The Red Sox are to Star Wars...

A moderately entertaining analogy.

Bunny Throws Down

The gauntlet that is. He stands by his great and unblemished love for Steve Perry.

Of Muppetry and Capes

Red has another muppet post up, this time asking for your favorite Sesame Street muppet. I have to give the nod to The Count. He had much style.

Several weeks ago, while out and about, I spotted a young man wearing a cape - and he was going about it all wrong. (No, I do not own, nor have I ever owned a cape. But I have opinions about capes. Oh Yes.) This gentleman's cape hung limply from his neck, resembling a badly dyed bedsheet. It barely moved, save to drag along the floor and sweep up dust and trash.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! My friends, if you choose to sport a cape you must represent! I expect dramatic gestures using the cape as emphasis - now wrapping yourself in it's sable outer skin, now roguishly displaying the garish liner. You must flourish the cape, twirl it. You must love the cape, nay be the cape. That is the only way to carry off wearing such a bold fashion statement.

Look to The Count. Let him be your guide in all things cape and counting.

Rainy Day Randandom

Red wants to know who is your favorite muppet?

Beth takes a close look at challenged and banned books.

Will Wheaton brings to you another tale of poker adventure, this time in a Vegas cardroom.

Heather is looking for movie suggestions.

UPDATE:
The Sports Guy finally gets some type down about the Red Sox.

Beantown Zoo

It's worked so far:

I see Johnny Damon five minutes before the game — he's naked," Francona said. "Four minutes later, he's on second.

"You kind of live and learn and turn your head."

Small Minds Think Alike

Evidently we're in the middle of Banned Books Week; below is a list of the 100 most challenged books (1990-2000). As the Llama Butchers note, there's no ideology at work here - just rank stupidity. So play along with Robbo, Red, Heather and myself - bold the titles you've read (to the consternation of small minds everywhere) and add amusing comments. It's fun!

Scary Stories (Series) by Alvin Schwartz
Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Harry Potter (Series) by J.K. Rowling
Forever by Judy Blume I never read this, but I remember girls in my 5th grade class passing a dog-eared copy around.
Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
Alice (Series) by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
My Brother Sam is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier Because everyone hates the Revolutionary War? Inexplicable.
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger Hated, hated, haited it.
The Giver by Lois Lowry
It’s Perfectly Normal by Robie Harris
Goosebumps (Series) by R.L. Stine
A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
Sex by Madonna
Earth’s Children (Series) by Jean M. Auel 'Clan of the Cave Bear' passed through my hands at some point.
The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle No greater sin, apparently, than to make children think.
Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
Fallen Angels by Walter Dean Myers
In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
The Stupids (Series) by Harry Allard
The Witches by Roald Dahl
The New Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein
Anastasia Krupnik (Series) by Lois Lowry I know I read this; i just don't why.
The Goats by Brock Cole
Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane
Blubber by Judy Blume
Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois DuncanHalloween
ABC by Eve Merriam
We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier
Final Exit by Derek Humphry
The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead
GeorgeThe Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madaras
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Beloved by Toni Morrison
The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
The Pigman by Paul Zindel
Bumps in the Night by Harry Allard
Deenie by Judy Blume
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Annie on my Mind by Nancy Garden
The Boy Who Lost His Face by Louis Sachar
Cross Your Fingers, Spit in Your Hat by Alvin Schwartz
A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein A huge hit in 4th grade. Undoubtedly responsible for the subsequent warping of my fragile little mind.
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Sleeping Beauty Trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure (Anne Rice)
Asking About Sex and Growing Up by Joanna Cole
Cujo by Stephen King
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
The Anarchist Cookbook by William Powell
Boys and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
Ordinary People by Judith Guest
American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Boys: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Sons by Lynda Madaras
Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
Crazy Lady by Jane Conly
Athletic Shorts by Chris Crutcher
Fade by Robert Cormier
Guess What? by Mem Fox
The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende
The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline Cooney
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Native Son by Richard Wright
Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women’s Fantasies by Nancy Friday
Curses, Hexes and Spells by Daniel Cohen
Jack by A.M. Homes
Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo A. Anaya
Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle
Carrie by Stephen King
Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume
On My Honor by Marion
Dane BauerArizona
Kid by Ron Koertge
Family Secrets by Norma Klein
Mommy Laid An Egg by Babette Cole
The Dead Zone by Stephen King
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
Always Running by Luis Rodriguez
Private Parts by Howard Stern
Where’s Waldo? by Martin Hanford Huh?
Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene
Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman
Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
Running Loose by Chris Crutcher
Sex Education by Jenny Davis
The Drowning of Stephen Jones by Bette Greene
Girls and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
View from the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts
The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Keatley Snyder
The Terrorist by Caroline Cooney
Jump Ship to Freedom by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier

The Bunny Returns.

God only knows what he's been up to. And me. I know, or at least I can make a pretty (beer) solid (baseball) guess (beer). But he's back, with another list.

Whisper To A Scream

Well now. After Friday night's disappointment, the weekend series with the Yankees turned into a mirror image of last weekend's fiasco in the Bronx, with the Red Sox taking a lead pipe to the Yanks on Saturday and Sunday. Thanks to my lovely, charming and way-cool cousin, I took in Saturday's game from the bleachers.

Last night the Red Sox clinched a wildcard berth for the post-season. October baseball - and are there two more beautiful words in the English language? - will be played in New England.

Johnny Damon: This could be a special year. We felt like last year's team was the best around and we feel like this team is better. Hopefully, we can bring a championship to Boston.

Manny Ramirez: We haven't accomplished nothing yet. We're going to take it to another level now. . . . I think this is the year.

Keith Foulke: The camaraderie is what pulled us through a lot of adversity, and it's going to take us to the promised land.

Curt Schilling: We spent four months being a team of - what was it? - frauds. But I think we all expected at some point to be in this position.

So what does the future hold? The usual menu for the post-season Red Sox - rising expectations serve with crushing heartbreak? Or something else?

This much you should understand: No one wants a piece of these Sox in the playoffs. "People talk about the Red Sox having to face [Johan] Santana twice in the playoffs?" one scout said with a snort, referring to a possible first-round matchup between the Sox and Minnesota. "How about the Twins having to face Schilling twice? Good luck to them."

Who can tell? Portents abound: there is a prophet patrolling center field and a midget gamboling in the clubhouse. These are strange times for Red Sox Nation. Perhaps the End Times.

Nothing To See Here

Last night after the Red Sox went down in defeat, I called The Bunny on my way to the car.

"Well that sucked," I said without any preamble and we launched into a venting conversation that was probably necessary for the continued mental well-being of both of us. The details of our talk are unimportant; I have no doubt that thousands of such conversations took place last night and this morning, all across Red Sox Nation.

