King of the...Joe Tables?

Four score and many moons ago we began the "King of the..." series here at G:TB (if by "series" you mean two posts loosely held together by a contrived concept), but I've gotta tell you, today's installment - inspired by several emails from G:TB stalwart Dennis- has got to be my favorite. That's right los lectores fieles, you can close the baseballreference.com window and put away your dog-eared Spanish-English dictionary...we've got you covered. ¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! (¿demasiado?)**

Joe Table (Jose Mesa) - The man, the myth, the legend - the reason this post even exists. That's right, it's the man who had a kid at the ripe old age of 13 and who cost the city of Cleveland the World Series title in 1997 (and has one of the more enjoyable ongoing feuds with former teammate Omar Vizquel). Joe Table, your candle burned out long before your legend ever did...wait, what? He's still employed? Yessiree, Jose Mesa is currently a Philadelphia Philly (his 2nd ball club this year and 8th in 19 major league seasons), and sporting a superb 5.65 ERA to boot. Well done sir. Brett Myers will most likely be punch you in the face any day now.

Chuck Newhouse (Carlos y Charlie Villanueva) - A true double-threat, Mr. Villanueva is both an up-and-coming pitcher for the Milwaukee Brewers and a promising alien-PF hybrid (in the Species mold) for the Milwaukee Bucks. There hasn't been a male duo this formidable to hit the streets of "Mill-e-wah-que" since Lenny and Squiggy. This little tidbit made me chuckle, mainly because I think very little of the NBA version - Chuck the Buck sometimes goes by the nickname "Skillanueva".

Roberto Clemente (Rob Merciful) - Its not often my style, but if I can be serious for a moment, even within a post this nonsensical. Given what we know of the player and the man, and how Clemente was taken from this Earth way too soon, this one seems almost fitting. Thank you for your patience, we will now carry on with the foolishness.

George July (Jorge Julio) - His discovery in the Orioles pen 6 years ago led to one of the most entertaining, and I must say ethnically-insensitive, email exchanges ever. Patty McShitface, Mohammed Bombsalot and Akbar Al-Hijackya are all pulling for Jorge in this one ("Yes, Hi, I called earlier - Inside Joke, Party of 4"). Jorge can also be blamed for inspiring 2,728,069 "Jorge Julio, Spanish for blown save" jokes. Amazingly, he was traded straight up this year for the Korean translation of blown save, Byung-Hyun Kim. Everybody hurts...sometimes.

Frank Frank (Frank Francisco) - The Spanish equivalent to the English version of torturing your son for life, William Williams. Or, like the poor kid at my high school, Richard Dick. Thank god I went to school way before Columbine, or little Richard Dick might have gotten the urge to spray paint the walls of the Shaker High Gym with the brains of my entire 3rd period gym class. Ironically (I think it's irony...much like that dum-dum Alanis I often misuse irony), when Frank Squared decided to go all WWF and throw a chair into the crowd 2 years ago he hit a woman named Jennifer Bueno in the face. Even Ice Cube would have to concede it wasn't a "good" day for Ms. Bueno.

Jesus Flowers (Jesus Flores) - This list could never be complete without a rep from the hometown Washington Nationals. However, I have virtually nothing to say about him, except that his major league debut was on my birthday this year. Jesus and I took several shots of Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia to celebrate his big day.

Vinny GreenHead (Vincent Testaverde) - Oh boy, now we're really reaching. Vinny is our only football representative on this list, mainly because I'm running out of steam. Some controversy here as well, since Dennis contends he should be called Vinny GreenBalls, rather than GreenHead, but I'm sticking with this solid interweb translation site. All I'm wondering is how did Fireman Ed never capitalize on this obvious connection during Vinny's successful Jets tenure?

And your winner: Jose Mesa, King of the Joe Tables. Was there ever any doubt?

**This post written while jamming out to ABBA's "Fernando"...en repetición

Because I’m tired of looking at...

...Larry King's mugshot (well, really, Whit is apparently more sick of it than me, since he took the time out of his "busy" schedule to send an email), you get to enjoy the video below. So yeah, I'm basically masking my love of YouTube video posting (not very well I might add) as a new Monday feature here at G:TB. As I sat in that seventh level of Hell called O'Hare airport last Thursday afternoon, I was trying to decide what my favorite Chicago-based film was...and after quickly dismissing Nico Toscani and his tour de force performance in Above the Law, the contest came down to two films for me, and though we all loved pre-vehicular manslaughter Matthew Broderick as Ferris, Jake and Elwood cannot be topped. Enjoy...

There's nothing better than a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich

Because I’m tired of looking at Bob Costas, let’s span the globe looking for the ridiculous and the sublime, Larry King-style.

One half of the G:TB editorial staff was stuck in airports yesterday evening because of inclement weather on the East Coast. I know with certainty that Whitney spent the night in Newark, stuffing his 6’5” frame in a chair near baggage claim. As noted below, advantage, short people. We’re still waiting to hear from Teejay.

Rick Ankiel is my new favorite story of the baseball season. From phenom to pre-garters Nuke Laloosh to hard-luck injury story to Roy Hobbs in the span of seven years.

David Beckham sounds like a Muppet. A Muppet with a cockney accent. Best that he should avoid postgame interviews when possible.

Ken Tremendous of firejoemorgan.com published a column in this week’s issue of Sports Illustrated. Worlds are colliding, Jerry. I think that’s a brilliant move by SI on a number of levels. One, they get to use the weight of the blogosphere as a marketing tool – now every Tom, Dick, and Gheorghe will be on their jocks trying to get their 15 column inches of fame. Two, it signals a growing willingness on SI’s part to diverge from the conventional wisdom. It’ll be interesting to see if they begin taking seriously the idea that mainstream sports broadcasting has no clothes. Finally, Ken Tremendous can write, and SI’s always been a bastion for terrific wordsmiths. Kudos to KT and SI.

John Kitna says that the Lions will win 10 games this year. That’s a joke that writes itself. Just stand back and watch the giggles begin.

Is Jon Jansen’s much-hyped RV a 21st Century version of the storied 5:00 Club? The Redskins had much success during Gibbs I when they had a handful of agent provocateurs in the Riggo mold. If Jansen, Casey Rabach, and Rabach’s nutsack can capture a little of that irreverent spirit, a certain national broadcaster cum local columnist may need to test the engine on a different sort of recreational vehicle. The obtuse nature of that last sentence is very much intentional.

I learned this week that William and Mary’s head men’s basketball coach makes about as much money as a first-year associate at a decent-sized Richmond law firm. That was a stupefying moment, frankly, and well captures Tribe Hoops’ place in the Division I pecking order.

The Height of Ridiculousness

Word comes to me today that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is contemplating legislation to ban discrimination against short people (and fat people, too, but I really couldn’t care less about that). I may be a bit late to the party on this, as word often takes some time to get to me, since I’m, y’know, vertically challenged and all.

