Proving that bad writing breaks the writer’s “conversation” with the reader, I stopped when I read this in today’s recap of yesterday’s Phillies/Nationals game:
Michaels spoke over a blaring Linkin Park/Jay-Z collaboration that blared over a battered boom box he found earlier in the day amid some junk in the bowels of RFK.
Blaring music that blared? Who’da thunk it?
I’m filing this entry under Writing instead of Baseball because of my timing, which, as you read this post, you’ll discover is quite terrible. It’s sometimes stunning that I ever get anything done when it’s relevant on time. I’ll interject a few obvious comments as I proceed, but the focus will remain on the writing aspect of this.
In this post I mentioned that I want to be a writer. I haven’t so much wanted to be a writer all my life because I can’t lie and say I’ve wanted it “since I can remember”. But I have wanted it since I discovered that I love it. Several teachers during my school years sparked my Eureka! moment that hey, maybe I can do this. Little notes on biology papers saying “Well written” or “You’re a good writer” were enough to open the possibility. To those teachers I owe a debt, not because it’s led to anything (yet), but because it woke me up to myself, for want of a better term.
I didn’t suddenly start writing feverishly in those days. My interest trickled through from high school into college. Around my sophomore year, I began to get more serious. I started reading beyond the required college course curriculum. I started penning little scenes. They weren’t great in terms of story or character development, but they allowed me to build dialogue and scene. I learned the basics of my natural strengths and weaknesses. An end goal of writing something longer and more developed began with the obvious dream of publication. Despite how big and daunting the task seemed, I already had my proof of concept. I’d already been published.
I’m a huge baseball fan, something that anyone who reads RollingDoughnut.com already knows. As a kid, I had more time to indulge that passion with morning box score perusing and the gift of TBS. (What I could do today with that much free time and the internets is beyond any rational fathoming.) Every year I anticipated the yearly baseball preview magazines. I had no favorite, preferred magazine, so I bought them all when they came out. I read them cover to cover. I memorized statistics. I even cut pictures from them and made scrapbooks manly photo collections of my favorite players. I devoured every prediction and projection. I was always a little disappointed that my Braves were never picked to win even though I believed. (For more on how I became a Phillies phan, click here.) I counted the days until opening day, the season schedule having already been posted above my desk, a ritual that perpetuates to this day.
In 1988 I had an unexpected bonus. Flipping through the pages of that year’s Grandslam magazine, I found this page:
Greed took over. Baseball cards exploded as an “investment” in 1998 as internet stocks exploded ten years later. An unopened, factory-sealed set of 1988 Fleer could allow me to retire a minimum of 5 years earlier than I could without them. I just knew it, so I had to have them. What was a little distraction like a writing contest to get in the way?
I sat at my desk, the one with the peeling white paint and wood-carved etchings of “this sucks” and black-markered ramblings, and wrote my masterpiece. I wrote it long-hand because computers were of the Commodore 64 variety, which we had, and printers were of the expensive variety, which we didn’t have. Typing didn’t seem to offer me the immediate connection to the page and the brilliant words. So I wrote, putting only my best thoughts forward. I scratched out the bad parts that didn’t project my creation forward. I put everything I had on paper and left only what was necessary. I finished, wrote my word count, then my revised word count, then my revised revised word count, before finally narrowing it down to the perfect number, requiring only 80% of the maximum words allowed. Every great writer knows that the later drafts should be shorter than the first. I was the greatest.
Seventeen years later, I still have this creation. Behold my genius:
Holy crap, am I embarrassed. Not because of the quality of the writing, which was good considering I was only fourteen when I wrote it. (It was extra good when compared to the other entries, but I fast forward too soon.) No, I’m embarrassed because I was so ignorant that I sent my edited rough draft as my final draft. I’ve learned since then, but I can only admit that I was an amateur. But, my God, I knew it didn’t matter because those cards would be mine. Oh, yes, they would fill my greedy fifteen-year-old hands by the fall of 1988. I had no doubt.
Expanding on the brilliance of my essay, I must now explain my choice of subject, which naturally seems silly in 2005. I chose Jose Canseco for one reason: I was a whore. I could’ve written about Dale Murphy, who any right-thinking American knows was the greatest player of the ’80s. He’s my favorite player, yet I sold my soul for the riches. Even then I understood the media bias involved in any story. I couldn’t win with the truth; I had to win with the sexy. Nothing more, nothing less. I compromised my values made an intelligent editorial decision to get my hands on the bounty.