Too many ghosts from Yankees games past today, especially in the wake of Francoma's baffling Rainmanesque decision to 'rest' the bullpen on Thursday, essentially surrendering the game to the Orioles, followed by his hesitance to go to said bullpen with a struggling Pedro Martinez on the mound in the 8th inning last night. Shades of 2003.

In the end a potential Red Sox rally fell into the hands of a slumping (4 for 39) Jason Varitek. His recent struggles at the plate have been painful for both the performer and the audience, and last night was no different. Watching him ground out into the game-ending doubleplay was like coming across your sainted grandmother, sweaty, disheveled and hung over, tossing her cookies into a stained toilet bowl. In either case the best thing for both parties to do is to shut the door, walk away, and pretend the whole evening never happened.

Something Old, Something New

Baseball aside, I don't watch television on a regular basis. This is not a snob thing; I don't go around saying things like no, I don't watch television - I'm too busy reading Shakespeare in Aramaic. I find it adds so much depth to the original plays, don't you think? I eschew television - and cable - because I know what a horrific clicker I am, and how many hours I'd waste clicking through programs of dubious value. So it is that I love the fact that so many programs are now available on DVD, allowing me to revisit old favorites and take in quality shows that I missed during their original airing all according to my own schedule.

Some ten or so years ago David Simon, then a reporter covering the police beat for The Baltimore Sun, wrote a book called Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets. The book stemmed from the year Simon spent in the company of Baltimore City homicide detectives, and is the best piece of non fiction on police work that I've yet to come across. It also became the basis for the excellent TV show Homicide: Life on the Streets.

I think I heard, or read, in passing that NYPD Blue (which premiered the year after Homicide) has entered it's last season. No doubt NYPD Blue will leave many critical accolades in it's wake, but to my mind the shorter-lived Homicide was always the superior show. To be sure Blue was sexier (to which I attribute it's superior ratings), what with the 'controversial' language and use of nudity, but the show's melodrama and endless tragedies befalling characters made it seem more like a soap opera coincidentally set in a police precinct than a show about police.

Homicide was first and foremost about policework. Police work - especially the work homicide detectives do - is not glamorous and Homicide reflected that sensibility. Co-produced by Baltimore native Barry Levinson (of Diner fame) it was shot entirely with handheld cameras, on location in Fells Point (where I used to live which no doubt accounts somewhat for my love of this show). Homicide was definitely not sexy. There was no cussing or ass shots, no car chases, and very little gun play. More typical would be an episode where two detectives spent the show looking through impounded car lots. It was about the work, and how the work affected the people who did it. The cast was first rate without being flashy, Yaphet Kotto and Andre Braugher in particular, and who ever selected the music used in the show had excellent and wide-ranging taste.

The first five seasons are available on DVD and thanks to netflix I'm enjoying re-visiting all of them. Also thanks to netflix, I'm looking forward to the release of the first season of The Wire on DVD. Also set and filmed in Baltimore, The Wire is Simon's creation for HBO and features contributions from two of my favorite writers, George Pelecanos and Dennis Lehane. The third season recently premiered; while I catch up on the first one I hope the next two rapidly follow on DVD.

On the topic of catching up, I just finished viewing the sole season of Joss Whedon's Firefly. Whedon created Buffy, which I've enjoyed, but I absolutely feel in love with Firefly. Billed as science fiction Firefly is more accurately called space opera. What's the difference you ask? While science fiction has more science in the fiction (think Blade Runner or Strange Days), space opera is what you get when take a specific story type and dress it up with 'scientific' trappings like ray guns and ships. Star Wars is space opera - it's a fairy tale set in a mythic future, and you could change the setting without changing the basic story line.

In the case of Firefly what you have is a western in space, and since I love westerns I'm more than ok with that. The show revolves around the nine crewmembers of the firefly class space ship Serenity. The setting is a frontier region of outer space that bears more than a little resemblance to the post Civil War American west. Two of the nine characters are veterans of a civil war in which they fought on the losing side, and like many of their real-life counterparts, they headed to the frontier. And also like certain of their real-life counterparts, such as the James-Younger gang, the crew of the Serenity is not averse to operating on the wrong side of the law. The musical score of Firefly has a western feel, with lots of twangy guitars and fiddles; the cast's dress and diction would not be out of place in John Ford's Monument Valley. The characters themselves are stereotypes that will be familiar to any fans of westerns: the Preacher, the Doctor, The Whore with a Heart of Gold, the Gunman with an Unspoken Code of Honor, the Outlaw With Hidden Sense of Decency.

But so what if they're stereotypes? I once read, or heard, that if you strip away the extraneous details, any story line can be slotted into seven archetypical plots. I imagine you can do the same with characters - strip away the details and plug them into pre-existing archetypes. It's the details that matter; the details that determine whether a story grabs or makes us yawn and say 'been there, done that, read the book.' And it's the details that determine whether a certain character comes to life and becomes real to us, or remains a forgettable and passing image on the screen or page.

Firefly gets all the details right. The characters are all recognizable stereotypes. And they all come to life as individuals on the screen. Firefly was cancelled during the first season. When I watched the final episode on DVD, I was terribly disappointed that there was no more time to be spent in the company of Capt. Reynolds and the crew of the Serenity. I wanted to know more about them, and I wanted to know the answer to the ancient question so what happens next? Luckily for me, and other fans of the show, Whedon is taking Firefly to the big screen. I can hardly wait.

Fenway Musing

I took some pictures at Wednesday night's game. I'm not sure how well they turned out, as my the zoom feature on my digital camera is limited. But I'll post any worth seeing.

Any Red Sox fan knows Fenway's capacity is approximately 35,000 people. Not terribly big as far as ballparks go, but still, it's a sizable number. Which makes the small town feel of the place stranger to me. I say smalltown in the sense of not only is Fenway itself familiar in all it's physical dimensions, but the people as well. I never see a game there without bumping into someone - often several someones - that I know. A trip to Fenway resembles grocery shopping in my hometown - you just know, without even thinking about it, you'll run into somebody.

Musicky Goodness

Now you tell me: what's better than getting cool shite in your mailbox?

Yesterday I received a home-brewed CD chock full o' boss tunes from Chris the Music Maven at pressuredrop. Excellent selections all round but my favorites are the Zevon (Detox Mansion) and the Cornershop (Lessons Learned From Rocky 1 to Rocky 3) tracks.

Thank ya very kindly good sir.

Smack My Bitch Up

As reported by the New York Times and Boston Dirt Dogs, Curt Schilling took some of the local sports 'media' to task over the phone:

"That's my problem," Schilling said. "If I don't call up, you don't apologize for it. You don't retract it. Somebody calls, and you make it a bigger deal than it is. It's a stupid, idiotic comment to make. It's irresponsible. And you don't know. Obviously, you just made it up."

When one host said, "I didn't make anything up," Schilling responded: "Yeah, sure you did. I've hugged Pedro on the field this year after we've won a game."

