t say enough of their “grab-you-by-the-balls-and-swing-you-around-for-three-hours shows.)
Anyway, after the success of "Four" and the follow-up “Straight On ‘Till Morning (which hit No. 11 on the Billboard Charts) Blues Traveler went into a long depression. Bass player Bobby Sheehan died of a drug overdose, Popper nearly ate himself into a coffin before getting gastric bypass surgery and losing 200 pounds. Two new members were added (Tad Kinchla on Bass and Ben Wilson on keyboards) and the comeback album “Bridge” was released in 2001.
Despite having Blues Traveler’s best song, the inspired “Pretty Angry” -- Popper’s inspiring tribute to Sheehan -- “Bridge” proved to be something of a failure. After selling only 100,000 copies, the band was dropped by A&M records and left to fend for itself in a music world that doesn’t appreciate the past, but looks toward a teenybopper future.
Earlier this year, the band was signed by Sanctuary Records and released their seventh studio album “Truth Be Told” Tuesday.
And that pretty much brings us up to date.
Even after Sheehan died, Blues Traveler kept being Blues Traveler: a quality so unique to the music world that they looked something of a rock dinosaur when “Bridge” was released without a two-and-a-half-minute love song.
That mentality stays strong on “Truth”. The songs are largely smoother (a result of the new members of the band meshing better with the old ones) and the inspiration is something to behold. While the ass-kicking potential that was found on their first four albums is missing, it shows a progression in songwriting throughout the band. “Truth” fades into the background beautifully and awakens listeners in poignant stanzas and impressive compositions. It won’t challenge for record of the year but it will make you realize why you liked this band in the first place. Simply put, they are good.
Popper’s harmonica, which was a potential road block on earlier albums, is used sparingly and effectively on “Truth”. For the first time, his main instrument is a bellowing voice that commands respect.
Where Popper was the main songwriter for every other album, he has written music for only five of the "Truth's" 12 tracks. It is a gutsy move to put Popper’s brilliant pop-writing skills on the back burner, but other band members such as guitarist Chan Kinchla and bassist Tad Kinchla keep the album moving with a series of bluesy pop tunes.
In all, “Truth” keeps the mold with what Blues Traveler is: an aging band that knows how to write and play. Their popularity won’t soar to new heights with this album (on the radio music regard, they have already jumped the shark)
but they prove why their style has worked for them for the last 15 years.
But can we really capture this album with only a few words? Here is a track by track rundown:
Unable to get Free: One of the sharpest choruses in the band’s catalog. A catchy and energetic refrain starts this album off with a bang.
Eventually (I’ll come around): A pure blues song penned by Chan Kinchla. But even with Kinchla’s musical credit, this brooding song recalls Popper’s 1999 solo record “Zygote”. It isn’t what we’re used to from Blues Traveler and drags a little ass. Still, Popper’s vocals shine here.
Sweet and Broken: Popper wrote this one with Spin Doctor’s front man Chris Barron. It is a perfect love song that showcases Popper’s abilities to perfectly balance lyrics and melody. The line “If the words were spoken/They’d shatter on the floor” is as powerful as any on the album.
My Blessed Pain: A toe-tapping throwback to old Blues Traveler. This one has a swinging hook and great backup instrumental work.
Let Her and Let Go: The album’s first single that you will not be hearing on the radio. Tad Kinchla wrote this one and it sounds annoyingly like the first pop song he wrote for the band: Girl Inside My Head, the first single off “Bridge." Still, this infectious song is undeniable but it shouldn’t end up on any greatest hits albums.
Thinnest of Air: This could be dismissed as a bouncy mail-it-in effort until you look closely at how all elements of this song come together. Popper’s self-conscious lyrics identify with the everyman (as is his specialty as a lyricist) and a precarious tempo adds to the uncertainty of the most fun song on the album.