As a card-carrying liberal, at least on social matters, I’m keenly attuned to the fact that our society discriminates against certain groups (as, it may be pointed out, do many other societies). I come here not to make light of legitimate grievances deeply felt by racial minorities, homosexuals, religious groups, and rednecks (maybe I’d make a little light of the latter). I’m a white, heterosexual, middle class Protestant male with no obvious accent. I’m one of the Chosen People. At least I always thought I was. Until today, that is, thanks to Massachusetts, my ancestral home - defenders of the wee, protectors of the Lilliputian.

Now that I know I’m part of a protected class, I’m not going to take this lying down, even if it looks that way to you from up there. Really funny, that joke. Seriously. How’s the weather up there, freakshow? Enjoy your circulatory problems while my evolutionarily perfect compact frame hums at maximum efficiency. Duck through that door while I coast into the room unimpeded. Cram yourself into that airplane seat, while I stretch out in comfort. And read along as I fight back against the forces of heightism with a new G:TB feature – Bite Me, Randy Newman.

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In the universe of diminutive stars, Bob Costas is a constellation of his very own. By turns erudite and self-effacing, Costas has spanned the worlds of sports, entertainment and even politics with rare versatility for nearly two decades. His star turn in BASEketball, waxing excited about his erect nipples, cemented his public reputation as a man of the people, a veritable dynamo of Gheorghism.

But those of us in the community of the tiny already knew of his legendary common touch. I took two weeks off in the summer of 1996 to attend the Atlanta Olympics. One evening, I was indulging my post-event thirst at an over-commercial faux-Irish bar somewhere in Buckhead when Costas walked through the door. He was anchoring NBC’s coverage of the Games and had ventured out to catch a late supper. My courage bolstered by several rounds of Guinness, I approached his table to express my admiration.

“Tell you what,” he said as I reached his table, “Let me finish this meal and then I’ll be happy to talk.” Figuring that was a polite brush-off, I wandered back to the bar to continue poisoning myself. A few minutes later, I looked in his direction and saw him waving me back to his table.

I sat down next to him and his driver, and said, “In 1986, if you were John McNamara, would you have had Dave Stapleton on the field in the 10th?”

He replied, “Sure, but McNamara wanted Buckner on the field when the Sox won it all.”

“I knew it!”, I exclaimed, not really knowing it, but satisfied with an answer that gave me some explanation of that ill-conceived decision.

Costas was as gracious in his interaction with me, a drunken fanboy, as he has been throughout his public career. His recent verbal jujitsu with Barry Bonds captures the essence of the man’s subtlety and clever wit. After Costas’ HBO interview with Curt Schilling aired and the Red Sox’ hurler blasted Bonds, the soon-to-be homerun king said this of the interviewer, “Is that the story Bob Costas talked about? A little midget man, who doesn’t know jack about baseball, who never played the game before? You can tell Bob Costas what I called him.” You stay classy, San Francisco.

Rather than sinking to the level of his competition, Costas responded with, "As anyone can plainly see, I'm 5-6 1/2 and a strapping 150, and unlike some people, I came by all of it naturally. I've actually always had a pretty cordial relationship with Barry. I have no ill feelings toward him personally. I regard him as one of the greatest players of all time who got an inauthentic boost and then became a superhuman player. I wish him no ill whatsoever."

Like a thousand paper cuts, that response, laying open Bonds’ misplaced aggression and naked arrogance. For that, and for his entire (small) body of work, Bob Costas earns his place as the recipient of G:TB’s first Bite Me, Randy Newman award.

(Editor’s Note: For the record, G:TB understands that the Massachusetts legislation really only applies to dwarves, and not garden-variety shorter-than-normal people. Although it may also apply to gnomes, if such things exist. G:TB also recognizes that acknowledging that understanding in the body of this piece would completely fuck up the comedic premise, as should you.)

These are not the Inductees you're looking for...

Well, baseball junkies, we had Cal and Tony join the other immortals in Cooperstown this year -- and I hope you enjoyed it, because none of the 2008 newly-eligible players have a chance of making the Hall of Fame next year. I'm not talking about returning candidates (as Whit said "Wow - it's Jim Rice & Jack Morris's best chance next year!"); we at G:TB will just be breaking down those players eligible for the first time. On to the fun...

Luis Alicea - Best Known For: Beaning guys left and right during batting practice when he was manager of the Lowell Spinners; getting selected in the 1st round of 1986 draft, one pick behind Lee Stevens and three rounds ahead of Bo Jackson.

Brady Anderson - Best Known For: Striking out with Cal Ripken Jr. on deck, thus ending the 2001 season and Cal's career; getting sued by a J. Priestley and L. Perry for image copyright infringement; hitting 50 (Creatine-created) home runs in 1996 though his career high otherwise was 24; being rumored to race people in the parking lot after games, mainly so he could give them an "Attaboy" after the race and slap them on the ass.

Alex Arias - Best Known For: Hitting a whopping 18 home runs in 10 major league seasons; playing his final game on Whitney's 32nd birthday (truly, this was as momentous as it got for him).

Andy Benes - Best Known For: Having an equally bland brother Alan; tipping off his slider by gritting his teeth before he threw the pitch (and wanting to kill Todd Jones for tipping batters off to that fact in a Sporting News article); leading the league in strikeouts and losses in one season.

Mike Benjamin - Best Known For: Setting a major league record in 1995 with 14 hits in a three game stretch; going to Arizona State, just like Barry Bonds; originally being drafted by the Giants, just like Barry Bonds; also playing for the Pirates, just like Barry Bonds; otherwise not having anything at all in common with Barry Bonds, except things like "only has one nose" and "originally hails from the Milky Way galaxy."

Dennis Cook - Best Known For: Throwing inside (the earhole), getting in fights, and generally being known as a douchewhistle his whole career; playing for rivals in succession (e.g., ChiSox then Tribe, Mets then Phillies) and being disliked by everyone when the dust settled. Ty Cobb possessed the same demeanor. And was a better pitcher.

Delino DeShields - Best Known For: Being arguably the best hitter to come from Delaware; being called "Delineout" by hecklers and fans; stealing 463 bases (and being caught 147 times); being traded straight up for Pedro Martinez.

Shawon Dunston - Best Known For: Being the only person with this particular alternate spelling of "Sean" in baseball history; getting drafted #1 overall in 1982 (four spots ahead of Whit's buddy Doc Gooden and 15 spots ahead of Rob's buddy Sam Horn; this quote from Mark Grace: ""I owe him (Shawon Dunston) a lot. Nobody would have known how good I was at digging balls out of the dirt if it wasn't for him and all those bad throws."

Chuck Finley - Best Known For: Getting his ass kicked by Whitesnake Jaguar grinder Tawny Kitaen; ranking 22nd all-time in strikeouts yet never leading the league in a season; leading the league in wild pitches twice.

Darrin Fletcher - Best Known For: Retiring midway through the 2002 season (quitter).

Travis Fryman - Best Known For: Being traded to the Arizona Diamondback in 1997, yet never playing a single game for the then-expansion franchise. Two week after he was traded, the D-backs sent him and Tom Martin to the Indians for Matt Williams.

