I promise not to use this space to bitch about my stupid little life. Also see my running journal on politics and national affairs, 'the blogtrarian'

Thursday, November 25

RIP monkey house

Well, it had a good run. But I haven't updated in over two months and I don't plan to update in the future. Instead of trying to keep two active blogs, one on politics and one on everything else, I've decided to write one coherent blog, called Cacodoxy (link: http://cacodoxy.blogspot.com/), which is an archaic word basically meaning heterodoxy.

It will contain all my absolutely fascinating and completely original musings on mostly politics and current affairs, but also art, music, literature, sports, religion, whatever. So thanks for reading this blog, and I encourage you to read that one. It won't just be politics, so there should be something for everyone.

Friday, September 3

Happy blogiversary

A year ago today I started this blog, and all of your lives have no doubt been enriched immensely. As far as causes for celebration, this is more or less the only one I've got coming up now, so I figured why not make note of it.

I've enjoyed doing this (and working on my politics blog, too). Hopefully someone out yonder has enjoyed reading it.

Wednesday, September 1

Ichiro watch

With 31 games left in the season, Ichiro has 212 hits in 572 at bats, good for a .371 average. He is on pace for 264 hits and 713 at bats, both records. He is hitting .463 since the All Star break. To finish with a batting average of .400 with that many at bats, he needs to hit .518 over 141 at bats. Not likely to happen, but with Ichiro, I wouldn't count him out. If he hadn't hit .255 in April (thanks to hitting coach Paul Molitor meddling with his approach), he would be a serious contender for crossing the .400 barrier. Since May 1, he's hitting .396 in 470 at bats - practically a full season for many hitters. Add in another 130 at bats and a month at .410, and he'd be there. Oh well, what might have been . . .

Monday, August 30

Asexual postmodern piddley crapola!

Zippy the pinhead visits Baltimore and interacts with our new hideous schlockorama sculpture:

I'm glad somebody likes the damn thing.

Sunday, August 29

In the jingle jangle morning

There's not a song in the world I love more right now than "Mr. Tambourine Man." There's not anything in the world that speaks to me like Dylan's performance. When I hear it, a haunting euphoria rushes over me.

Every now and again a song just fits into a time and place in your life, taking hold and burrowing so deep into your consciousness, its lyrics and its melody cannot be shaken out of you. They fuse with your spinal column and practically write themselves into your DNA (Dylan of all people understands: of a collection of 13th century Italian poems, he writes, "And every one of them words rang true / And glowed like burnin' coal / Pourin' off of every page / Like it was written in my soul from me to you, / Tangled up in blue."). When Dylan sings "Mr. Tambourine Man," so full of remorse and hope, everything good and bad in life becomes not just evident, but animate - realer and more present than I could experience them otherwise. Like a drug that enhances reality instead of obscuring it, his aching lyrics, clarion, over the most beautiful arching melody, convey the hopelessness of the past set against the hopefulness of the future, and place us smack dab in the middle, just trying to "forget about today until tomorrow."

Oh hell, there's no possible way I can do the song justice. Here it is. Listen, and maybe you can reassure me that it isn't just me, or maybe you can reassure me that it is.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin'.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind,
I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're
Seein' that he's chasing.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Sunday, August 22

Yidishe Kultur

Great and heart-warming feature in today's Sun paper about 100-year old Itche Goldberg, who to this day edits and finances a Yiddish language literary journal he helped found in 1937.

Check it out for a brief and highly recommended read.

Photo slideshows

Seth's birthday bash
My California vacation

A previous post about my blackmailing abilities, you'll note, has been removed at the request of the blackmailed. But the intrepid explorer will still find the photo somewhere on the net. And of course, I'll be keeping copies for when I really need them, mwa ha ha ha!!!

Ichiro, part deux

Usually, when the media takes note of a ballplayer on pace to break an old record, they do so at the peak of his success. Shortly after, his performance comes back down to earth and he falls off track. Since I first blogged about Ichiro, which was about the time the media started talking about George Sisler's hits record of 257 in a season, he has gotten even hotter.