Can’t See Why: This track doesn’t work as well as others, but its potential as an amazing live song is undeniable. Every BT album has at least one song that you aren’t sure about until you see it come together live. It then becomes a crowd favorite. Here is a quick rundown of those songs by album:
Album: Song
Bridge: All Hands
Straight on ‘Till Morning: Carolina Blues
Four: Crash Burn
Save His Soul: Love and Greed
Travelers and Thieves: Mountain Cry
Blues Traveler: Sweet Talkin Hippie
Stumble and Fall: An easy song with toe-tapping beats and a smooth vocal from Popper.
This Ache: Diabolical. I listened to this in the dark and actually got scared. Great metaphor in the lyrics, impressive meshing of pace and vocal.
Mount Normal: The only song completely written by Popper – a shame because songs that Popper pens himself are normally the highlights of any album. Popper was the sole writer on every hit the band has had and turned in impressive efforts on songs like Conquer Me and Trina Magna from “Save His Soul.” Anyway, Mount Normal is a beautifully performed inspirational song that is worth a listen.
The One: On track 11, the classic place for album filler, there is none. This song could challenge as a single with its pop sensibility.
Partner in Crime: It doesn’t necessarily work as a final song. Other BT final tracks (Brother John on “Four”, Fledgling on “Save his Soul”) were more appropriate as the classic quirky album closer. But this works in the sense that, like everything else on the album, it is a fucking good song: Bluesy in appearance, and biting in tone.
Apparently it wasn't just the man-on-pie sex that made the American Pie movies work. Erik Pepple says American Wedding proves that.
American Wedding
Rated: R
Starring: Jason Biggs, Alyson Hannigan, Seann William Scott and Eugene Levy
Directed by: Jesse Dylan
101 minutes
GRADE: B+
By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]
The success of the American Pie series is not found in the pie fucking, the dick jokes or the masturbation jokes -- although those all help. Pie’s enormous success is rooted in something simpler -- there’s a sweetness and genuine warmth amid the body fluids. It takes legitimate skill to make a movie where shit-eating gags are effortlessly enmeshed with a love story.
American Wedding picks up three years after American Pie 2, with the perpetually sexually hapless Jim (Jason Biggs) engaged to his flute-loving girlfriend, Michelle (the gifted comedian, Alyson Hannigan). That’s pretty much it as far as the plot goes, and the rest of the movie revolves around the complications of meeting the in-laws, participating in gay dance-offs and the foibles of hosting a bachelor party with a German dominatrix. It is a rickety clothesline for jokes, but the strengths of the Pie series have never been their plots, it’s been their characters.
At their heart, the Pie pictures have a generosity toward their characters that is sorely lacking in most sex farces. For all the fumbling and coarse humor, it’s never mean-spirited. The writers and cast understand the necessary context for pulling off jokes that straddle the line between offensive and harmless fun. In Wedding, that is best demonstrated in a sequence where Seann William Scott’s Belushi-inspired Stifler must participate in a dance-off at gay bar. What could have turned into homophobic fodder is instead turned inside out into a joke about Stifler’s overriding egotism and fascination with anything that will get him off.
Like the rest of the series, the best moments in American Wedding come courtesy of Eugene Levy as Jim’s well-meaning father. In many ways, the crux of these pictures has been the relationship between Jim and his dad. Levy and Biggs have an easy comic repartee rooted equally in affection and discomfort. Between the Pie movies and Christopher Guest’s films, Levy is on a winning streak unparalleled by any contemporary comic actor, and Wedding gives him many opportunities to keep the streak alive. Levy is adept at combining the serious and absurd like few others. As for Biggs, he continues to be an underrated comedian. He plays Jim as a befuddled cross between Annie Hall-era Woody Allen and The Graduate’s Ben Braddock.
American Wedding has its dead spots, specifically the scenes involving the bachelor party. Thanks to director Jesse Dylan’s (Bob’s son who isn’t in The Wallflowers) lazy and awkward staging the actors are forced to work extra hard at making the swinging-door sex farce aspects work, but with the scene edited as loosely and sloppily as possible, it doesn’t quite work. It’s a testament to the cast (especially the invaluable Fred Willard) that the sequence almost works.