You can find the full transcript here (that link courtesy of beth) and the way Schilling steamrollers these guys is hilarious. I second beth's notion that this should be a regular feature on WEEI.

The kicker to this bit of silliness? Butch Stearns later calling Schilling out:

"I did not make it up. I know who my sources are, and you know what? So do you. If you want to continue this conversation, I'll be at the park all weekend long."

Bruce at Boston Sports Media Watch sums it all up quite nicely:

Stearns spent the rest of the show spinning, and on his sports broadcast last night had recovered enough to issue a tough guy challenge to Schilling indicating he'd be around the ballpark this weekend if Schilling had a problem with him. Somehow, I think Schilling's mind is going to be on other things. This is just another instance of a media person trying to stir up a controversy and make themselves the star for starting it. This time however, when confronted with the actual person being talked about, the backpedaling would have been hilarious if it didn't reflect so poorly upon the professionalism of the journalist involved.

Of Tommy Guns and the Red Baron

Here's a couple of interesting pieces I've come across recently...

Yesterday James at Hell in a Handbasket posted this link, to a Washington Post article on the Thompson submachinegun. The article discusses not only the Thompson's iconic reputation among firearm aficionados, but it's status as a totem of that very American art form, the gangster movie:

The thing looked great in a movie star's hands, particularly if he had a pug-beautiful New York toughie's face, a Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth leaking a filigree of smoke, dead calm eyes and a fedora a-tilt on his carefully oiled hair. The movies had discovered the power of the cool Bad Man, and then the bad-but-finally-good guy who finds redemption in the last reel. The tommy was one of the stations of the cross on the way to this spiritual deliverance.

From Cronaca, home to many links of historical interest (including the piece on the Little Big Horn I referenced yesterday) comes this fascinating look at the death of the Red Baron. Credit for downing the German ace has long been accorded to Australian anti-aircraft gunners, but a new study by neuroscientists indicates that lingering psychological after effects from a head wound incurred almost a year before his death may have played a strong role in von Richthofen's demise.

Dig Little Bighorn

Here's an article concerning an archeological dig at the Little Bighorn Battlefield, where Custer's Last Stand took place. It may be of interest to... well, me I guess.

Searching through my oldest memories I'd have to say that while my general fascination with the West and Westerns began with early (we're talking five or so years old here) viewings of Rin Tin Tin, my fascination with Custer's Last Stand started with repeated (read: endless) readings of Indians of the Plains by Eugene Rachlis, from the American Heritage Junior Library. Rachlis' book featured an entire chapter on the battle with vivid images (including the one above) that were riveting to the five or six year old me.

I have no idea if the American Heritage Junior Library or it's companion series Horizon-Caravel Books are still in print. If not, it's a damn shame. These books sparked and fueled my interest in a number of historical topics when I was a kid; the ones I didn't own I borrowed from the library. Looking over the titles it's clear to me where many of the doors and rooms in my mansion originated - from such childhood favorites as Air War Against Hitler's Germany and Carrier War in the Pacific (led to numerous books about famous aces, especially Robert Johnson's Thunderbolt); The Battle of the Bugle (from this book stems a lifelong interest in military history and thus thousands of turned pages); Battle of Waterloo (hello Richard Sharpe); and Nelson and the Age of Fighting Sail (hey there Horblower, Aubrey and Maturin). I'd like to think these books continue to inspire other kinds today.

Name That Tune

After I got home last night, I decided to wind down the evening by watching the extended version of The Two Towers. I didn't watch the whole thing though; it's too long and I found myself skipping over the Sam and Frodo bits to get to the plot thread concerned with the other remnants of the Fellowship.

While laying on the couch and watchign the DVD, I realized how much I enjoyed the film's score, particularly the recurring air (theme? I don't know the correct musical term) with the lone violin or fiddle, that I guess was intended to be the music for Rohan and the Rohirrim. For some reason it put me in mind of the Ashokan Farewell (if I've remembered that title correctly) bits that Ken Burns used so well in his Civil War documentary.

I'll have to go looking for the soundtrack soon. I only hope that portion of the score isn't dubbed something silly like 'Theoden's Theme' or 'Eomer Rides.'

UPDATE:
After some internet scouring, I learned that the title of that piece of music is 'The Riders of Rohan' and the instrument used is the hardanger, a Norwegian fiddle. Lovely, and haunting.

When I'm Rushing On My Run

I screamed out loud when Foulke blew the save last night.

Actually that's not quite correct. It would be more accurate of me to say that I yelled, bellowed, a certain short Anglo-Saxon word that begins with one of the earlier letters of the alphabet. This outburst was accompanied by a loud thump! as my hand struck the bar, and followed a motion that began with a slide/stagger off of my bar stool and lurched into several paced circles of hand waving and muttering. Sonny the Den Mother stuck her head around the large upright beam that separates most of the bar from the isolated section in back (ideally located near a TV) where I was sitting, and I asked if 'everything was allright.'

"No," I said as I resumed my seat, "but I'll take that beer now."

Moments earlier I was ready to settle my tab, ready to head home uplifted by a Red Sox win. Now... well now I was seething. Boston desperately needed this win and I was dreading the answer to the question 'which Red Sox team will take the field in the bottom of the ninth; the April/August version... or that version?' Would they completely waste the Big Fellah's boss eight-inning performance? Pitcher's duels are all well and good, I thought, until your team suddenly is the side one run short.

Fresh High Life in hand, I braced myself for the Red Sox half of the ninth. Youkilis started it with a walk, (and was replaced by Speed Racer Roberts), then Mueller doubled. Suddenly it was runners at second and third, no outs, and I was on my feet again. The rollercoaster was at the top of the hill... and dropped dropped dropped as McCarty fouled out and Damon struck out - looking. Now it felt like July again.

Oh me of little faith. Four pitches later Bellhorn drove one to deep center and it was celebration time for 3-2 Boston win.

The post-game show rolled and I basked in the sudden good feeling. Turning to Kermit's lovely girlfriend who was seated next to me I said 'this is the part of the night where we dance' and made body wiggling arm flailing motions intended to be suggestive of actual dancing.

"Dance? To what? The music from the Hyundai commercial?"
"Sure, why not? Just feel the music. Feel your inner music and let it go."

Sometimes watching baseball feels so great I think it ought to be illegal. After all, it's that feeling that convinces me to go all in with this team every year - to massive disappointment thus far. But the rush is so seductive (And I feel just like Jesus' son) that every year I think why not? Why not this year?

Maybe, just maybe, this is the year where we dance.

Glitches

I like haloscan, it's very handy bit o' work for bloggers. But every now and then something funky happens and the little comment bar ceases to update and reflect the current number of comments.

That's annoying. I don't get very many to begin with - I like to bloody well see the ones I do receive!