I mailed the essay.
Six months later, I lay bandaged on our living room couch from what is now known as The Macaroni and Boiling Water Incident™. The Macaroni and Boiling Water Incident™ offered one unexpected, desirable benefit: while my brother wasted away in school, I stayed home to heal, allowing me to watch Oakland and Jose Canseco smash Boston in the 1988 American League Championship Series. Baseball hadn’t quite come to its intention of scheduling every game to start in primetime, so I had afternoon baseball. One of these days I was home, the mail arrived bearing forgotten fruit. The editors of Grandslam chose my essay. The letter was even signed in ink. In ink!
I didn’t care about the baseball cards and my soon-to-be-realized riches. I’d won. The 1989 edition of Grandslam would have my name in it. I could not wait to see my name on the page with words I wrote. Along with every other writer in the magazine, baseball fans all over the country would read my essay and say “Wow, I see why that guy won. Is an essay in Grandslam eligible for the Pulitzer? I hope so because that guy really deserves it.” Wow.
With publication 4 months away, I had nothing else to do but wait for the cards to arrive. By this time, doubting my stupendous ability, I’d purchased a complete set of 1988 Fleer. Double the riches! I waited and waited and waited. I received another letter telling me that the editors ordered my cards and they would arrive soon. In the meantime they sent me a framed poster of “my idol” Jose Canseco to placate me until the cards could arrive. And it was signed in ink again! Behold:
Flabergasted at their generosity is all I can say. The cards were so scarce and in such demand that it delayed the order. The wealth multiplied. As a reminder of my spectacular skill with sheet of looseleaf notebook paper and an 89¢ Bic, I hung the poster on my wall until we moved a few years later. (Somewhere between the move and
today, it disappeared. I don’t miss it.)
A few weeks later, my cards arrived with another note from the editor. Again he signed it in ink. Damn I was important. The set had the seal still intact and he wisely pointed out that the set would be worth more with the seal intact. I knew this, but I appreciated the personal care.
The set was worth $35, so I couldn’t believe what the numbers would be when I projected them out into my future. I filed the boxed set away in my closet. I should’ve opened a safe deposit box at the bank, complete with insurance for the value that I could expect in the future. Since I was too young for that, I placed it in the back of the closet and told no one outside of my family that I’d won cards to complement my essay’s publication. I will always remember the fall of 1988 as the Wonderful Season of Greed™.
In the spring of 1989, I began scouring bookstores much earlier than in previous years. I had a mission to see my name and enjoy my fifteen minutes of glory. I always knew before I walked into the store whether or not the 1989 issue of Grandslam had arrived. When there were no balloons and banners celebrating my achievement, I knew I’d have to check another day. But it was only a matter of time.
The magazine arrived in stores with little fanfare, which surprised me given my reasonable expectations. I scanned the Table of Contents and thumbed the pages to find Page 4. Oh. Oh my God. This was even better than imagined. “I’m on page 4,” I thought! But where were the balloons and banners?
I found page 4. My spirit deflated. There, stealing all my glory, thirteen essays stared at me and not one of them was mine. What? But I won? I read the words in horror:
…our original plan was simply to print the outstanding response and award the prize – a complete set of baseball cards of the winner’s choice.
However, the flood of mail was so great, and the variety of arguments so magnificent, we’ve decided to publish not only the winning essay, but also to expand the format and share some experts from the many other letters that came to us.
See…
That wasn’t part of the deal. How could they do that to me? I can’t believe they cheapened my moment of glory by publishing the losers. They were losers, not winners like me. Ugh.
I scanned the page for my name and didn’t see it. What? I finally found “Continued on page 54…” What? Page 54? I’m buried in the middle of the magazine? But I won! These people didn’t win, I did. How can they be on page 4 and I’m on page 54? “Drink my fucking Ovaltine, indeed,” wiped every other thought away.
I flipped to page 54 and saw this.
Nine essays ahead of mine. Nine and thirteen meant twenty-two people had their glory before I got mine. And I was the “winner”. The superiority of my essay consoled me. I’d addressed the argument in a direct manner, supporting my thesis with clear facts. I addressed every aspect of the game, unlike the others. My essay required intellect and knowledge of baseball to write. I felt better. I did plan to use some of my future baseball card wealth to hire goons to prevent future publication by the other twenty-two “writers”, though.