Rich Garcés - Best Known For: Being the most beloved middle reliever in the history of major league baseball, and for making Terry Forster look svelte. El Guapo's eligibility is in some question, as he's currently pitching for the Nashua Pride of the Canadian-American Association of Professional Baseball and semi-legitimately attempting a major league comeback. Gheorghe, for one (four?), is rooting unabashedly for his return, partly because he's a legendarily personable man, and partly because he looks like Grimace in baseball pants.

Chris Haney - Best Known For: Giving up Wade Boggs' 3,000th hit, which just happened to be a home run; getting Bermanized as "Mr. Haney," from the Green Acres character.

Dave Hollins - Best Known For: Being called "Head"; having a large head.

Bobby J. Jones - Best Known For: Attending the same high school as another Mets pitcher, Tom Seaver; being the caucasian Bobby Jones.

David Justice - Best Known For: Skipping the 7th and 8th grades; being married to Halle Berry; being dumb enough to cheat on Halle Berry.

Chuck Knoblauch - Best Known For: Hitting Keith Olberman's mom in the stands at Yankee Stadium with one of his 5,693 errant throws; going from "Fundamentally Sound" Chuck Knoblauch to "Blauch-head" in a span of three years; has recently founded the "Throwing for Dummies" foundation along with Steve Blass, Steve Sax, Mackey Sasser, and another fellow below.

Tom Lampkin - Best Known For: Nothing. Nothing at all.

Darren Lewis - Best Known For: Having Dusty Baker name his kid after him.

Mike Magnante - Best Known For: Being screwed out of his retirement benefits by the acquisition of Ricardo Rincon just a few days before Magnante was to retire (as documented in Moneyball).

Dave Mlicki - Best Known For: Being the only major leaguer whose surname begins with Ml-; pitching a complete game shutout as a Met vs. the Yankees in 1997, the first ever non-exhibition game played between the two teams; being tied with Pedro Martinez and others for 34th all-time on the Mets' Wins list, one behind Dennis Cook (dear lord, the Mets have paper-thin record books).

Mike Morgan - Best Known For: Playing on every goddam team in the league during his 30-year career, which is most likely a record or something (though Kenny Lofton is sure to break Morgan's record sometime in 2014); managing to stay in the league despite having a winning record in 2 of his first 17 seasons.

Robb Nen - Best Known For: Being a tool and nicknaming his slider "The Terminator"; winning a World Series ring in 1997, then being traded away in the most brazen firesale in major league history.

Hipólito Pichardo - Best Known For: A non-descript 10-season career that saw him go 50-44 with a 4.44 ERA.

Tim Raines - Best Known For: Admitting during the Pittsburgh drug trials of 1985 that he would slide headfirst into bases so as not to break the vials of coke he kept in his back pocket; becoming the Expos all-time leader in runs (947), triples (82), walks (793), stolen bases (635), singles (1,163), runs created (925) and times on base (2,440); changing his name to "Rock," then changing it back when everyone called him Tim, anyway.

Armando Reynoso - Best Known For: Being a member of the inaugural Colorado Rockies 1993 team; "earning" $4,125,000 in 2002 when he went 1 2/3 innings (giving up two earned runs).

Henry Rodríguez - Best Known For: Having fans chuck Oh Henry candy bars onto the field at Stade Olympique when he would bat; getting nicknamed "H-Rod," one that never really caught on; "earning" $1.5M in 2001 for the Yankees, when he went 0-for-8 (with 6 K's) on the year.

Lee Stevens - Best Known For: Having the first name DeWain.

Todd Stottlemyre - Best Known For: Having a more famous father and less-talented younger brother; telling then-Philadelphia Mayor Ed Rendell to kiss his ass, after Rendell said he could hit his pitches during the 1993 World Series.

Greg Swindell - Best Known For: Having the first name Forest; winning a ring with Arizona in 2001; going 1-4 with a 7.14 ERA in 1996 but "earning" $4.45M, resulting in Houston-sold editions of Webster's Dictionaries including an alternate spelling of "swindle."

Mike Trombley - Best Known For: Being a huge Ace of Base fan.

John Valentin - Best Known For: Having no relation to Jose (including pronunciation); being one of only 13 players in modern major league history to complete an unassisted triple play; being the pride of Seton Hall.

Randy Velarde - Best Known For: Being a malcontent and asshat at the end of his Yankee tenure; gaining infamy by being mentioned several times in Barry Bonds' favorite bathroom reader, Game of Shadows.

Ed Vosberg - Best Known For: Being one of only two players to play in the Little League World Series, the College World Series, and the MLB World Series (Rob's mancrush Jason Varitek happens to be the other player).

Mark Wohlers - Best Known For: Having his career ended by a three-run Jim Leyritz home run in Game 4 of the 1996 World Series; appearing (along with Gerald Williams and Pedro Borbon, Jr.) in a cameo spot on Helen Hunt-hosted Saturday Night Live in 1997 (which was supposedly wrecked when Wohlers suddenly and inexplicably couldn't locate his cue cards); golfing with Ian Baker-Finch in the off-season.

There you have it -- a veritable Who's Who, or Who? . . . Who?? Bert Blyleven has to be salivating when he reads this post. (And he is, in fact, a big G:TB fan.)

Several Days Late and Many Dollars Short

I know, I know, this place has been a DeadZone this week (but not the lame USA network/Anthony Michael Hall DeadZone...the cool and creepy Christopher Walken DeadZone): Whit recovering from too much boozery, Rob holed up in the only part of California without TV or the interweb (yet Rob's phone keeps calling me), me recovering from some awesome SARS/Ebola/West Nile mix and Dennis, well, honestly, we never know where Dennis is or what he's up to. What does any of this have to do with you? Nothing really, just a lot of words that serve as a buffer between yet another goofy title and my usual nonsensical rantings...

Sure, it's been almost a week, but I would be remiss if I did not tip my cap to all the attendees of last Friday's DC Blogger Happy Hour. A good time was had by all, I am sure of that, though most of the evening is fuzzy...Unsilent Majority showing up in a Derrick Thomas jersey set the stage nicely, the Brothers Mottram of Mr. Irrelevant did not disappoint (I am still laughing at Jamie and the Blog Show closed captioning), Awful Announcing was in the house, I found Rob a new friend in Dan at Red Sox Monster, Blog Show producer Littles is indeed a huge Lebowski fan, Miss Chatter does a much better job covering the Nats than we could ever do (and she has a money iPhone) and if memory serves Agent Steinz even showed for a few minutes, just long enough for me to (once again) implore him to set up a G:TB/Gheorghe sit-down. I know there were others there as well, but honestly, too much cheap beer (and perhaps a handful of Red Bull Vodkas) means I can't remember at all...

You want good rock whistling AND a random Gorky Park reference? Then the Scorpions "Wind of Change" is where it's at...