Ichiro is batting .700 in the last week, going 14 for 20 with two homers, a double and a triple. He hit three and four times in consecutive games, then got beemed in the head against the Royals and was taken out. He came back and got three and four hits in his next two games. Had he not hit .255 in the first month of the season, Ichiro would be hovering around .400 right now. Hell, he's only 30 points away, and while he can't hit .700 forever, he could get there.

As of today, Ichiro is now on pace for 264 hits in 708 at bats--both would be records. Watch this space for more on Ichiro's historic performance.

Saturday, August 21

Soup for you

Jason informed me that the Soup Nazi is going national.

Monday, August 16

Bob Dylan

Having just bought my fifth Dylan album yesterday (Bringing It All Back Home), I'd like to point out that he is an incomparable genius in American music. Ok, I'm pretty ignorant of the catalogs of Ray Charles, Frank Sinatra, James Brown, etc., but I'd take Dylan against any of those guys blind. Rolling Stone seems to think that aside from their beloved Beatles, Dylan is without peer. Great as the Beatles are, Dylan has their number. Who had a greater influence on whom? When he recorded Pet Sounds, Brian Wilson was trying to outdo the Beatles. When the Beatles recorded Revolver, they were trying to outdo Dylan.

Bob Dylan is the greatest lyricist I have ever heard. His range is spectacular. Dylan can be morose and ironic, flippant and audacious, sweet and acrid, sincere and absurd. He can be these things at the same time. Dylan's lyrics are full of human wisdom, full of experience and wonder and beauty. He is the sublime and the ridiculous, he is old and young at the same time, he is quintessentially American and a citizen of the great cosmopolis. Much maligned, his singing voice does justice to his poetics; as a guitarist he is simply phenomenal. Dylan as a musician plays fast and loose; imagine any other white man playing a number so authentic and gritty as his Outlaw Blues. Alongside Miles Davis, Bob Dylan is a giant of modern music. In terms of artistic output, I've yet to find any other musicians on their level. Five-plus landmark albums is hard to achieve.

Go out and buy: The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, and Blood on the Tracks. Run out and get: Birth of the Cool, Cookin' with the Miles Davis Quintet, Kind of Blue, Sketches of Spain, Miles Smiles, In a Silent Way, and Bitches Brew.

I'm a freak of nature

Here's something you might not know about me: on any given day, my weight fluctuates more than Oprah's did in all the 90s. For example, I weighed 129 pounds on Saturday night at 8:00 pm. On Sunday at noon, I was down to 120.5. Now you're probably thinking what my parents thought when I told them about my overnight weight loss: "you must not know how to use the scale." And I say the same thing to you as I said to them: "I graduated from college, I think I understand how to use a scale, you fuckwits. I hope you burn in the depths of hell." LOL, sike!!!!!!!!

All kidding aside, I am a genetic anomoly. Instead of slowing down like I had hoped, my metabolism appears to be speeding up. Now, loss of apetite caused me to lose about 8-10 pounds over the last five weeks, but I'm eating a ton these days and waking up each day as slight as ever. I think this week I'm going to try eating five sticks of butter a day. By next Friday I'll probably be a 105 pound corpse, dead from a pulmonary embolism. At my funeral a few days later they'll be able to bury me in a shoebox. I can't weight.

(LIke my pun? LOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!)

Sunday, August 15

Blackmail, bitches

Ahem . . . nothing to see here.

Halftime

USA basketball trails Puerto Rico 47-27 at halftime. Barring a complete reversal of fortune, they're going to lose in the first round of Olympic play. They have zero half-court offense, zero shooting ability, zero passing ability. Their defense is porous. Here are the adjustments they should make to win the game:

Play Dwyane Wade at point guard, Iverson at shooting guard, Odom at the wing, Tim Duncan at power forward, and Emeka Okafor at center. Duncan is the best player in Olympic competition - he shouldn't be playing out of position. PR has no size anyway. Shawn Marion has been abysmal, and so has Stephon Marbury - keep them off the court at all costs, and go with a more skilled, energetic line-up. Wade is a passing guard who attacks the basket - just what the US needs to contend with Carlos Arroyo, who has been brilliant.