Regardless, Dylan’s sometimes clumsy direction ends up being not much of a distraction. He realizes that this is not a director’s franchise, so for the most part his work is clean and uncluttered, letting the skill of his ensemble deliver the jokes.
As the third film in a series that began inauspiciously as an exceedingly smart teen sex comedy, American Wedding is surprisingly successful. It is a bittersweet, raunchy comedy that nicely closes the book on this most unlikely of trilogies.
In the summer of hackneyed scripts and horrible sequals, Seabiscuit stands above the crows as a classic American tale.
Seabiscuit
Rated: PG-13
Starring: Tobey Maguire, Jeff Bridges, Chris Cooper and William H. Macy
Directed by: Gary Ross
145 minutes
GRADE: B+
By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]
Seabiscuit is many things: crowd-pleasing, inspiring and winning. Ultimately, it serves as a sepia-toned Hallmark card to the New Deal and good old regular American can-do spirit.
If the above description makes you retch, if the ideas of crowd-pleasing paeans to concepts like “can-do spirit” make you uneasy, then Seabiscuit is probably not for you. In fact, the movie, refreshingly enough, does not have a cynical or jaded bone in its body. And in a summer of movies apparently written by the Script-o-Tron 3000, it’s a nice change of pace.
Most people know the story of Seabiscuit through Laura Hillenbrand’s bestseller of the same name, but for those not in the know, here’s a quick recap. During the depths of the Depression Americans locked onto the story of Seabiscuit, an undersized, broken horse with no discernible talent for racing; think of an equine Rudy Ruettiger, and you’ll get the gist of this underdog tale. Seabiscuit’s jockey, Red Pollard (Tobey Maguire), also enters the picture as an unlikely hero.
The smartest thing writer/director Gary Ross does (best known for the brilliant Pleasantville and his script for Big) is to rigorously develop the idea of Hillenbrand’s novel that Seabiscuit represents not only the common man knocked down by fate, chance and abuse, but also the general tenor of an America brought to its knees by circumstance. Down but not out, both manage to find the strength and heart to come back strong.
It is the kind of theme that if handled improperly could turn out to be a hackneyed feel-good spectacle. For insight into how crowd-pleasing entertainment can be mishandled, think of the woefully misguided Patch Adams, and you’ll get an idea of how precarious the line is between pleasing a crowd and raping a crowd. Ross wisely writes from the point of view of the everyman, looking at a world where everyone deserves a shot, regardless of class, status or ability.
Ross also utilizes an ace cast of actors smart enough to underplay scenes that could easily become embarrassingly corny. Actors like Maguire, Bridges (arguably America’s most underrated and consistent actor), Cooper and Macy are all experts at understatement and letting the quietest moments speak louder than the grandest of speeches. Maguire is terrific at playing a character who is ripe for queasy sentimentality, but wisely refuses to be pitied. His strength comes from other people’s misconceptions and a stubborn refusal to pack it all in when it gets rough. And Cooper and Bridges are superb in their moments together. Cooper, as Seabiscuit’s trainer, gives his character a thin, reedy voice and almost comical lope to his walk that indicates a man who has spent most of his life talking to animals and not people, while Bridges continues to use his calming presence as a stabilizing force in the midst of the occasionally cornpone situations.
Generally, Seabiscuit walks a fine line between wearing its heart on its sleeve and cornball Hollywood inspiration. Thankfully, it keeps its more tear-jerking moments subtle and classy, rather than beat the audience over the head. Even though its length gets to be a bit burdensome toward the end and its methodical exposition at the start is a bit bulky, Ross and his players keep things smart and entertaining. Seabiscuit is not a great picture, but it is a very good one, and in a summer chockablock of hollow and empty entertainments, its grace and intelligence is welcome.