I never thought this day would come, but in the last six months it appears the Albany Times Union is actually pulling its weight as a real newspaper. I know, hard to believe, but the paper most often referred to in my youth as the Times Useless was the first to break the Orlando steroids story (Hi Gary Matthews!), a probe which also eventually linked to Chris Benoit, and their recent coverage of this Michael Strahan training camp soap opera (brought to my attention by Geoffrey) has been pretty decent (speaking of Mr. Strahan - Michael, shut up, take your $4 mil and play ball...well, once you've skipped 90% of training camp that is).

In sorting through all these baseball trades and the prospects dealt, I stumbled upon my new favorite minor leaguer (he was not part of any of these deals...I just found myself searching the South Atlantic League site...I know, get a life): LHP Antonio Bastardo, Lakewood BlueClaws (a Phillies affiliate)...3-0, 2.10 in July and 6-0, 1.42 overall, 63 K in 61 IP, only 11 ER all season long. Honestly, how many Philly fans do you think will own a "Bastardo" jersey as soon as they realize this guy exists?

Mr. Litos, we like the switch to WordPress, now how about a Tribe Tuesday (or Thursday)?

Ah yes, my beloved Jankees - I mean, what is there to say? Hottest team since the All-Star break, scoring runs at a blazing clip, albeit crushing some god awful teams along the way. Seven back of the Red Sox in the AL East, three back of the Indians in the Wild Card. Rob might not be worried (or need to be worried, really), but the Yankees finally have it turned around. Or so I hope...I know just talking about the Yankees on G:TB means I've probably cursed them and cost them a playoff spot. Well, if that's the case, let me just say I think it's great how well Josh Beckett and Daisuke Matsuzaka have pitched this year and what a lucky break that they've managed to avoid any major injuries (think that will work?).

Finally, I am amazed, yet pleasantly surprised, by the sudden reemergence of B-movie legend Bruce Campbell. You should know who Bruce Campbell is, but if not, I'll wait... go ahead, Google him... there, he's the Evil Dead guy. And if you have never seen Evil Dead or Army of Darkness, you're really missing out. Anyway, Bruce is back on the USA network's (wow, two mentions of the USA network in one post?) summer action/comedy/spy/whatever series "Burn Notice", playing heavy drinking ex-CIA spook Sam...but, even better, Bruce also has this fantastic Old Spice commercial running:

Midnight Manny?

Big day for me down at Dewey, Cheatem & Howe, but there's always time for the completely uninspired GTB "Separated at Birth" segment. Today's installment stars Quahog's most nefarious ladies man and sexual deviant, Glenn Quagmire, and the manager of your Washington Nationals, Manny Acta. Giggity giggity goo...

Ladies and Gentlemen, Your 2007 World Champion Chicago Cubs

After Andy Pollin blatantly stole my Jimmy Carter malaise bit on the radio yesterday evening, ruining what was sure to be one of the top 480 G:TB posts of all-time, I sunk into a state of melancholy. Fatigued to the breaking point by the massed forces of an epic, three-day hangover, Mike Vick's vile hobby, Barry Bonds' enormous melon, and Tim Donaghy's affinity for the over, I was thisclose to going cold turkey, quitting sports entirely. At least for the next few days.

As I pondered weak and weary, eyelids at half-mast, on the verge of sweet, sweet sleep, Lou Piniella appeared to me as if in a dream. Or like Princess Leia in the hologram projected from R2D2, only without the Cinnabons on her head. (And you're crazy if you think I wasn't going with that picture instead of the fully robed one.) Man, are there any straight guys my age who didn't have a thing for Princess Leia? And Mary Lou Retton. Wait. What the fuck was I talking about?

Right. Lou Piniella. It took the edge of exhaustion to make it all clear to me. Lou Piniella is Neo, or possibly the Keymaster - I told you I was tired. The Sports Gods have a way of making it up to us, and those grumpy bastards owe us large right now. They've given us a number of scintillating Super Bowls after years of yawners. They gave us the 2004 Boston Red Sox. They gave us that save Stallone made in Victory. And in October 2007, they'll give us the World Series Champion Chicago Cubs. The Billy Goat Curse will end, and with it will go the worst off-field year in my memory. Hell, the Goat may even take Stuart Scott, Skip Bayless, Joe Morgan, and Chris Berman with him as he clipclops into history. Just remember where you read it first, and speak well of us at cocktail parties.

Easing Back In

I see Rob did finally get something up last night (Sweet Lou!) [Editor's Note: Rob was not happy with a YouTube clip burying his bold World Series prediction, so much like the Man of Steel in the original Superman, I have manipulated time], but I would be remiss if I didn't pass along what I can only classify as the oddest YouTube clip I have ever viewed. Perhaps this has been floating around the interweb for a few days - I wouldn't know, I am just emerging from the OBFT Coma today. Let's set this up: Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center in the Philippines, an army of inmates and the self-anointed King of Pop as the soundtrack. Enjoy...

Gone Fishin'

Dennis will be protecting Fort G:TB over the weekend, as I will be hitting the beach with Whit and Rob (and many, many more characters) for the 14th Annual Outer Banks Fishing Trip. It will take us days to recover from this, so I suggesting watching a lot of TV and perhaps getting past page 3 of Atlas Shurgged while we're gone. Just don't watch a second of "Who's Now" on SportsCenter...I'm trying to help you, I swear.

Whit, Rob - As an extremely wise piece of absorbent fabric once said, "Don't forget to bring a towel..."

Ms. Dukes, your time to live has been set to 69 Days

After admitting to marijuana use under oath Monday during divorce proceedings, Elijah Dukes has been ordered by a judge to take random drugs tests.

Dukes' wife testified that he smokes marijuana daily and "drinks to the point of passing out." According to the Tampa Tribune, she also opined that "his aggressive behavior is caused by steroid use," but said that she's never seen him use or admit to using steroids.

I think I speak for most of G:TB when I say this is going to end badly for her.

As a follow-up, I think a trade for Elijah Dukes is impossible to pass up now, Jimmy boy. In the spirit of atonement and second chances, I think you - nay, the taxpayers of this city - owe it to Elijah to bring him in with open arms. Maestro, queue the Journey if you please....

Franken-Berry just got sent down...

I think I promised this post to Rob a year ago, but with the sports world being a dead zone for the last few days, I finally got around to it (with some-- all the-- help from Whitney). After sifting through this, you all might agree I (Whit) should've kept it on the shelf for another year...

It's that time of year again. The dust has settled on another Major League Baseball All-Star Game, meaning the appropriate media outlets can swiftly turn their focus onto the next such endeavor. And year after year, that endeavor is this fan favorite. Get ready for . . .

G:TB's 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster

Lineup:

The Cookie Crook, Cookie Crisp, CF - Your light-hitting, speedy lead-off batter if there ever was one. The speed of Vince Coleman, but unfortunately the same degree of character as well. Much like we saw when Tyson lost Cus D'Amato, The Crook suffered greatly after the demise of Cookie Jarvis, but he's still a force to be reckoned with in centerfield. . . and anywhere near a bowl of cookies that somehow, beyond all comprehension, masquerades itself as cereal.