Even if USA basketball somehow manages to win this game, there are obvious structural disadvantages putting this country at a competitive disadvantage in international play, since a country of 280 million can't field a better team than a territory of that country with 95% fewer people. If you took the team names off the jerseys, you would think the team in white was the world basketball powerhouse. The American players don't know how to shoot and they don't know how to run a motion-like offense. Watch Marion "square-up" to the basket - it's pathetic. He has never been taught how to shoot a basketball.

Ok, enough armchair coaching. I'm gonna watch this team go down in flames.

Saturday, August 14

Ichiro

As of this writing, the leadoff hitter for the dismal Seattle Mariners is on pace to finish the season with 256 hits. The Major League single season hits record is held by George Sisler, who collected 257 hits in 1920. Since 1930, only one player has surpassed 240 hits in a season: Ichiro, with 242 in 2001 (Darin Erstad hit exactly 240 in 2000, and Wade Boggs did the same in 1985). Even if he doesn't break the single season record, Ichiro is likely to finish with the largest hit total in 75 years - a pretty historic feat.

However, Ichiro has only 28 extra base hits among his 182 total. He does not accumulate many walks. He is simply a tremendous slap hitter with the fastest legs in the game (who also happens to be the best right fielder, too). The question arises: how valuable is Ichiro? How good is he?

In the age of Moneyball, we are told to value guys who get on base and hit a lot of home runs. Ichiro gets on base 40% of the time - good enough for seventh in the AL, but for the major league leader in batting average, seventh is seen as a disappointment. Critics say Ichiro should take more pitches and walk more. But Ichiro likes to hit; try telling baseball players that the point of their game is not to hit the ball, but instead to not make outs.

The statistic most associated with the new values in baseball is OPS: On base plus Slugging. While useful as a crude measure of player value, OPS is deeply flawed for two related reasons. First, the statisticians agree that on base percentage is more important relative to slugging percentage. Second, slugging percentage, due to the way it is calculated, is always higher than on base percentage, so the latter is weighted negatively in the OPS cocktail.

Why is on base percentage so important? Because it represents the ratio between the number of times a player comes to the plate and the number of times he makes an out. Forty percent of the time, Ichiro Suzuki does not make an out. Since outs are the only scarce resourse in baseball, conserving them is tantamount to winning (so goes the theory of baseball espoused by Bill James, Billy Beane and the like). If you never make an out, you score an infinite number of runs.

However, all non-outs are not the same. They fit into two categories: walks and hits, and not all hits are the same, either. The more bases one reaches as a result of their hit, the better. This truism is quantified in slugging percentage, which is the quotient of total bases divided by at bats. While having a disappointing OBP, Ichiro's slugging percentage is a downright mediocre .438 (good for 51st in the league out of 77 everyday players), because he almost exclusively hits singles. His OPS totals .838, which leaves him tied for 30th in the American League, out of the 79 players who qualify.

Since OPS is considered the best statistical estimate of a hitter's value, is it safe to say that Ichiro, in a year where he leads the league in batting average, hits, and stolen bases, is at best in the top 38% of hitters in his own league? Clearly such a conclusion represents a failure to capture the worth of a baseball player in numbers alone. Numbers often contradict other numbers, and Ichiro's potential hit total of 250+ refutes any system that ranks him 30th out of 79 players. As he has said time and again, Ichiro is "very rare." In fact, Ichiro is so rare he shatters any scale previously devised to calculate a ballplayer's worth. In an inhuman age that attempts to quantify everything, this is perhaps Ichiro's greatest accomplishment. He leaps out from the box scores and announces his humanity, his inability to be expressed in numbers alone.

As a means to getting on base, a hit is generally better than a walk. A walk requires a pitcher to consume four pitches; the more pitches he throws to each hitter, the fewer hitters he can face, the more quickly he will tire, and the less effective he will be. However, a hit represents motion. On contact, the hitter can reach extra bases, something not possible from a walk. Additionally, a runner can score from second base on a hit - even a single - while a walk has no potential for his advancement. Perhaps, with enough number crunching, we can determine how much more valuable any given hit is compared to any given walk, and thus can compare the value of batting average to on base percentage to slugging percentage, letting us devise a more accurate metric for player worth. No matter - such a statistical feat would represent the kind of post-hoc rationalization that serves to reinforce what we already know: that Ichiro is one of the game's greatest hitters.