It took Joel Hammond exactly one weekend to become an expert on Washington D.C. So now he shares his brilliance with you, Dear Reader.
By Joel Hammond
210 west Writer [send email]
Washington, D.C. Our nation's capital. A major city that one who grew up east of the Mississippi has likely visited by the age of 21,.
Well before this past weekend, I was not of those ones. I had been to Cleveland and Pittsburgh, but never D.C.
Consider me sheltered. I never went on the D.C. fifth-grade field trip. My senior class was too big to take a trip together.
So when I ventured into our nation's capital this weekend to visit an old friend of mine, I was admittedly a bit frightened -- a big-city virgin, if you will.
Don't get me wrong. I've seen my fair share of nasty neighborhoods and drug-infested streets. Like our managing editor, Vince Guerrieri, I grew up outside of Youngstown, Ohio, so I was exposed daily to murder, governmental corruption and drug busts all over the city. Once I started running cross country at Austintown Fitch, a hated rival of Vince's Chaney Cowboys, we used Mill Creek Park -- a very gorgeous park in its good parts and a nasty one in the bad -- to train.
But nothing that has happened in Youngstown and its surrounding areas, including finding a woman beaten in the woods on a trail in Mill Creek, and most recently a family friend-turned-Youngstown-cop being gunned down, prepared me for the horror that is Washington, D.C.
And thus, I write. Here are ten tips that will help you survive if you have never been to D.C.
1. Don't be intimidated. My friend gave me that bit of advice after I told her of my experience at a local gas station when I asked for directions. Said the guy behind bullet-proof glass: "Oh, and when you're on that street, don't get out of your car. If you need more directions, roll your window down and ask someone."
He was kidding. Or so she thinks.
2. Bring small bills. There are two reasons for this: First, for when you go somewhere, the locals will think you're poor, and therefore will not beg you for money. Secondly, for the public transportation, which you will have to take (See further down).
3. Bring big bills. For the absolutely ridiculous drink prices at any near-downtown establishment.
4. Don't drive, unless you're driving downtown only. My friend has had three flat tires. I thought I had four after embarking on a journey from 42nd St. NW to downtown. The roads are absolutely atrocious.
5. Bring your motion-sickness medicine. Because after you're forced to take public transportation because of traffic/roads, you'll be sick to your stomach from the un-smoothness of the metro.
6. Bring your Prada, BCBG, Gucci or any other designer clothing/attire you have. You will be looked down upon if you wear
jeans and Timberlands.
7. Be prepared to be looked at weirdly if you take a girl to DuPont Circle and proceed to buy a bottled domestic beer. My friend tells me DuPont has the second highest homosexual population in the world, and they all drink imported wine. It just might be true.
8. Go to the Holocaust Memorial. It's amazing.
9. If you're going to D.C. from the northwest, you will sit in traffic. Interstate 495 will be backed up, no matter what time you're on it. It's one of life's certainties.
10. Lastly, but certainly not least, don't be close-minded like me. I have a feeling if I wasn't such a small-town, simple kind of guy, I'da enjoyed it more.
There ya go. Keep this list. Live it, be it.
Good luck.
Natalie Miller-Moore wants to know this: How do we 20-somethings find the balance between work, love and life? It's not as easy as it sounds.
By Natalie Miller
210 west Content Editor [send email]
Life in your 20s can be tough. Although you are finally out on your own, you are out on your own and there are many decisions to make. And these decisions loom gigantic in the grand scheme of things.
I like to think of it as a triple threat: where, career and love. First of all, I could say geographic location instead of where, but there are many factors. For many people, it’s the decision to stay in their hometown or not. How much they want to stay depends on myriad factors – family, security, job opportunities available through networking, social life, etc. Some people do not want to live where they grew up, and will do most anything to avoid it.