L.C. "Lucky" Leprechaun, Lucky Charms, RF - Not as legendary as the MLB version of "The Mick," Lucky's nonetheless a Cereal League force with the lumber and the amber, roaming right field and pub floors of Dorchester with equal frequency. (And it's rarely milk in that bowl.) He loves to play up the Irish thing with the fans, though insiders know his last name is actually Kowalczyk. From the Charms' 2007 Media Guide: "Turn-ons include green clovers and the hit-and run; turn-offs include the designated hitter and 'those f%#@ing brats who're always after me lucky charms'." Fast fact: Lucky's been ejected from three All-Star Games in his career.

Sugar Bear (a.k.a. Super Bear), Super Sugar Crisp (a.k.a. Golden Crisp), LF - The beefy slugger has long been accused of illegal supplements, and his oft-uttered motto "Can't get enough of that Super Sugar Crisp" may speak to his addiction to the stuff. Palling around with Starsky & Hutch's guy Huggy Bear and Fletch's buddy Gummy Bear doesn't help his image any. The power this All-Star brings to the table does impress, of course, but the Rock Raines-like name changes only serve to confuse and cast Sugar Bear in a shadier light. True Fact: "Sugar Bear has been voiced by Gerry Matthews since 1963." True Fact 2: "Last winter Gary Matthews Jr. was accused of ordering/using Human Growth Hormone." Coincidence?

Tony the Tiger, Frosted Flakes, 1B - The big-bat, fading glove Tony is a first-ballot Hall of Famer, make no mistake. Though his bellowing voice and rah-rah "gr-r-r-reat" attitude has earned him something of a reputation as a clubhouse blowhard over the years, he's still beloved by his legion of fans. He's a DH-in-training, but for now Tony's the cornerstone of the franchise and even the league. His club the Frosted Flakes (or as they're known in the UK, the Frosties) has fallen into mid-major status, but he'll be remembered long after they bury that red bandanna behind Kellogg's HQ.

Dig'em, Kellogg's Smacks (formerly Sugar Smacks, Honey Smacks, etc.), SS - What a great little guy. The heart and soul of any team he plays on, including the All-Star team. The Smacks' franchise (another, like the Anaheim/Los Angeles, California Angels of Anaheim/Los Angeles, California, whose owners have felt the need to repeatedly change names with the times), was in turmoil for a very long time at this position. It's not unlike the New York Yankees of the 80's and 90's, who suffered through Opening Day shortstops Roy Smalley, Tim Foli, Bobby Meacham, Wayne Tolleson, Rafael Santana, Alvaro Espinoza, Randy Velarde, Spike Owen (Big Stein was so jealous of the '86 Series, he nabbed both batless shortstops), Mike Gallego, and Tony Fernandez to finally get to Derek Jeter. The Smacks club waded through the following dreck as mascots before Dig 'Em came on the scene in 1972: various clowns, including Cliffy the Clown; a seal named Smaxey dressed in a sailor suit; Quick Draw McGraw; The Smackin' Bandit, a half-mule, half-kangaroo who kissed everyone in sight; The Smackin' Brothers, two boys dressed in boxing shorts and boxing gloves; an American Indian Chief on a horse. Dig 'Em put them on the map with his power stroke, slick fielding, base-stealing, and enormous sneakers. He's the coolest of the mascots -- perhaps the anti-Tony -- and we dig 'im.

Cap'n Crunch, 3B - Ah, the old Cap'n. Came on the scene in 1963 and is still ranked the fans' #1 favorite. Horatio Magellan Crunch, Jr. (real name) has enjoyed a Ripken-like streak of consistency, not to be undone by his advanced age, that Crunchberry Beast sidetrack, or by kids scraping the roofs of their mouths with his unsogged cereal. If his bat has slowed, we can't tell. His is a storied career with many ups (World Series of Cereal rings, promoted to Admiral briefly) and a few downs (disappeared in 1985 & 1999; Crunch franchise held "Where's the Cap'n?" promo but actually couldn't find him -- he was in a closet on his ship). The Cap'n has a dedicated fan base, almost creepily so. But he's a cornerstone of this roster, to be sure. (Am I the only idiot who didn't realize the cereal is little treasure chests? I never got that.)

Toucan Sam, Fruit Loops, C - Sam's another All-Star stalwart, and he'll be manning the dish for the Cerealites this year in the Midbreakfast Classic. He can wing it, so baserunners will certainly be taking heed as they have all season. Meanwhile, his solid if unspectacular bat complements his veteran approach to the game, the "follow your nose" method. (Sam was also reputed to be in the Cocoa Puff crowd for such a slogan, but it was later dismissed as rumor.) Did You Know?: Toucan Sam originally had a much larger beak and a Carmen Miranda-esque fruit-hat. His subsequent beak-job and ditching of the hat were presumably to be so he could don the catcher's mask.

BuzzBee, Honey Nut Cheerios, 2B - A little younger than some of his peers on this All-Star roster, but he's become a star in his own right. Many "Cheerios Classic" fans were reluctant to adopt the little slap hitter and glove man, but Buzz somehow managed to bridge the gap between the sugared franchises with their animated mascots and the health cereals with beaming parents and grinning adolescents. Is he fun to party with? Hell, no. Does he belong on this team? You bet.


Pitchers:

Sonny, Cocoa Puffs, SP - It's easy to sit back and marvel about what a career Sonny might've had if it weren't for his troubles with sugary substance abuse, but just as with Steve Howe, all that powder derailed a promising future. Such a fireballer being drafted by the "Coca Puffs" was the kiss of death, but Sonny has persevered tirelessly, as evidenced by his All-Star selection. Beloved by the fans, everyone wants to give him that 50th "second chance." Here's hoping he can hold it together and not go cuckoo this time.

Trix Rabbit, Trix, SP - The classic junk cereal pitcher in the style of Gaylord Perry, Eddie Harris, and Boo-Berry. Much like Cocoa Puff Sonny, Joaquin Andujar, and the Quik Bunny, the silly rabbit has had trouble keeping his composure on the field over the years, but his deceptive style leaves many swinging at air. Another in a long line of rabid animals who steal sugared cereals from children, the Trix rabbit franchised himself with arguably the catchiest of catch phrases, one quipped by dorky execs and pirated by Deadheads.

Count Chocula, RP - Every ballclub has one these days, the reliever from a foreign land with a wicked slider and a few cultural quirks. They just don't happen to have one as effective as the Count. He also has the heart-touching story: he passed up an opportunity back home for a solid career of achieving supernatural powers by sinking his fangs into the jugulars of his fellow citizens, consuming their blood, and turning them into similarly undead and horrific creatures, giving it all up to play baseball in the Cereal Leagues. He still gets teased for his accent and lumped in with those stiffs Boo-Berry and Yummy Mummy, but he presses on, having turned into a more-than-reliable closer. He still gets mocked by his peers back home for "going the breakfast route" when he's supposed to shy away from sunrises. And he still gets threatened by the religious right for his habit of pointing at the ground and thanking Satan every time he strikes out a batter, but he's just happy to be doing what he loves night in and night out. And playing baseball.