Dejected Notes From A Ballgame

Last night I went to Fenway and saw a wretched facsimile of a ball game. It wasn't all terrible, but I might as well dispense with the bad first.

I was late. I hate being late for ballgames. But it wasn't to be helped because despite racing out of work I was stymied by the T. If I am in no particular hurry I will inevitably catch an express train to my station; if I am in a hurry I invariably wind up on the world's slowest train, graced with nearly stationary views from the Red Line tracks. The journey from Quincy Center to Kenmore cost me just about three full innings.

After arriving at the park and wading through long lines for the obligatory hotdogs and beer we headed to our seats. I passed a television showing no score in the bottom of the fourth and Wakefield was striking out the first O's batter as I turned up the ramp to the right field grandstands. So I sat down and was enjoying my Fenway Franks and Harp when Wake walked in a run. Things went downhill from there; the grandslam surrendered to Surhoff, the botched run down... all the way through Foulke adding to the mayhem. Bad pitching? Check. Bad defense? Check.

It's terrible to watch Wakefield struggle. Unlike Lowe, whose naked weakness on the mound fills me with contempt, I feel pity for Wake. He always tries, never simply packs it in out there like The Face, and never offers up lame excuses. As I've written before, I want him to do well; if any member of the team deserves success it's him. Some newspapers mentioned the crowd booing Wake. There were scattered boos, but I heard many more cries of 'Take Him Out!' and 'Get 'im Otta There!' I felt like the crowd was not mad at Wakefield but at Tito, but for leaving him in too long. Take him out. Have mercy.

But Fenway is still Fenway, the living beating heart of Red Sox Nation. Even when the Red Sox stink up the joint, I can't help but be happy there. Thousands of dead trees (or ones and zeros for the internet crowd) have been expended writing on the charms of Fenway. Suffice it to say that words fall short and you must experience it yourself to fully comprehend. For my part, while I don't ordinarily like crowds, I love the maelstrom of people at Fenway: the way the air seems so thick with jagged Boston accents that you might cut yourself on a stray verb; the way the array of Red Sox gear folks wear seems to become more colorful and riotous every year; the easy camaraderie with the strangers you find yourself sitting near. I laughed out loud at the young woman who jumped up on her seat and did an impromptu bump-and-grind during Sweet Caroline while her friend spanked her, much to the delight of the rows behind them. And I was touched by the scene that unfolded next to me on the T ride home: an older man, wearing a Red Sox hat so old that that the blue had faded to a near white, quietly going over his scorecard from the game with his son, whose colors were bright and new. Fenway people watching has something for everyone.

I'm going again on Wednesday. Those seats will be much better so hopefully I'll return with some pictures worth posting.

The Rise of Alternate History

Philip Roth has a new book forthcoming, The Plot Against America, which imagines the course of history had Charles Lindbergh become President in 1940. Naturally, as with any new Roth book, The Plot Against America is garnering plenty of attention; Roth himself has an essay on his new title in the New York Times (both NYT links require registration). I was struck by a single sentence in Roth's essay:

I had no literary models for reimagining the historical past.

This is true only so far as one is blinkered by snobbery. Alternate history, as a genre has been around for decades. Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castle (for my money the best alternate history novel ever written) was published in 1962, becoming the first of many novels depicting a different course WWII might have taken. Robert Harris had a best-seller in 1992 with Fatherland, another reimagining of WWII; that same year Harry Turtledove's The Guns of the South was published. Guns of the South deals with the Civil War, another popular topic for alternate history writers. Turtledove has gone on to arguably become the Stephen King of alternate history, pushing out title after title in the genre. If you scan the stacks of any Barnes & Noble or Borders you'll come across a plethora of alternate history themed titles; plug in the search box 'alternate history' at Amazon.com and thousands up thousands of results pop up.

So there are plenty of examples - models - of different ways in which different authors have reimagined the historical past. My guess at the reasoning behind Roth's statement above is simply that Roth, and other members of the literary establishment, either don't consider such books literature and therefore worthy of consideration as models, or are simply unaware of the vast body of work out there because they'd never read genre fiction in the first place. The Man in the High Castle won the Hugo Award, and Fatherland was shortlisted for the Whitbread First Novel Prize, but many would consider them less than respectable, since both works can be easily shoved into the genre pigeonholes of 'science fiction' and 'thriller' and safely ignored by writers and critics who pride themselves on only dealing with what they deem as literature.

The pending publication of The Plot.. has drawn some attention to fiction of alternate history. Laura Miller has a brief essay in The New York Times several weeks ago, which managed to acknowledge the longevity of the genre and condescend to it...

History is a discipline wedded to cold fact but constantly accused of dallying with opinion. Counterfactual scenarios hint at the amount of guesswork in many books of conventional history. To some, they are at best parlor games, and at worst shameless indulgences in fiction that undermine the whole profession.

Fiction writers apparently have no shame, since in novels and short stories alternative history has been a booming popular form for many decades now.

She then goes on to note the following:

Usually it is considered a subset of science fiction, but this fall the celebrated novelist Philip Roth joins the ranks of alternative historians with The Plot Against America, the pseudo-autobiographical account of what happens to the Roth family of Newark when Charles Lindbergh defeats Roosevelt in the 1940 presidential election and establishes friendly diplomatic relations with Nazi Germany.

She seems to insinuate that the genre of alternate history, usually a mere subset of science fiction, is made critically acceptable when a celebrated novelist works within it's conventions. To me this begs at least two questions: if an acknowledged literary giant such as Roth can gentrify the ghetto address of a certain genre by writing a novel in that genre, why shouldn't the work of an author who writes primarily in a genre such as science fiction, crime fiction and the like, be worthy of the appellation of literature? Why should genre be considered at all when deciding what is and is not literature?

Creep Show

One or two of my baker's dozen of readers may be wondering about my reaction to the ballgames played in New York this past weekend.

So. Yes. Um... well the equipment listed below certainly came in handy. Using the tackle I was able to rope myself to the couch in case I was overcome by a sudden urge to fling myself through the window; the bottle of whiskey and sharp knife served as admirable props, giving dramatic emphasis to my various gestures at the screen, while the sofa cushion fort muffled the steady stream of colorful words coming from mouth.

We're better now. Much better.

Naturally certain members of the Boston media delighted in hauling out their negative column templates, much neglected in recent weeks. This from one Eric Wilbur:

If we learned anything about the Red Sox this weekend, it may, I'm sorry to say, be that they're going nowhere come the AL playoffs. Are they built for October? Yes. Can they get by the Twins or A's in a five-game series? Probably. Can they get by the Yankees? Probably not. The Red Sox are obviously, in nearly every aspect the better team, but the Yankees will beat them every time.

