You know those lame e-mails that miscreants send around about your favorite politicians? Those screeds filled with "facts" -- most of which are easily debunked -- that clog your inbox during election season? Of course you do. You probably got more than your share of them about Obama or McCain or Palin last fall. I even wrote about the phenomenon, and did a little research that indicated that Obama was the target of about six times as many false attacks as McCain in the accountability-free world of e-mail land.
I recently got another one of those screeds from one of my most reliable right-wing trolls, purporting to compare the "gaffes" of Obama's first 120 days with the record of one George W. Bush. You might have received this e-mail too. It's been posted repeatedly on right-wing websites and in online discussion forums the past week or two.
Well, apparently the editors of the Las Vegas Review-Journal don't get out much, or they don't have any right-wing friends, or they don't read right-wing political sites, because they just printed the very same comparison as a letter to the editor on Friday. Some local genius named Warren Willis Sr. did the old cut-and-paste thing and sent it almost verbatim to the R-J, and the paragons of journalistic virtue ran it as the top letter in Friday's editorial page.
I'm not even here to debate the content of the letter -- it points out some of Obama's inevitable and regrettable missteps, blows a few others out of proportion, but seems to endorse the idea that Bush's record of incompetence, corporate cronyism, fiscal malfeasance and utter disregard for the truth compares favorably to four months of Barack Obama in the White House.
My point is that either the R-J can't differentiate between a recycled e-mail rant and legitimate, original political criticism, or they didn't have anything better to run in its place. Either way, it's a sad statement on the journalistic ethics or competence of the R-J's editorial board and opinion page staff. Nice going, Sherm.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
30 years
Note: I posted this to all my cousins on Facebook today. I'm the second-oldest of 18 cousins on my dad's side, and I was 10 when my grandfather died on May 24, 1979. As such, most of my cousins didn't really get to know him all that well, if at all. So I felt compelled to write this and share it with them today. RIP, Grandpa.
My cousins -- today is the 30th anniversary of the death of our grandfather, Thomas Patrick Donnelly Sr. If you get a chance, give your parents a quick call because he will probably be on their minds today.
I know most of you don't remember him much if at all, but I was lucky enough to have had him around for the first 10 years of my life, and I kinda feel like I owe it to you all to let you get to know him a little bit better.
From my little-kid perspective, he was a HUGE man -- he might have been only like 6-foot-2 (not sure, ask your parents!) but his personality was massive. He had a deep, booming voice and a loud, roaring laugh, and with that thick shock of white hair and a perpetual twinkle in his eyes, he was the center of attention in any room he entered.
From what I remember, he loved kids and cats and crossword puzzles, not to mention trains and painting and of course Grandma. He had countless friends and seemed to make new ones every day. And when my dad got MS, Grandpa was the one who kept him from sinking too low, from completely giving up. It was Grandpa who told my dad he had to keep fighting, no matter how hard or painful it got, because he had a wife and two young sons who needed him. It was Grandpa who basically said, "You WILL recover, dammit, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise." If you ever wonder where you got your stubborn streak, it was from Grandpa.
It certainly was a shock to lose him so young, just three weeks before his 64th birthday. I know he would have enjoyed spending time with you all -- buying you comic books, sneaking a cookie from the jar with you, pretending to pick you up by your ears just to get a rise out of Grandma, all the things he loved to do with my brother and me. And I know I would've loved to have gotten to know him as an adult too.
I never knew my other grandpa, and thus have always felt at most somewhat ambivalent toward him or his memory, so for those of you who didn't know TPD Sr., I wanted to share my memories today so that maybe you can feel a bit closer in some way to your grandfather. He was a great man and I still miss him, and today's the perfect time to ask your parents -- his children -- about him if you can.
Happy Memorial Day,
PD
My cousins -- today is the 30th anniversary of the death of our grandfather, Thomas Patrick Donnelly Sr. If you get a chance, give your parents a quick call because he will probably be on their minds today.
I know most of you don't remember him much if at all, but I was lucky enough to have had him around for the first 10 years of my life, and I kinda feel like I owe it to you all to let you get to know him a little bit better.
From my little-kid perspective, he was a HUGE man -- he might have been only like 6-foot-2 (not sure, ask your parents!) but his personality was massive. He had a deep, booming voice and a loud, roaring laugh, and with that thick shock of white hair and a perpetual twinkle in his eyes, he was the center of attention in any room he entered.
From what I remember, he loved kids and cats and crossword puzzles, not to mention trains and painting and of course Grandma. He had countless friends and seemed to make new ones every day. And when my dad got MS, Grandpa was the one who kept him from sinking too low, from completely giving up. It was Grandpa who told my dad he had to keep fighting, no matter how hard or painful it got, because he had a wife and two young sons who needed him. It was Grandpa who basically said, "You WILL recover, dammit, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise." If you ever wonder where you got your stubborn streak, it was from Grandpa.
It certainly was a shock to lose him so young, just three weeks before his 64th birthday. I know he would have enjoyed spending time with you all -- buying you comic books, sneaking a cookie from the jar with you, pretending to pick you up by your ears just to get a rise out of Grandma, all the things he loved to do with my brother and me. And I know I would've loved to have gotten to know him as an adult too.