One big factor that throws college graduates to the ends of the earth is their careers – they are increasingly more willing to move for the right job in today’s job market. And you might end up somewhere cool, like San Diego or Atlanta or Portland. But the downside of that is that you have to leave friends and family behind. (In the cases of 210west staffers, mostly behind in Ohio.) And boyfriends, girlfriends, significant others, spouses, etc. might need to be taken into consideration.
The catch here is that at this age, most people are looking for a mate. Staying home might produce the same old types of small-towners, but moving to a big city might yield a population of weirdos. It would be great to be already attached, unless of course the other person has career aspirations that don’t work where you want to live.
So you can either live where you want, have the job you want or have the mate you want – at many times it seems like these are mutually exclusive and I’ve spent many hours discussing solutions to this "triangle of tension" with my friends.
And one killer thing about your 20’s is that you’ve just gotten out of college with a degree, and I’ve found that either people get into their field and are disappointed -- or they can’t get in at all! After getting a job as a reporter a year out of college, I found that my co-workers were not all professional journalist types – in fact, quite a few of them were slobs who only had the stubbornness to hold on to their jobs as a redeeming quality. And I knew I’d never make a million dollars as a journalist, but the hours and the pay and the contempt for my profession were still a shock.
And I happily married my college sweetheart and we settled in my hometown, the large city of Cleveland. Thing was, he despised city life, with all the people "living on top of each other" and the lack of polite driving on the narrow streets. And I felt like I couldn’t really be a success unless I left where I grew up to make it on my own, but I enjoyed tremendously the web of relatives, old schoolmates and new newspaper contacts.
So we moved to ye Old Colonial Williamsburg, and we liked it better as a place to live in a community. But it took me a year to find a job that I like. But here we are, doing better than we were in Cleveland…but my triangle is yet again out of balance because I really miss my friends and family being close and my delight at running into a cousin or grade school friend at every bar. I have to admit, though, that many of my friends from Bowling Green have moved away from the Cleveland area, and even out of Ohio, so that’s no reason to move back. But will I ever fit in here the way I did there? And how long will it take? And by then, will my triangle be shifted yet again?
Can we win this struggle in a modern world? Time was, you stayed in your hometown and got the best job you could and married the best person you could find. Now, it’s a whole new world.
While liberals and hippies have dubbed Dubya a warmonger and a liar, Chuck Soder can't help but support the leader of the free world.
By Chuck Soder
210 west Writer [send email]
To anyone who calls President Bush a liar, a thief, a murderer or, dare I say, a dictator, hear these words from someone who knows one when he sees one — Iraqi President Saddam Hussein:
“Bush has a long way to go before he can match me,” Saddam said. “My hands are red with the blood of the innocent. His are merely a light pink.”
Okay, well, maybe Saddam didn’t say that, exactly. Being a parody paper, The Onion probably isn’t a great source. But, though the quote may be fake, it sure does make a good point.
Real dictators are a thousand times worse than George W. Bush. Still, some folks say Bush is out to destroy all that’s good in the name of oil, politics and other things evil.
Admittedly, the anti-Bush crowd isn’t always so extreme. Most critics clock in, mock his English and clock out. But the attacks get more vicious with each day that fails to uncover weapons in Iraq. Yeah, once in a while Bush needs a good slap — for instance, he said on July 30 that he’s trying to pass a law to make sure gay marriage never becomes legal. If you want to call him a homophobe, that’s your cue.
But he’s no liar, no thief, no murderer and certainly no dictator.
Liberals have recently fallen in love with ripping on the following statement from Bush’s State of the Union Address:
“The British government has learned that Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa.”
The CIA didn’t even believe the statement — they discredited it months before Bush delivered his annual address. Yet, he said it. And he was wrong.
Such a slip is a goldmine for Bush haters.
False words from his mouth — a lie! Liar! He used his lies to further his war mongering!
First, to be a real liar requires actually trying to lie. Bush had no such intention.
Just before an October 2002 speech in Cincinnati, the CIA told Deputy National Security Adviser Stephen Hadley to pull those 16 words from Bush’s speech. And Hadley did just that.