But guarded optimism, and dare I say it, reason, still prevails here.Yes, the Red Sox took a right kicking from the Yankees and dropped two in a row. But the season series between these two stands at 9-6 in Boston's favor. In the likely event Boston is swept at home this weekend the record will even up at nine apiece - hardly an indicator that either team has 'owned' the other this year let alone a reason for making predictions of post-season doom. But then, what else are Boston sportswriters for, by and large, save to do their level best to make rooting for the Red Sox a miserable experience.

Anyone reading this who is not from Red Sox nation, please take note. Red Sox fans are an optimistic bunch. It's the goddam press who are miserable. And when they're not perpetuating the myth of whiny Sox fans who secretly enjoy losing, well they're condescending to those same fans. Here's another gem from Wilbur:

In all likelihood, the Red Sox could take two out of three at Fenway next weekend, and Red Sox fans will be back to their rallying cry ways.

It's downright pathetic that some fans moan in anticipation of the next Bucky Dent or Aaron Boone, but watching the way the Yankees play when the Red Sox are in town, you know sooner or later we're going to know his name.

How snide. How smug. Just look at those dumb Sox fans, actually rooting for their team. How gauche. They should listen to their betters in the press box.

Sheesh. Why doesn't he just New York and work there? Murray Chass has to retire some day.

And yes, taking the division is an extreme long shot, what with the Red Sox 4.5 back with a little over a dozen to play. But the division has been a long shot since the August days of looking at the Yankees from ten-plus back; Boston's remarkable hot streak simply allowed us to forget how far behind they had fallen and the difficulty of the feat they were attempting. A difficulty created not the press box bogeymen of the Yankees, but by Boston's three months of sub-par play against sub-par teams. The Orioles (in town tonight) have taken 4 of 5 at Fenway. Make that two of five and leave the record against the Yankees the same, including this weekend's ugliness, and the division race looks a little different, doesn't it?

I'm heading to the game tonight. Fully aware that the division is a loooong shot, but ready to share anyway. Because it's fun.

And we're still sitting pretty in the wild card race.

Razor's Edge

A kamerad inquired about my preparations for the coming Red Sox @ Yankees series:

So as you batten down the hatches for this weekend's Rendezvous With Destiny I, what are you stocking up on?

I'd go with:

1) Carton of cigarettes
2) 1.5L of whiskey
3) Down pillow
4) Revolver (no smaller than .38 caliber)
5) Two clean T-shirts
6) Two baseball hats
7) One sweatshirt
8) Lightweight boots
9) Beef jerky
10) Soft-core pornographic magazine

My response:

That's a fine and sensible list. The only things missing are road flares, tackle, and a very sharp knife.

And the final communique:

Somehow the flares seem more perilous than the revolver, but that's just me.

The knife is absolute. Yes.

Tis a grand thing to have friends who understand a) your Red Sox obsession and b) your fragile state of mind when they face off against the Yanks.

Still, I must step gingerly. Stay alert. And above all, be prepared for any and all turns of events.

I could very well wind up watching this series from within a sofa cushion 'fort' in my living room.

Fenway Revels

After attending exactly one game in person all year, I now find myself in the enviable position of preparing to attend three games over the next week: Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. If I snap any worthwhile pics, I'll post 'em.

Field Trip

Yesterday Heather and I, along with our respective Certain Someones, spent an afternoon and evening at the Museum of Science in Boston.

First we took in The Lord of the Rings Motion Picture Trilogy - The Exhibit. If you're just a casual fan of the movies, well, you can probably take a pass on this. But if you're like me and you loved the movies there's plenty to enjoy. All of the major character's costumes and props. A frighteningly life-like dead Boromir in a boat. (Yes, I know 'frighteningly life-life dead Boromir' is an oxymoron. But what a detailed fake cadaver - right down to scratches on his knuckles). Detailed and interactive exhibits on the creating CGI battle scenes (Helm's Deep anyone?) and bringing the likes of Gollum and Treebeard to life. My favorite part was the long row of costumes against one wall: Moria orcs, Uruk-hai, Gondor soldiers from the Second and Third Ages, Ithilien Ranger, Haradrim. A fantastic amount of detail - up close you could see little touches and flourishes that most likely the creators knew wouldn't show up on screen but included anyway, as part of their painstaking efforts to bring Middle Earth to life.

After a brief interlude at a nearby bar, we headed to the Skyline Room on the sixth floor of the museum for A Taste of New Zealand, courtesy of The Kiwi Grille. This event was a cooking demonstration/wine-tasting/dinner and damn did we eat well (you can follow the Taste of New Zealand link for a detailed menu with recipes). The 'Taste' opened with a buffet of New Zealand cheeses and 'Kiwi Martinis,' which were much tastier than you'd think. Then we sat for the main meal. I managed to score a second helping of the Tuna Tartare (Yay for me!) which was duly shared with the rest of the crew. The main course, a rack of New Zealand Lamb with an eggplant and goat cheese roulade, was heavenly. Tentative plans for a trip to Newburyport and visit to the Kiwi Grille were made and I'd be hard pressed not to order the lamb again.

I should add that the view from the Skyline Room is, as you might imagine, is stunning. There was a rainbow stretching over Beacon Hill, and we could look directly down the Charles River to Fenway, where the white squares of the lights were on for the game. The rainbow faded away as the sun went down, but with the dark the lights at Fenway and of the city came into sharper focus, along with the Hood blimp circling overhead.

All in all, a lovely evening, and as fine a birthday present as I've ever had the pleasure of receiving.

UPDATE: Heather weighs in with a much more detailed account.

Lost in Emotion

Over the past 24 hours the Red Sox have inflicted on me a flurry of discordant feelings including...
anticipation: Pedro pitches tonight. I can't wait for the game start
anxiety: Man, Petey don't look so hot tonight. What the hell happened to his control?
bemusement: Dude, where's my offense?
disbelief: Who the fuck is Kazmir? Why do rookie pitchers own the Red Sox?
resignation: This must be what it feels like to go mad.
elation: Troooot!
rage: Millar you idiot!
horror: Please God make Mueller's knee be ok.
disgust: I thought we shed this lackadaisical attitude towards playing and winning back in July? No. More. Fucking. Hat. Tipping.
trepidation: Wake pitches tonight. I have a bad feeling about this.
hope: They can still take the next three.

One of These Days...

...I'll get around to finishing the chronicles of The Baseball Jesus. When I last wrote of this epic journey, the Bunny and I were headed for Chicago - which is where things became well and truly weird. So one day soon you will all be regaled with the tale of Rio the Viking bartender and learn why the phrase 'Wake up fish!' reduces the Bunny and I to fits of laughter.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, tomorrow,
We'll start the day tomorrow,
with a smile
for
you
(one, two).

Looking forward to a little of this and a little o' that.

A Reasonable Amount of Trouble

Checking the calendar, I see the Brattle Theatre will be running a series of films under the moniker Film Noir 101, starting October 4th with The Maltese Falcon. Other titles being screened include Double Indemnity, Out of the Past, The Killers, and Murder My Sweet.