I never knew my other grandpa, and thus have always felt at most somewhat ambivalent toward him or his memory, so for those of you who didn't know TPD Sr., I wanted to share my memories today so that maybe you can feel a bit closer in some way to your grandfather. He was a great man and I still miss him, and today's the perfect time to ask your parents -- his children -- about him if you can.
Happy Memorial Day,
PD
Thursday, May 21, 2009
On the head
Great piece by E.J. Dionne of the Washington Post this week, commenting on the Obama speech at Notre Dame's commencement ceremonies. You really should read the whole thing if you're interested in how the left and right can find common ground on cultural issues, but if you've only got time for the highlights, here's one:
In his letter to the Romans, Paul said, "For in hope we were saved. Now hope that sees for itself is not hope. For who hopes for what one sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait with endurance." And that's what faith is about to me -- it's about hope, the promise of salvation, not a smug sense of certainty that I'm right and the rest of you are going to Hell if you don't believe what I do.
I know I don't have all the answers, but I have faith that I'm on the right path. It's a long road to where we're going -- let's hope we all get there together.
Obama was as explicit in talking about his faith as George W. Bush ever was about his own but with distinctly different inflections and conclusions.The former president often emphasized the comfort and certainty he drew from his religious beliefs. Obama said that "the ultimate irony of faith is that it necessarily admits doubt."
"This doubt should not push away our faith," Obama preached. "But it should humble us. It should temper our passions, cause us to be wary of too much self-righteousness." It was a quietly pointed response to his critics.
To me, that perfectly summarizes what has always bugged me about the born-again crowd -- to them, religion = certainty. But if you are certain of something, is it really a matter of faith?
In his letter to the Romans, Paul said, "For in hope we were saved. Now hope that sees for itself is not hope. For who hopes for what one sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait with endurance." And that's what faith is about to me -- it's about hope, the promise of salvation, not a smug sense of certainty that I'm right and the rest of you are going to Hell if you don't believe what I do.
I know I don't have all the answers, but I have faith that I'm on the right path. It's a long road to where we're going -- let's hope we all get there together.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
"However, I AM in line to the throne ..."
Overheard this evening as Kris was trying to get Nora to bed:
"No, I'm NOT the Queen of Dawdling!"
I'll let you figure out which one said it.
Happy Mother's Day, everyone!
"No, I'm NOT the Queen of Dawdling!"
I'll let you figure out which one said it.
Happy Mother's Day, everyone!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Me likey the McHale
Joel, that is . Here's a trailer for his new comedy series, coming to NBC this fall. Even Chevy looks funny in this! I also love me some John Oliver.
Friday, April 24, 2009
TBBBC: Book 1 review
The end of April is upon us, and I've finished The Last Real Season, Mike Shropshire's account of the 1975 MLB season, gathered from his notes and stories he collected on the Texas Rangers beat for the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.
The book offers up an extremely jaded view of MLB, which doesn't surprise me given that baseball writers are an extremely jaded bunch, as far as journalists go. Anybody who has to spend seven months with the same group of people, day in and day out, is going to find more than his share of warts and foibles and idiosyncrasies to write about. And there are plenty here, from Billy Martin's various psychoses to Willie Davis' "dude from another planet" act to the writer's own press box debauchery.
The problem is, we've pretty much heard all of this before. If the book had been released on the heels of the 1975 season -- after Ball Four, but before The Bronx Zoo -- it would have been a revelation. At the time, Jim Bouton was basically the only insider who had pulled back the curtain and revealed the seedier side of professional sports. Prior to the mid-70s, sportswriters were to athletes as the White House press corps were to the Bush administration. Their relationship was cozy, their secrets were safe, and all the power was on one side of the table.
But once Bouton -- and later Lyle -- exposed the American public to the travails of their heroes, nothing was taboo. Now, you can't swing a broken fungo at Barnes and Noble without smacking into a tell-all tome from the likes of players (Jose Canseco), managers (Joe Torre), umpires (Ron Luciano), sportswriters (Jeff Pearlman), minor leaguers (Matt McCarthy) and even baseball groupies (Alyssa Milano).
Thus, Shropshire isn't telling us anything we don't already know. There's little shock value here, even though it kind of feels like that's what he's going for. The most enlightening aspect of the book is its discussion of how the baseball world differed pre-free agency. The season is question fell on the cusp of a sea change in MLB -- Charlie Finley had begun to dismantle his Oakland A's dynasty, Catfish Hunter had signed a five-year, $3.5 million contract with the New York Yankees, and in a few months the whole financial structure of the game would be forever changed by wholesale free agency.
I'd have preferred to read a more detailed look at the roots of the free agency movement and how it changed the game, rather than more anecdotes about how many beers or how much tequila Shropshire swilled in the press box while banging out stories about the Rangers. For instance, he pointed out that after the A's failed to reach their fourth straight World Series, pitcher Paul Lindblad said he'd have to work on a Christmas tree lot that winter to make up for the $25,000 World Series bonus that he was counting on as part of his salary. These days, the postseason bonus is mere pocket change to most players, and certainly doesn't have a make-or-break impact on their financial bottom line.