Today, of course, the reality is different. I’m still working. I still have that set of baseball cards. Today, on eBay, sellers have the factory-sealed set listed at $8.99, with no bidders. But I was published once and that keeps me going.
…
Post script: One final thought. Every part about me being upset at having twenty-two essays printed before mine, that was believable, right? Writers are jealous by nature, you know, so I had that part of it, too. But, here’s the thing about my jealousy… I made that part up.
Mostly.
There is a crisis afoot in America. You know, the crisis caused by the big, bad, evil oil corporations. The one where people are complaining because the price of gas is going up and have decided that Congress must do something because there is no way to go back in time and not buy that SUV that gets 12 miles-per-gallon and now costs $50 (and more) to fill up every four days. Yeah, that one, the one that proves capitalism punishes the stupid consumer. It’s all good, because the Houses cares.
The House of Representatives passed an energy bill yesterday, so it now moves to the Senate. Among its provisions, it includes the following:
–Open the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska to oil drilling.
–Provide product liability protection for makers of MTBE against lawsuits stemming from the gasoline additive contaminating drinking water. Payment of $2 billion in transition costs over eight years to manufacturers as MTBE is phased out.
–Expand daylight-saving time by two months, so it would start on the first Sunday in March and end on the last Sunday in November.
–Give the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission clear authority to override states and local officials in locating liquefied natural gas (LNG) import terminals.
I presume that this bill is designed to be proactive regarding our current energy crisis but it misses the point. Sure, opening up oil fields in America could lead to “more” oil, but at what cost? I’m not knowledgeable enough about the details to bitch about the destruction of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, but I assume it’s A Bad Idea™. Regardless, it misses the point IF it’s intended as a long-term solution. More on that in a moment.
I’m not quite sure how liability protection for makers of MTBE is a good idea. If they’re contaminating water in two dozen states, it’s probably not smart to sweep that under the rug and say “Oops. Do over.” I need to get better informed, but that’s just a hunch. Especially when it comes with $2,000,000,000 in “You made a bad, harmful business decision, but we’re going to look the other way while we you fix it” handouts. Nice job.
I’m not even going to bother swinging at the daylight-saving time nonsense, as Kip over at A Stitch in Haste already dismantled that idea with this post. Definitely read it. (And stick around and read his other posts, too. You’ll be glad you did.)
As for giving the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission “clear authority to override states and local officials in locating liquefied natural gas (LNG) import terminals”, I can only interpret that with basic logic. The Federal Energy Regulatory Commission has a For Citizens – LNG Overview, which offers this information specific to that provision:
Where do ships unload LNG?
Ships unload LNG at specially designed terminals where the LNG is pumped from the ship to insulated storage tanks at the terminal. LNG is also converted back to gas at the terminal, which is connected to natural gas pipelines that transport the gas to where it is needed. Specially designed trucks may also be used to deliver LNG to other storage facilities in different locations.
Oh. That’s nice. We need that. There’s the obvious question, of course, which this provision clarifies. Where should we place that terminal? What we now know is that if the Senate agrees and President Bush signs, this will go wherever the federal bureaucrats urban planners decide. No community decisions necessary. How is this smart? All bow before the Federal government, I guess.
White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan did weigh in on this. When asked, he offered this:
This is a comprehensive piece of legislation, and it does address one of the fundamental problems facing our nation, and that is that we are growing more dependent on foreign sources of energy. And we have high energy prices facing consumers because we have not had a national energy plan in place. We have a growing global economy and a growing demand from countries around the world for oil. And we are relying on foreign sources of energy. And that’s why the President believes it is all the more reason we need to act now. He put forward a plan four years ago, and it’s time for Congress to get that passed.
The key to solving any problem is to define it correctly. Once you do that, the solution becomes possible. Mr. McClellan, and by extension, President Bush, are wrong on the problem. It’s not that we are “growing more dependent on foreign sources of energy.” While that may be true, it isn’t the issue. Framing the problem that way only encourages solutions like drilling for oil in Alaska.
The problem is that we are relying on the wrong sources of energy. (I’m including the wrong mix of sources in this explanation, solely as a simplification.) Our current energy usage has severe political baggage, which is what Mr. McClellan’s statement conveys. Fine, we get it, but don’t pit this as an us-against-them ploy. The global economy is here, whether we like it or not. That our political situation and energy needs aren’t meshed demands a better response than a “circle the wagons” self-reliance isolationism.