Going to see a movie at the Brattle is one of life's little pleasures. It's one thing to rent a classic film; it's another thing entirely to see it up on the big screen. So far I've manged to see Casablanca and The Third Man there; I'll definitely try for The Maltese Falcon as well. Now if only the good folks there would put together a Western series. I'd be happy to suggest titles.

Patrick O'Brain and the Rising of 1798

It occurred to me that echoes of the rising of 1798 can be heard in O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin novels; indeed O'Brian purposefully included such in the stories:

Just how the plot of Master and Commander (so far as it has a plot) came to me I cannot now recall, although obviously I wanted to talk about the difficulty of divided loyalties and the distress of some Irishmen after the failure of the 1798 rising...

Maturin himself is a former member of the United Irishmen, as is James Dillon (Aubrey's First Lieutenant in Master amd Commander) and an illegitimate cousin of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, one of the leaders of the United Irishmen. Stephen abhors revolutionary violence (neither he nor Dillon participated directly in the bloody events of 1798), no less because his first love perished as a result of the Rising.

An Irish Top Ten

A gentleman (who I've never heard of) by the name o' Frank Delaney put together a list of top ten Irish novels for The Guardian. I've read exactly two of them - The Country Girls and The Year of the French.

Thomas Flanagan's The Year of the French is an excellent historical novel centered around the events of the 1798 Rising in Ireland instigated by the United Irishmen. The title is derived from the small (approx 1000 men) French force under General Humbert that landed in Killala Bay on August 23rd - after the rebellion had largely been suppressed. Despite initial successes, Humbert was forced to surrender his command to Lord Cornwallis (of American Revolution fame); while the French were treated as prisoners-of-war the native rebels were dealt with harshly. The ultimate result of the Rising was the Act of Union, abolishing the Irish parliament and bringing Ireland into the United Kingdom.

It's been long years since I last picked up this book. The one thing that stands out most vividly in my recollections is the contrast among the Irish rebels - poor peasants and farmers ('croppies') with fading cultural memories of the old Gaelic order, inspired by prophecies foretelling the victory of the Gael over the Stranger, led by aristocrats and gentlemen inspired by the Republican ideals of the American and French revolutions. Reading The Year of the French left me with a strong impression of an uneasy alliance between these two very different worlds, an alliance that resulted of thousands of dead. Anyone who enjoys Patrick O'Brian's work will enjoy Flanagan's novel. Both authors are very skilled at immersing the reader in the late 18th/early 19th centuries.

Fun fact: The French General Humbert was later exiled by Napoleon, emigrated to the United States, and fought under Andrew Jackson's command at the Battle of New Orleans.

The topic of the 1798 Rising inspired Seamus Heaney to write Requiem for the Croppies.

Just Because

It's foolish, and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitative as a professional sports team. And the amused superiority and icy scorn the non-fan directs at the sports nut, I know this look -- I know it by heart -- is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation it seems to me, is the business of caring. Caring deeply and passionately, really caring, is a capacity or an emotion that's almost gone out of our lives.

In case you didn't know it, Roger Angell is the greatest baseball writer I've ever come across. He writes, by and large, for The New Yorker; many of his columns have been collected and published in paperback though some (Season Ticket, Late Innings) sadly appear to be out of print.

This quote (along with the above) is from Angell's piece Agincourt and After on the 1975 World Series ( which you can find in Five Seasons). It never fails to give me goosebumps.

I suddenly remembered all my old absent and distant Sox-afflicted friends (and all the other Red Sox fans, all over New England), and I thought of them -- in Brookline, Mass., and Broolin, Maine; in Beverly Farms and Mashpee and Presque Isle and North Conway and Damriscotta; in Pomfret, Connecticut, and Pomfret, Vermont, in Waland and Providence and Revere and Nashua, and in both the Concords and all five Manchesters; and in Ramond, New Hampshire (where Carlton Fisk lives) and Bellows Falls, Vermont (where Carlton Fisk was born), and I saw all of them dancing and shouting and kissing and leaping about like the fans at Fenway -- jumping up and down in their bedrooms and kitchens and living rooms, and in bars and trailers, and even in some boats here and there, I supposed, and on the back-country roads (a lone driver getting the news over the radio and blowing his horn over and over, and finally pulling up and getting out and leaping up and down on the cold macadam, yelling into the night) and all of them, for once at least, utterly joyful and believing in that joy -- alight with it.

Got My Mojo Working

Right then. Rather than putting up a third wrathful post I am going to assume - for the moment - that last night's ugliness in Seattle was an aberration, a mere bump in the road. I will stay confident that the Big Fellah will restore order to Safeco field.

But damn! it was ugly. First game this year that I've turned away from. After Kapler hit into the double-play both Mike the Cook (another die hard fan) and I exited the local.

Cinematic Mutilation

Since I'm apparently tooting the Horn of Anger today, I might as well throw this one out there:

Lucas Revisits His 'Star Wars' Empire For Box Set

The good news keeps rolling in; apparently Hayden Christensen's slack-faced visage and unvarying montone will be retrofitted into Return of the Jedi Further horrors are revealed in the article.

I suppose if I really wanted to work myself into a frothing rage I'd:
a) watch six hours of campaign footage, speeches and ads (from both parties)...
...and then...
b)watch the entire box set with Lucas' commentary track on and listen to him explain his artistic mutilations..er, changes.

Could be detrimental to my mental health though.

Sick and Tired of Fear and Loathing...

...or, A Little Bit of Venting On Things Political.

I refrain from discussing politics in this space for much the same reason I generally avoid discussing them in real life: what typically passes for 'discussion' is usually better labeled 'a talking contest.' If I wished to be preached at, why I'd attend church. So the following should neither be construed as an attempt at discussion on my part, nor an invitation for others to try to convince of the soundness of their political views. It is, simply, me blowing off steam.

I dislike election years under the best of circumstances, which this year certainly is not. This year's campaigning season has filled me with such rage and contempt that at times I avoid news of it entirely. Both parties claim to want 'what's best for America' and both parties continue to insult my intelligence on an almost daily basis. Having weathered a storm of charge and counter-charge of the Swift Boat controversy and who did/said what in Vietnam, we now find ourselves entering into a fresh storm of accusations over the recently discovered and possibly forged documents regarding Bush's Guard service.

A nice bit of Sturm und Drang about events 30 years gone to fill the void left by the absence of any substantial debate over what happens next. As in now. As in the future. While fighting a war with a military some would argue is over-stretched, and spending billions in Afghanistan and Iraq, there is no talk of say, putting the economy on a war-footing and perhaps (oh novel idea) spending less in other areas. Instead we have tax cuts and government handouts of various shapes and sizes - in short business as usual in which no one, with the large exception of military personnel and their families, is asked to sacrifice anything to win this undeclared war. From observing our daily routine a visitor from another planet would have to look hard to discern that American soldiers are fighting and dying abroad.