Bench:

Snap, Crackle, & Pop, Rice Krispies, IF/OF - These jacks of all trades, masters of none, weren't voted in, they were selected by the manager. The fans have never truly responded to this trio, but their peers seem to have even less respect. "The Hanson Brothers they ain't," quipped one All-Star who asked to remain anonymous. Another added, "Snap has no arm and Pop has no power -- they should be called the Misnomers." A third chimed in: "And Crackle . . . I mean, who the hell is Crackle, anyway?" They remind a few onlookers of the 2007 New York Yankees bench, and the word "light" seems to go hand in hand with any mention of them. But . . . the manager wanted them on the club. Crackle just left rehab (again), so they'll be reunited again at General Mills Park for the All-Star Game. Get fired up.Manager:

Wendell, Cinnamon Toast Crunch - The skipper of Cereal Cup champs CTC, Wendell's kindly old man exterior belies an irascible curmudgeon in the clubhouse. A few ground rules when interviewing Wendell: 1.) Don't ask him about his penchant for the quick hook. 2.) Don't say anything even hinting at Cinnamon Toast Crunch being an "expansion franchise." 3.) And by God, do not ask him about including Snap, Crackle & Pop on this roster. There's a reason the other bakers don't speak in the commercials. Wendell's an old school manager on a new school club. You saw how well that worked in Tampa with Lou, right?

So there you have your 2007 Cereal Mascot All-Star Roster. Enjoy the festivities, all the hoop-la, and be content in the knowledge that world today is a better place than it was 20 or 30 years ago, if only for the fact that the rash of thievish, insane animals, badly-dressed, freakish creatures, and/or B-grade horror movie clichés burglarizing our kitchens and stealing our children's breakfasts seems to have passed. Pleasant dreams, and a very happy tomorrow morning.

Badgers, We Don't Need No Stinking Badgers

Gheorghe: The Blog heartily endorses the British military's strategy for quelling unrest in Basra, as cleverly denied in this BBC report. Money quote (to steal from Andrew Sullivan):

"We can categorically state that we have not released man-eating badgers into the area. We have been told these are indigenous nocturnal carnivores that don't attack humans unless cornered." -- a very coy Major Mike Shearer

Wink and a nod, MAJ Shearer, wink and a nod.

Jealous Again

Back sometime in the Pleistocene I played goalkeeper for a formidable intramural soccer squad at my alma mater. In the all-comers semifinal match, we fought another strong squad to a scoreless tie through regulation and two overtimes. Skip Morris' (yeah, that Skip Morris) successful conversion in the fifth round of the shootout gave us a one-goal advantage and brought our opponents' best player to the penalty spot facing a must-make kick.

I bounced up and down in the goalmouth, trying for all the world to make my 5'5" frame look bigger, then crouched low as the opposing player began his run to the ball. As he hit it, I sprung to my left (because, in sports as in politics, I have a hard time going right) and extended my left arm to its admittedly underwhelming limit. My searching fingertips found the ball an instant before it dented the netting, deflecting it beyond the goalpost and harmlessly over the touch line, our victory assured.

I leapt from the ground and faced my onrushing teammates and fraternity brothers, both fists clenched in victorious defiance. As they lifted me off the ground in celebration, I experienced the moment for one of the few times in my athletic career. The moment, that singular point in time where an athlete finds himself or herself elevated by dint of an exceptional performance coupled with exquisite timing. For the sublimely talented, it's where circumstance, training, and physical fortune meet to celebrate the athlete's gifts for all of us to see.

Carlton Fisk had one in Game 6 of the 1975 ALCS. Mike Eruzione got one midway through the 3rd period of the penultimate game of the 1980 Winter Olympic Hockey tournament. Brandi Chastain celebrated hers by taking off her shirt.

The moment needs theater, it needs import and grandeur. As spectacular as it was, Curtis Granderson's hyper-athletic leaping catch of Wily Mo Pena's drive on Sunday wasn't a moment because it was a midseason game with several innings to go.

Adam Vinatieri's kick to beat the Rams in Super Bowl XXXVI qualifies, as does the kick he made to beat the Raiders to get the Pats into the game.

My moment brought momentary joy to maybe three dozen hungover fratguys, and even though it still makes me smile to think about that save, it's a private memory. The moment makes everyone in the arena stand agape, stunned at their good fortune, amazed by the event. It provides fodder for the entire sporting world in perpetuity. Jack Buck couldn't believe what he just saw during Kirk Gibson's moment against Dennis Eckersley in the 1988 World Series, and every one of you know immediately what I'm talking about.

We all have a wealth of individual memories that tell the story of our journeys, and to each of us, those memories mean the world. But very, very few of us get to view those memories through the prism of the sporting world's acclaim. So this week I'm spending my allotment of deadly sin on those unique athletes that have their moment on the big stage, whose individual triumphs in the moment become the stuff of cultural legend. I want one shot at that electric rush that surely consumes you the instant you realize you just changed the world, when everything goes graveyard silent and the air leaves the building - only to rush back in a billion flashes of color and the deafening locomotive roar of the crowd.

So, yeah, I'm jealous of Aaron Boone. May his meniscus be infected by fire ants.

Jump in the comments below and tell G:TB about the moments we missed.

And the bets go on...

Yep, many folks say this three day stretch surrounding the MLB All-Star Game is the most boring sports time of the year, and it's hard to argue with them. In fact, the only thing that seems to occur this time of year is repeated bashing of baseball's mid-summer classic, for a myriad of reasons (pick one appy and one entree please):
*Every team has to have one rep (Hi Dmitri!)
*The All Star managers play favorites (you think?)
*Bud's infamous tie in Milwaukee (and no, I don't mean the condom one I let him borrow)
*Interleague play has removed all the novelty of AL vs. NL
*And, of course, the asinine fact the winner now gets home field advantage in the World Series.

But, guess what, those complaints aside, I still love the damn thing. The MLB All-Star Game is the only pro sports all-star game that remotely resembles the product on the field the rest of the season. Admittedly, I am a huge baseball fan who can honestly sit through an entire Orioles/Devil Rays game for a full nine innings, so I understand my love of this game is not shared by many out there. Still, come 8:30pm tonight, I'll be tuned in to watch the game that brought me pre-Baseball Tonight Kruk vs. Big Unit, Torii Hunter robbing Satan's child Barry Bonds, the "he can't really be letting this thing be a tie" tie (it was so ridiculous it gets to be in the good and bad columns) and most memorably Bo Jackson's obscene athleticism in the leadoff spot. But I guess if you're really that bored and hate the game that much, you can always turn to the Arena Football playoff game on espn2.