Later, he didn’t. Hadley said he forgot, so he took the blame.
Well, being the leader of the free world and all, Bush is technically responsible for what finally gets into his speech. But he’s “technically” responsible for a mountain of things. Being president is a demanding job, and it’s easy to fall short once in a while.
Former President Bill Clinton knows this from experience. In an interview with Larry King, Clinton surprisingly sympathized with his ideological opposite: “You know, everybody makes mistakes when they’re president. I mean, you can’t make as many calls as you have to without messing up once in a while.”
Not only was the statement unintentional, Bush didn’t try to hide it, either.
The error wasn’t unearthed by the New York Times. No one grabbed a scoop, except for maybe the Bush Administration, who admitted the mistake the minute it went public.
Bush didn’t have to be honest about it. There was an easier way out — Tony Blair’s way. The British Prime Minister still stands by the idea that Iraq sought uranium from Africa. And in America, siding with Blair is a wise political move. A study by the Pew Research Center shows that 83 percent of Americans said they respect Blair, according to a New York Times column by Nicholas Kristof. In the minds of Americans, that makes him the most trusted leader in the world, more so than Bush himself.
But to side with Blair would’ve been the easy way out. Honest men don’t always take the easy way.
Liberals can’t prove that Bush lied on purpose, but they’re certain of one thing: He and his family have lots of ties to the oil industry.
Aha! Iraq has oil, and Bush was in the oil biz! What are the odds that he’s not in Iraq just to siphon off some Texas tea?
Not only is trimming the income tax a mortal sin, being in the oil industry is, too. “No blood for oil” has become more than an anti-war, anti-Bush slogan — it’s almost a catch phrase. Right up there with any line from “Forrest Gump.” That phrase — and every other comment about Bush’s oil lust — is based on the one, tiny fact that he was a Texas oilman.
Beyond this, there’s zero evidence that Dubya’s been depositing personal checks with “Iraqi oil cash” written in the memo. Oil does, however, play a role in the war’s aftermath: a positive one.
Bush said in the State of the Union Address that he plans to earn Iraqi oil in exchange for services — necessary ones, like fixing Iraqi infrastructure. It’s not wrong to want something in return for all the money we’ve been spending on them.
They get a rebuilt country and America (not Bush) gets oil. That’s what economists everywhere call “trade,” not “theft.”
So, he’s honest in word and action. No liar, no thief. He has, however, let people die by invading Iraq.
He started a war against a country that poses no immediate threat! He’s responsible for the killing of a few thousand Iraqis and more than 200 Americans!
Doesn’t that make him a murderer?
Yes, on Bush’s command, people have died. More will die before this conflict ends. But the only other option was to let Saddam do whatever he wants.
That’s a scary thought. First, Saddam did have weapons, and boy, was he dangerous. Just because the military hasn’t found weapons in Iraq doesn’t mean Bush was wrong about their existence. Heck, he wouldn’t be the only one to misjudge the Iraqi arsenal. Tons of people were once certain Saddam was packing heat, including most of the Democrats planning to run for president in 2004.
Clinton sided with Bush, too. He still does, according to his interview with King: “[It was] incontestable that on the day I left office there were unaccounted for stocks of biological and chemical weapons in Iraq.” He went on to say regime change was justified.
Clinton siding with Bush? Twice? Uday and Qusay, grab your parkas, ‘cause hell must be getting mighty cold. But I guess even the strongest political barriers fall in the face of hard facts: a) Saddam had WMD in the 1990s. b) He was ordered by the United Nations to destroy them and provide proof. c) The proof was nowhere. d) When we went looking for it, he sent us home.
Why would he not provide proof to the United Nations when they (at the time) authorized the use of force? Why would he kick out inspectors?
The man had something to hide.