While the two opposing camps attempt to make political hay in various ways over Vietnam, what talk of securing our borders - beyond creating an agency that makes travel a hassle, succeeds admirably in harassing Marine Corp Medal Honor winners, but does little to reassure me. Developing alternative energy sources to rid ourselves once and for all of a dependency on oil? Not a whisper. Our intelligence agencies? Apparently we're creating more bureaucracy to add to a system that I suspect has far too many chiefs and not enough Indians. The economy? Just pretend that deficit isn't looming overhead, especially if you plan on living - and making a living - for the next 30 odd years.

Understand me well: I loathe both candidates. Loathe them... and the poisonous political atmosphere they operate in... and the people who help perpetuate that atmosphere. I am sick unto death of rhetoric about 'Vietnam' and 'character' and scandals and dirty tricks. I am, perhaps, overly simple and politically naive to expect any of the above questions and concerns to be addressed in a concrete manner. It is certainly easier for both parties to engage in sniping over scandals and dirty tricks, and many folks eagerly lap it up, with righteous indignation. Your guy is Hitler! Your man is a traitor! Aargh! A plague on all such idiotic notions.

Me? I just like to know I'm being made as safe as reasonably possible and maybe given a decent opportunity to, you know, work, maybe actually own a house, maybe even be able to have children that are clothed, fed and educated.

I'll stop here. If you've read this far you're probably bored to tears, and frankly this gentleman expressed my sentiments far better than I can:

We have watched the division of the country into two ineffective camps, something that is especially apparent in an electoral season. On the one hand is John Kerry, a humorless Boston scold, in appearance the love child of Abraham Lincoln and Bette Midler, who recites slogans that he understands but does not believe. And on the other is the president, proud of his aversion to making an argument for his own case, in appearance a denizen of the Pleistocene, who recites slogans that he believes but does not understand.

Three years on, that is where we stand: our strategy shiftless, reactive, irrelevantly grandiose; our war aims undefined; our preparations insufficient; our civil defense neglected; our polity divided into support for either a hapless and incompetent administration that in a parliamentary system would have been turned out long ago, or an opposition so used to appeasement of America's rivals, critics, and enemies that they cannot even do a credible job of pretending to be resolute.

Meanwhile I'll continue to wait and hope for a candidate that represents me.

Short Reviews

From the Summer Reading List...

52. The Flame of Islam - Harold Lamb
The second of Lamb's two volumes on the Crusades, The Flame of Islam covers the period form the rise of Saladin to the final fall of the Crusader Kingdoms. My verdict on this one is pretty much indentical to my verdict on the first volume.

53. Kim - Rudyard Kipling
The classic Kipling tale of the orphan beggar boy Kim ('Friend Of All The World') who is plucked from the streets and thrust into the 'Great Game' of espionage in colonial India. Kipling's knack for creating memorable and sympathetic characters, as well his love of India and it's culture(s) shine though out this book. My only complaint is with the tedious foreword, introduction and afterword included with this edition; they all explain, in very earnest tones, that Kipling had incorrect opinions about race and the Raj, before granting us permission to enjoy the man's skill as a storyteller. Highly irritating - I prefer to think on and decide these things for myself, thankyouverymuch.

54. The Peshawar Lancers - S.M. Stirling
An alternate history which presents a world in which a series of meteor strikes destroyed civilization around the Atlantic basin, by causing environmental chaos. The British Empire survives, relocated in India, and faces a very decadent Czarist Russia. You could also classify this as a straight-up adventure story; Stirling openly cites such influences as Kipling, Talbot Mundy, Harold Lamb and Robert E. Howard. If that's your cup of tea you'll find this a very entertaining read.

55. Conquistador - S.M. Stirling
This one is also an alternate history of sorts, featuring a dimensional portal to a parallel world where Alexander the Great lived to a ripe old age, empire endured, and the Americas were never 'discovered' and settled by Europeans.

56. The Screwtape Letters - C.S. Lewis
What a brilliant concept to hang a narrative around - a series of letters from a 'Senior' devil to a 'devil-in-training.' The fact that Lewis came to Christianity later in life, combined with his skill at writing, make these missives into engrossing reading. There's no outright preaching or holier-than-thou bits in it, but there is a lot of though provoking content. Too much to really cover adequately in a short review like this.

57. The Great Game: The Struggle for Empire in Central Asia - Peter Hopkirk
The Great Game is a narrative history of the covert struggles between the Russian and British empires for control and influence in Central Asia, lasting from roughly the end of the 18th century to the Russian Revolution. I found this book quite absorbing from three reason:
(1) The events related are like a Kipling story come to flesh, with exploring officers climbing into previously unvisited Himalayan kingdoms, armies of Cossacks, Khans with a penchant for beheading - this history is anything but dull.
(2) The book also depicted the places and persons Kipling used in creating the characters and setting for Kim; these two books make for an ideal tandem read.
(3)The concept of the Great Game (espionage and covert action in Central Asia) is highly relevant - indeed ongoing- to this day.

58. The Black Arrow - Robert Louis Stevenson
Was this a fun read? Yes. Was it my least favorite Stevenson book to date? Yes. Set during England's War of the Roses, The Black Arrow chronicles a young man's struggle to claim his beloved and his fortune. I'm not quite sure why I found it so disappointing. Perhaps because compared to something like Kidnapped, which is sometimes marketed as a 'children's book' but in reality has a very adult tone (and was initially read by an adult audience), The Black Arrow seems squarely aimed at kids.

59. Hard Rain - Barry Eisler
You'll probably find this one in the mystery section of your local bookstore, but it's more accurately described as a thriller or crime fiction. The main character, John Rain, makes his living as a hitman. Hardly a novel concept in this genre, but Eisler makes the material fresh and interesting. Rain lives in Tokyo and is a practitioner of judo; Eisler has extensive experience of both so the story is grounded in convincing detail. Rain himself also an intriguing fellow, neither a heartless, amoral killer-for-hire nor a romanticize assassin, but something in between.

60. Sleeping With Devil: How Washington Sold Our Soul For Saudi Crude - Robert Baer
A very scary book. Baer does what Michael Moore attempted to do - expose the unhealthy ties between Saudi Arabia and the U.S. government. Except he does it, you know, with facts. He also looks at the very dangerous climate with in the Saudi kingdom. To get an idea of what he talks about in this book, you can take a look at this piece Baer did for The Atlantic Monthly.

61. The Code of the Woosters - P.G. Wodehouse
I've already touched on how much I enjoyed reading this book. Very few authors- only Patrick O'Brian and Hunter Thompson come immediately to mind - have managed to make me laugh aloud. Wodehouse joins those two and I already have another volume of the adventures of Bertie Wooster, empty-headed English gentleman and trusty butler Jeeves, awaiting my attention. Frankly I don't think I've ever come across a finer example of comedic writing.