If you're looking for a book filled with fun, surprising, even shocking stories from behind the scenes of a baseball season, check out Shropshire's first go-round, Seasons in Hell. If you've already read that, then I guess The Last Real Season might be the way to go. But don't expect much beyond a fluffy beach book that you'll forget the minute you set it down.
TBBBC rating: Two fungoes (out of five)
Now batting: The Entitled: A Tale of Modern Baseball by Frank Deford
On deck: Crazy '08 by Cait Murphy
The book offers up an extremely jaded view of MLB, which doesn't surprise me given that baseball writers are an extremely jaded bunch, as far as journalists go. Anybody who has to spend seven months with the same group of people, day in and day out, is going to find more than his share of warts and foibles and idiosyncrasies to write about. And there are plenty here, from Billy Martin's various psychoses to Willie Davis' "dude from another planet" act to the writer's own press box debauchery.
The problem is, we've pretty much heard all of this before. If the book had been released on the heels of the 1975 season -- after Ball Four, but before The Bronx Zoo -- it would have been a revelation. At the time, Jim Bouton was basically the only insider who had pulled back the curtain and revealed the seedier side of professional sports. Prior to the mid-70s, sportswriters were to athletes as the White House press corps were to the Bush administration. Their relationship was cozy, their secrets were safe, and all the power was on one side of the table.But once Bouton -- and later Lyle -- exposed the American public to the travails of their heroes, nothing was taboo. Now, you can't swing a broken fungo at Barnes and Noble without smacking into a tell-all tome from the likes of players (Jose Canseco), managers (Joe Torre), umpires (Ron Luciano), sportswriters (Jeff Pearlman), minor leaguers (Matt McCarthy) and even baseball groupies (Alyssa Milano).
Thus, Shropshire isn't telling us anything we don't already know. There's little shock value here, even though it kind of feels like that's what he's going for. The most enlightening aspect of the book is its discussion of how the baseball world differed pre-free agency. The season is question fell on the cusp of a sea change in MLB -- Charlie Finley had begun to dismantle his Oakland A's dynasty, Catfish Hunter had signed a five-year, $3.5 million contract with the New York Yankees, and in a few months the whole financial structure of the game would be forever changed by wholesale free agency.
I'd have preferred to read a more detailed look at the roots of the free agency movement and how it changed the game, rather than more anecdotes about how many beers or how much tequila Shropshire swilled in the press box while banging out stories about the Rangers. For instance, he pointed out that after the A's failed to reach their fourth straight World Series, pitcher Paul Lindblad said he'd have to work on a Christmas tree lot that winter to make up for the $25,000 World Series bonus that he was counting on as part of his salary. These days, the postseason bonus is mere pocket change to most players, and certainly doesn't have a make-or-break impact on their financial bottom line.
If you're looking for a book filled with fun, surprising, even shocking stories from behind the scenes of a baseball season, check out Shropshire's first go-round, Seasons in Hell. If you've already read that, then I guess The Last Real Season might be the way to go. But don't expect much beyond a fluffy beach book that you'll forget the minute you set it down.
TBBBC rating: Two fungoes (out of five)
Now batting: The Entitled: A Tale of Modern Baseball by Frank Deford
On deck: Crazy '08 by Cait Murphy
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Strange bedfellows
I find myself feeling oddly sympathetic toward Miss California in the latest Miss USA kerfuffle. Not because I agree with her stand on same-sex marriage -- I don't -- but because I have no idea what that issue has to do with one's qualifications to serve as Miss USA.
Perez Hilton is gay. And he wants to see people like him have the same civil rights as the rest of the planet. I get that. But there comes a point where you have to pick your battles. And the Miss USA contest is not the place for this battle to play out. I understand that it's important to get this issue on the front burner, but this kind of attitude is just going to alienate people who have yet to form a concrete opinion on the issue.
Beauty contests attract a pretty traditional audience, so I guess Hilton figured he'd be reaching a group of people who hadn't thought much about same-sex marriage. But to basically admit that he wouldn't vote for Miss California because of her answer to his question about the issue sends the wrong message. Hilton comes off as just as intolerant as the Yes on 8 crowd in California.
Now, Hilton has given the right-wing bloggers, radio hosts and pundits all kinds of fodder for their fake-outrage cannons. Nicely done, you old queen.
Perez Hilton is gay. And he wants to see people like him have the same civil rights as the rest of the planet. I get that. But there comes a point where you have to pick your battles. And the Miss USA contest is not the place for this battle to play out. I understand that it's important to get this issue on the front burner, but this kind of attitude is just going to alienate people who have yet to form a concrete opinion on the issue.
Beauty contests attract a pretty traditional audience, so I guess Hilton figured he'd be reaching a group of people who hadn't thought much about same-sex marriage. But to basically admit that he wouldn't vote for Miss California because of her answer to his question about the issue sends the wrong message. Hilton comes off as just as intolerant as the Yes on 8 crowd in California.
Now, Hilton has given the right-wing bloggers, radio hosts and pundits all kinds of fodder for their fake-outrage cannons. Nicely done, you old queen.
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