*****
OK, sentimentality aside, this post was originally meant to simply serve as a quick look at three ongoing G:TB bets, given this All-Star break breather. They are:

A-Rod vs. the Nats
New York's favorite villain rides into the All-Star break with 30 homers. He leads the majors. He's having a tremendous season. Yet a large chunk of Yankee fans and the entire NY press corps hate him. Simmer down folks. Anyway, we were very close to this race being tied, but a Nats surge (for them, 2 wins in a row is most certainly a surge) means the Nats now have 36 wins and lead A-Rod by 6. I assure you this will be a close race all year long.

The Nats losing 100 games (and me winning two cases of beer)
Ah yes, I was sure I was in the driver's seat when the Natty's dropped three of four to the Cubs over the Fourth holiday, but then, amazingly, they come back to take two of three from the Brew Crew (behind Simontacchi and Tim Redding of all pitchers). Impossible to figure these guys out. Right now, I believe they are on pace for 92 or so losses, but I have hope the July 31st trade deadline will once again set the Nats on the 100 loss path. Buh bye Da Meat Hook, Ronnie Belliard and The Chief, at the minimum. Of course, this means I am putting faith in Jim Bowden to properly trade his valuable commodities, and I think we all know how I feel about that asshat doing anything right.

Wake vs. Rocket
You know what, Rob created a nice spreadsheet for this, so for now, let's just say this race is neck and neck until I crunch the numbers. I'll be back this afternoon. Or not.

Whitneypedia: Live Earth

A couple of weeks ago, we premiered the first entry in Whitneypedia, as well as something of an explanation behind this recurring segment. While fearing we may brand this feature as extraordinarily narrow in scope, we nonetheless present the second edition of Whitneypedia . . . and it sounds pretty close to the first one.

But it's timely, pertinent, and environmentally friendly. How often in the last few years has Gheorghe: The Blog been able to boast such a post?

Tonight and tomorrow brings us the first, and in all likelihood the last, series of international rock concerts they're calling "Live Earth." After a flurry of "Aid"-driven monikers in the 80's (Band Aid, Live Aid, Farm Aid -- none of which benefited AIDS victims), the collective creative minds behind the rock-for-charity shows have inexplicably switched over to the "Live" labels. Undoubtedly you recall my words of wisdom about Live 8. Welcome to Live Earth. ("Earth Aid" would have been far more appropriate, but so very 1980's.)

Live Earth comes to you not from Bob Geldof (and how dare you assume so, squawks Sir Bob from his Ethiopian grass hut), but from Al Gore and . . . a bunch of the same people who do all of these things. The thought behind Live Earth is to raise awareness about global environmental issues via a series of rock concerts. You know, rock concerts which will take musicians, their crews, and their gear to far-off locales (most traveling on gas-guzzling airplanes) to rock out for the cause (at a bazillion volts of electricity). I can speak in my condescending tone about this matter, both because (a) yes, it's my normal manner of speaking, and (b) I took a college course called, coincidentally, Global Environmental Issues. (Scored an A, by the way, which . . . well, if you were one of my 10 or 12 classmates, you're rarer than the handful of sportswriters who witnessed Douglas knock out Tyson just a few years prior.)

So what's Live Earth's game plan? Well, they're back to the eight concerts around the globe, just like Live 8. I still think Philly vs. Wembley was/is the classic way of jam-packing the very best shows thinkable, but let's face it: six extra stadiums full of ticket-buyers sure help revenues for the cause.

And when I say eight, of course, I mean 10. Technically, there is an extra pair of shows, one at a Buddhist temple in Japan and one at a research station in Antarctica, to round out all seven continents. The Antarctic show consists of one band, Nunatak: "a five-person indie rock band, part of a science team investigating climate change and evolutionary biology on the Antarctic Peninsula." Probably geekier than They Might Be Giants, not as geeky as Devo, and if they sound anything close to either, gotta be worth a listen, right?

Who's playing? Well, let me cull out the worthless crap acts in my inimitable rock snob fashion and give you the straight scoop. In chronological order from the start of the concert, it goes a little something like this:

Sydney, Australia (9:10 PM tonight)
Crowded House
Jack Johnson
Wolfmother
(Peter Garrett's a presenter; it'd be nice if he and his mates were playing, and you never know)

Tokyo, Japan (11:00 PM tonight)
Linkin Park
(domo aregato, but no domo aregato, Tokyo)

Shanghai, China (7:00 AM tomorrow)
nothing, not a damn thing you really want to hear... or at least that you've heard of

Hamburg, Germany (8:00 AM tomorrow)
Chris Cornell
Snoop Dogg
Cat Stevens
(no chance of a group medley finale)

London, England (8:30 AM tomorrow)
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Madonna
Beastie Boys
Bloc Party
Duran Duran
Snow Patrol
Keane
Metallica
David Gray
Foo Fighters
Genesis
Spinal Tap
(and some felchy former boy-banders and dreck, but make no mistake, this here's the marquee batch)

Johannesburg, South Africa (12:00 PM tomorrow)
UB40
Joss Stone (all right, but I wanted to take the pressure off my boys in UB40 a tad)

East Rutherford, New Jersey (2:30 PM tomorrow)
(Yeah, Philly got dumped like yesterday's pizza steaks; North Jersey wins again)
The Police
Dave Matthews Band
Bon Jovi
Fall Out Boy
Smashing Pumpkins
Melissa Etheridge
Kanye West
John Mayer
KT Tunstall
Roger Waters

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (3:00 PM tomorrow)
Lenny Kravitz
Macy Gray
Pharrell Williams (only gets a nod here because he's from VA Beach)

How can you hear the music? If you have either XM or Sirius Satellite Radio, they are dedicating a series of channels to playing the broadcast. Not sure about that dinosaur called FM Radio, but chances are they'll be too busy playing the latest Gwen Stefani song over and over to bother.

How can you see the shows? While looks can be deceiving, it looks as though there will be a marked increase in availability and (we hope) production from the Live 8 pants-wetting on MTV. In increasing order of total airtime:

(All times are on Saturday 7/7 and GMT -4; for that bastion of G:TB readers outside The States, you're on you're own)
NBC: 8-11 PM
CNBC: 7 PM - 1 AM
MSNBC: supposedly airing some, but unlisted currently
The Bravo Channel: 9 AM - 2 AM Sun
Sundance Channel: 4 AM - 2 AM Sun
Universal HD: 4 AM - 2 AM Sun

Seems like a ton of coverage; in a perfect world, there'd be multiple feeds for these multiple networks and a choice of what to watch, but the reality is that I'll probably get stuck watching "The 12 Girls Band" emanate their lovely riffs from Shanghai while the Chilis are torching Wembley. Still . . . so much better than handing MTV the reins.

Any highlights or momentous events? Well, the bread-and-butter of these rock phenomena have, of course, been the long-awaited, crowd-pleasing reunions of old bandmates. Live Aid had Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, CSNY, and, to a lesser degree, The Who. (Re-formations for The Who happen just slightly less often than colonoscopies for these guys.) Farm Aid saw a regrouped Steppenwolf. (What? That counts.) And Live 8 was really only noteworthy for the actually-momentous Pink Floyd hatchet-burying.