62. Soul Circus - George Pelecanos
You can consider this another plug for Pelecanos, who I've praised often enough in these pages. Solid crime fiction with a surprise ending. A real surprise, not a plot twist you see a mile away.

63. Fool's Fate - Robin Hobb
The shelves of any bookstore's fantasy/sci-fi section are filled with terrible terrible books. 'Dramatizations' of video games, derivative defeat-the-Dark-Lord-One-Guy epics, second rate space opera - I'm hard pressed to think of any other genre overflowing with such bilge. Along with George R.R. Martin, Robin Hobb is one of the few fantasy authors writing multi-volume epic fantasy that is not as stale day old donuts or as wooden as Keanu Reeves' acting coach. This is the last volume of the Tawny Man trilogy; start with the Farseer Trilogy and work your way forward. You won't be disappointed; unlike Robert Jordan (who I once ranked with Martin and Hobb) these books actually have an ending, a satisfying one.

64. Hard Rain - Barry Eisler
The second title from Eisler featuring John Rain. I liked the first two enough to be waiting for the third in paperback. Considering the number of mystery/crime thrillers I've started but never followed through on that's pretty high praise in my book.

Figgy Dowdy Update

While Yahoo may not rank this site as highly as Google does when it comes to search requests for 'figgy dowd,' it did lead me to this brief bit in The Guardian concerning Patrick O'Brian's connections with his fictional heroes Aubrey and Mathurin.

On Any Grounds

"It means we are ready to play anybody on any grounds at anytime right now. We're that hot. We're just rolling. Any team that stands in front of us is going to have a hard time."

Thus spake Pedro, and the only response I can muster up is...

Great. Googly. Moogly.

Dizzy Dean once said it ain't bragging if you can do it and by those standards Petey definitely ain't just talking smack. This Red Sox team can do it. When this current hot streak began skeptics (and I was one) wondered if this would be another fluke, like April or the brief winning streak before the All-Star break, that would only be followed by another lapse in mediocrity. The Red Sox have proven the doubters wrong, step by step. First by winning, overcoming Toronto, Detroit and Chicago. Then by shifting up another gear and winning against other contending teams. So fell Anaheim and Texas. And last night the Red Sox dropped it into maximum overdrive, not only winning but sweeping Oakland on the road. No more doubts. This team is for real and I smell October baseball.

On Any Grounds. I like the sound of that; it's stirring... Defiant. Sounds like the title of a Steven Seagal flick, back when Seagal could whomp scores of badguys with his aikido stylings and make it look easy. Should the Red Sox go all the way this year the phrase should be the title of the inevitable documentary DVD; it's sooo much more inspiring than the plaintitive Still, We Believe.

And on we go. Tonight the Red Sox are Out For A Kill in Seattle. Dig it.

Addendum
It seems I have this Steven Seagal motif stuck in my head (yes my thought processes are that twisted) so you're going to have to excuse me while I get this out of my system. You may even find it amusing. Or not.

While the tottering Yankees are Under Siege, the Red Sox, presumed dead at 10.5 games back are proving themselves Hard To Kill. Some say the fuse for this revival was lit when a series at Fenway proved that the Yankees are not Above The Law and Tek showed that he was Out For Justice following A-Rod's hesitancy over taking first base. The explosion certainly happened when Theo Epstein made an Executive Decision resulting in a defensive infield that could no longer be considered Half Past Dead. The Red Sox started to win consistently; Detroit was Marked For Death and swept in four while Boston continued on into the Belly of the Beast, going 8 and 1 against the dangerous teams of the west. Now the Red Sox take on Seattle and Tampa, hoping to leave Exit Wounds in their wake, before arriving in the Bronx to show their ancient rivals the Fire Down Below. The race for the AL East may well be decided in late September when the Yankees find themselves On Deadly Ground, facing the Red Sox for the last time this season at Fenway. At this point even the World Series is not Out of Reach and maybe, just maybe this Red Sox team will lead their fans Into the Sun.

Thank you ladies and gentlemen, I'll be here all week. Try the veal.

The Serpent's Wall

I tumbled to this link courtesy of Geoffrey. It's the 'photoblog' of a young woman (Elena) who lives in or near Kiev in the Ukraine, and spends her free time digging as an amateur archaeologist. In particular, she visits a lot of WWII battlefields and comes across a lot of fascinating artifacts. The Serpent's Wall is a fascinating visit if you're any sort of history buff. America certainly has plenty of historic battlefields, but none like these, with unexploded ordnance still a danger and the odd submachine gun laying about.

Oops, almost forgot - Elena is the same person from Kiddofspeed, the Chernobyl photoblog.

Don't Touch That Dial

I'm still here; it's just that long weekends tend to leave me uninspired. Listless even. I'll probably have much more to say tomorrow. But right now, reality seems to be scripting crazier things than I could ever dream up on my own. I am afraid to blog even slightly about this endless skid (losing 2 out 3 to the O's? At home!?) the Yanks are on, lest I somehow interrupt the karmic deluge.

But be assured I am enjoying it. Oh yes indeed. To the hilt.

The Llama Butchers found what they call the most bizarre quiz yet. Quite.


You are a... CATHOLIC!!
Top o' the mornin tae ye!! You're likely a
bog-trotting Paddy or dashing Spanish
Cavalerie, and spend your free time plotting
the demise of the heretic Protestant faith.
Paradoxically, you may find yourself fighting
for a King who last week was oppressing you
whilst the week before was trying to bribe you
whilst the week before was preventing you from
taking political office who the week before
that married a Catholic, and who also happens
to be the head of the Anglican Church who were
were fighting against in the first place.
Huh...? Bejeasus!! Is it any wonder you take a
drink??


What English Civil War Political Faction would I have supported?
brought to you by Quizilla

Personally, I'm hoping for a flood of history-based quizes, the more esoteric the subject the better. Suggestions for would-be designers include:
Which Whig M.P. was I during Peel's last administration?
What American Civil War regimental colors was I?
Which Freemason (1650-1825 only) was I?
What 19th century tariff was I?

Feel free to add your own suggestions.

Red Sox at Wrigley in 2005

Looks like the Red Sox will be visiting Chicago next year:

The Sox also are scheduled to make their first regular-season visits to St. Louis and Chicago's Wrigley Field as part of interleague play.

The Sox are scheduled to meet the Cardinals June 6-8, then go to Wrigley June 10-12 to play the Cubs in the first regular-season meeting of two of baseball's most storied franchises.

I think it goes without saying that, barring unforeseen circumstances, I will be in Chicago for this historic weekend.

It should also go without saying that I would be willing to do whatever it takes to get my monkey hands on a ticket to one of these games, up to and including performing the recently unveiled Dance of a Thousand Floating Butterflies naked in public.

Allright, maybe not naked.

Unless they're really good seats. Then all bets are off.