He’s been known to hide stuff, too. If not weapons, weapons paraphernalia: one Iraqi scientist told Americans he was forced to bury pieces of a centrifuge in his rose garden to hide them from inspectors.
So, where are the weapons now? Who knows. Iraq is a big country full of possible “rose gardens.” They might not even be in Iraq anymore. Like a coke dealer in a drug raid, Saddam could’ve easily flushed his stash.
Even if Saddam destroyed his weapons years ago and simply forgot to tell the world, the war was justified on humanitarian reasons alone.
Saddam has killed hundreds of thousands in his own country and a few in his own family. He’s killed Americans and would kill more if given the chance. He publicly praised the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, even if he didn’t play a role. He loved the sight of thousands of innocents dying.
Saddam is the mother of all serial killers. His sons were ready to follow his lead.
Now, he’s gone. His sons are dead.
For some reason, this is no consolation for the anti-war crowd. The craziest of them want the U.S. military to get out of Iraq now.
Combat is never going to end. We’re fighting an endless war, and nothing we’ve accomplished so far is worth another Vietnam!
Yeah, it’s going to be a long time before we’re out of Iraq, but it will absolutely never compare to Vietnam. Some critics fail to mention that said “police action” killed about a bazillion more people.
• American casualties in Iraq: +200
• American casualties in Vietnam: +57,000
• Total casualties in Iraq: a few thousand
• Total casualties in Vietnam: a few million
Even small death tolls are tragic, but not tragic enough to justify leaving Iraq. Saddam and his cronies could just waltz right back in. Critics too easily forget that the first 30 years under Hussein rule killed hundreds of thousands. A second 30 years would likely double the total.
Bush doesn’t want that to happen. In the end, his plan saves lives.
So if Bush doesn’t lie, steal or needlessly murder, how can he be a dictator?
Saddam, on the other hand — there’s a guy who deserves the title. But I’ll let him speak for himself, as recorded by The Onion:
“I recently heard a critic of President Bush say he is a dictator,” Saddam said. “That made me laugh. George Bush, a dictator! My sons Uday and Qusay showed more viciousness at 10 years of age.”
Let’s be glad their reign of terror ended before it began. For that, Dubya deserves a big high-five.
Even though the dead pool was scrapped, Erik Pepple can't help but wonder what kind of insanity went into such an offensive idea.
By Erik Pepple
210 west Pop Culture Editor [send email]
At times like this, it is good to see common sense prevail.
In the midst of the Bush cadre’s macho puffery, incessant lying and bending of truth and curious circular logic, the fact the Pentagon’s plan for a futures market for terrorism was scrapped is welcome news.
For those not in the know, John Poindexter (who you may remember from such debacles as Iran Contra in the 80’s) and his crew (his crew you may know from such debacles as Total Information Awareness, or as I like to call it, the War is Peace Department) formulated a plan to allow folks to bet on future terrorist acts. Essentially, it would serve as a government sanctioned and codified dead pool. Those who correctly predicted assassinations, bombings or other acts of violence would win a tidy profit. The ostensible rationale is the market has a predictive value and would generate tips and insights into future acts of terror.
Sure, there is some predictive value in the market: for the market for goods and services that are legal. It’s ok to wager on whether or not the new Nikes are going to sell. It’s not ok to put money down on the death of innocents and even the not-so innocent. The last I checked political assassinations, bombings, chemical attacks and general slaughter are not legal. With this dead pool, the folks in the Pentagon have essentially turned the citizens of the entire world into poker chips. Think of it as a Publisher’s Clearinghouse for death. I can see it now, “Hey you’ve won $10,000 for correctly predicting a bombing that killed hundreds. Enjoy spending the money on a new stereo while knowing you’ve profited off the dead. Here’s your giant novelty check from the department of ‘What the fuck?’”
Let us forget for a moment that terrorists could profit from this by betting on their own acts. Let us ignore the fact that terrorists could post phony information in an effort to distract law enforcement. Let us also ignore the fact that sometimes mar