So who's letting bygones be bygones for Live Earth? Hmm. Though there is always the chance of a game-day surprise, it appears that The Police are the best qualifier, though since they've been touring together all summer, it doesn't have that one-off, glorious "I saw it when it happened" kind of feel to it. That said, if you're like me and haven't had the chance to plunk down several hundred bucks to go see these cats take us back 25 years, then this is a big draw.

Undercard re-formings include Smashing Pumpkins (I can hear Rob groan now), and Genesis. A rousing rendition of "Zero" or anything in the Abacab era will surely suck me in, but the "in the moment" appeal of either of these performances isn't there. And with the one and only "punk rock warlord" having passed on nearly five years ago, the greatest reunion I could ever hope for can't happen (though I will go see "The Future Is Unwritten" with anyone anytime if it ever hits screens in this country), so this is what we're left with for Live Earth.

So what's the real purpose of Live Earth? A good question. Billing itself as "The Concerts for a Climate in Crisis," its self-stated goal is "to raise awareness about global warming." As we know, the former Veep achieved great strides in this realm with his An Inconvenient Truth. I guess there are some who feel the audience of that documentary was mostly Baby Boomers who only voted Republican so they could keep their C-Class Benz and might be ripe for a guilt complex, so now it's time to hit the teenagers, college nothings, and music junkies -- most of whom already are keenly aware of the planet's woes, and most of whom can't do much about it.

Because let's face it, a world where the citizens are flushing less and recycling more, turning off light bulbs and turning onto discussions about conservation is a worthy vision, but until the world's governments alter their focus and the largest businesses -- especially the energy corporations and vehicle manufacturers -- start being compensated to make massive changes, not much of that will matter. And that's where Live Earth may make its dent, by recruiting sponsorships from and drawing attention to the big guys trying to go green. And the more international attention it engenders, the more effective it may be. Maybe someday, these massive efforts might even convince our Vice President that global warming actually exists. (Don't you feel like he's one more scotch away from barking, "And another thing -- the Holocaust? Soooo not convinced.") Otherwise, Live Earth will simply be what Bob Geldof labeled it: "an enormous pop concert or the umpteenth time that, say, Madonna or Coldplay get up on stage."

So, do your part by watching the show . . . on your big-screen, power-sucking TV. I don't know, reconcile it if you can and just enjoy the music. If you can.

* * * *
Whitneypedia Aside: Among the array of benefit concerts over the years, both the ones I delved into in my initial entry and the ones I didn't (Concert for Bangladesh, Farm Aid, etc), there is one piece of trivia I think is worth dredging up. In 1979, a handful of concerts were played in London to raise funds for Cambodian refugees after Pol Pot did his thing. (Speaking of Mr. Pot, for one of the most amusing mid-song chants in rock history, dust off the Dead Kennedys' "Holiday in Cambodia." But I digress.) Anyway, Queen, Elvis Costello, The Pretenders, The Who (recently re-formed), and especially The Clash rocked out at the Hammersmith Odeon for several nights for the cause -- which they called the Concerts for the People of Kampuchea. But most curious was the pair of strange bedfellows who organized the affair . . . Paul McCartney and Kurt Waldheim. Yep, the moptop and the Nazi. The Fab Four and the National Socialist Party. Sounds like an 80's screwball comedy in the making, right? Hilarity ensues.

In truth, the rumors (which came damn near fact) about Waldheim's tenure as a Nazi officer and blind eye to genocide didn't come to light until five or six years later, when he ran for President of Austria. (And got elected! Gotta feel for the Austrians -- they were willing to do anything to take the world's attention off Falco.) At the time, Waldheim was the U.N.'s Secretary-General, and perhaps in a reparations-style change of heart, he helped Paul put on the shows. I just can't help thinking that behind closed doors, he was one scotch away from jeering, "Khmer Rouge?? Please. They'd be a remote outstation of the Third Reich. Now those were atrocities."

So, there's a little nugget for you, something "trivial" in every sense of the word.

Enjoy Live Earth, you're welcome for the info, and see you next time at Whitneypedia, your one-stop shopping for inane drivel about charitable rock & roll (apparently).

On a day this long and miserable...

...I thought I'd cheer us all up with this piece of cinematic magic:

Better pinch hitter: Gheorghe or Lenny Harris?

Gheorghe was asked back by the Extrapolator crew to contribute to this week's Voodoo Sabermetrics post. Gheorghe happily accepted.

This week's victim: 23-year-old Philadelphia Phillies lefty Colbert Michael "Cole" Hamels. Unfortunately, Delmon Young was unavailable to help me this week, so I had to go it alone. My sections - Atomic Number and Exposure. What that really means I don't know. I do know I am completely unqualified for this, but that's never stopped me before. And away we go...

Atomic Number (or Chemistry, if you prefer)
Hmmm, let's go with Polonium, Atomic Number 84. Yeah, that seems like a good choice (by the way, I just looked at a Periodic Table for the first time in 12 years...truly exciting stuff). Polonium is apparently hot enough scientists have pondered using it to heat spacecrafts. It's powerful (and deadly enough) Russian dissidents have been silenced by it (Alexander Litvinenko). Sounds like Cole Hamels to me. Charlie Manuel is praying Hamels is hot enough and powerful enough to support a rotation in shambles (just look at the starters in the Phils/Mets series this weekend). Hamels is one of the best young pitchers in baseball. He's currently 2nd in the NL in Ks (116), 3rd in Wins (9...first to 9 wins actually) and CGs (2) and 9th in IP (111.2). In April, he struck out 15 Reds in a complete game five-hitter. He had a perfect game through seven in May against the Brewers, and ended up striking out 11. Yes, the kid's smoking...
...and yes, it does need to be addressed, the female population seems to find him smoking hot. On that front, it seems young Mr. Hamels is so hot the ladies at "The Ladies..." can't even decide who gets to bed him first. I believe Clare has first dibs on Cole, but it's hard to tell (I have a strange feeling Clare might expound on this today).

Exposure
Not an issue for this kid at all. Apparently, since Hamels was called up, he has had numerous fan clubs in the stands, going by various names, including "The Cole Patrol", "The Cole Mine" and "The Cole Train" (hell, it's Philly, these could be the same clowns each game and they just can't decide on a consistent name). Even more importantly, Cole Hamels has joined Chuck Norris and Tim Tebow (and I'm sure many more) as objects of over-the-top internet affections via the "fun fact" website. I'll leave you with just a few of my favorite Cole Hamels Facts:
**When Cole Hamels is on the mound digging in his glove, he is really just text messaging Tony Danza.
**Cole Hamels knocked down the Berlin Wall. With a change-up.
**Cole Hamels once saddled Jesus Christ with the dreaded "Golden Sombrero." He came within one strike of doing the same to God.
**Cole Hamels isn't left-handed, he's bored.

Happy Canada Day

"The power of the force has stopped you, you hosers."