President Bush claims to support alternate sources of energy. I’m willing to believe him to an extent until proven to the contrary. The quest for non-petroleum based energy sources is young, and the president stated that the nation should explore this. Mr. McClellan hinted that this energy plan does not meet President Bush’s agenda. If we’re going to offer incentives (not that we should; just that we are), let’s do it wisely. How will President Bush work with the Congress to resolve this? Will he veto this energy bill if it comes before him without any significant changes from the Senate? I’m anxious to know.
I have no idea of the exact solution, but perpetuating the old paradigm (I have an MBA; I need to use 10¢ buzzwords.) with a mix of handouts for old ideas and new federal power-grabs isn’t the answer.
This seems self-explanatory:
“The federal budget deficit is on an unsustainable path, in which large deficits result in rising interest rates and ever-growing interest payments that augment deficits in future years,” Greenspan said in his prepared testimony. “But most important, deficits as a percentage of [gross domestic product] in these simulations rise without limit. Unless that trend is reversed, at some point these deficits would cause the economy to stagnate or worse.”
Too bad Congress and President Bush don’t get it.
Before I go into this mini-rant, I qualify what I’m about to write with this basic fact: even when I’m bashing Sirius, it’s still much better than XM. I first tried XM more than two years ago but cancelled it because the music channels began playing more commercials, quickly approaching the level of terrestrial radio. If I wanted terrestrial radio, I’d turn it on. I didn’t, which is why I subscribed to satellite radio. Also, the diversity of music became, shall we say, eclectic. More and more songs crept into the playlists that I didn’t know. I don’t mind hearing new songs; I’ve found some of my favorite artists and songs through accidental wandering across the (satellite) radio dial and browsing through music stores. But I don’t want a plethora of songs that are closer to cats copulating than actual music. I want to want to listen again. XM didn’t stopped providing that, so I stopped provided my credit card number.
Last year, I subscribed to Sirius, which was inevitable because I’ve been a shareholder for more than 18 months. I immediately loved it. There are songs I actually know on the mainstream channels and songs I enjoy discovering on the non-mainstream channels. Plus, I get to listen to Mark Goodman, Nina Blackwood, and Alan Hunter. I needed nothing else and completely abandoned terrestrial radio, except for Don and Mike and Howard Stern. I enjoy the change.
A few months ago, though, I decided I needed to give XM another try. I did this knowing that my subscription to Sirius would remain. I wanted XM for the baseball coverage. The additional music choices would be a bonus. Except they turned out to be junk. The problem of having a terrible playlist has gotten worse. After the first few weeks, I stopped scanning other music stations on XM. Now, when if I’m not listening to the baseball coverage on XM, I’m not listening to XM.
But baseball was enough to break the barrier to my wallet. Except it’s not any more. XM can’t even get the baseball coverage correct. It hooked me from the beginning because wall-to-wall baseball is excellent. Yet, my urgency to listen to anything other than the Phillies broadcasts and “The Show with Rob Dibble and Kevin Kennedy” died. I do not enjoy the morning baseball show, not because of content but because of the deejays. It’s baseball, not music, so I didn’t expect deejays. I don’t want deejays. Mark Patrick is a deejay from beginning to end. His “act” wore thin within days. His vocal inflection is pure large-market, focus-group-tested deejay babble. I hate it. Yet, he sounds like heaven when compared to Buck Martinez. I don’t know where Martinez learned to do radio but he needs to ask for his money back. He has the worst up-and-down, wobbly, half-drunk, half-stroke inflected voice ever broadcast on radio. I can’t listen. So I don’t. When I’m paying $9.95 $12.95 for the service, I have to question why I’m paying.
The decisive factor, though, is much simpler. It’s very simple to broadcast a baseball game that another radio station is covering. The only requirement for XM is to flip the switch. They can’t even do that right. I know there are technical issues, blah, blah, blah, but that’s not an excuse. The marketing literature lies promised me every game. Showing up near the end of the first inning is not every game. If you’re not giving me every pitch, they’re lying to me. And by lying to me, they’re stealing from me.
Sirius hasn’t lied to me. I get what they promise. At work, I used to listen to my mp3 player, but now I just listen to Sirius all day. (An actual benefit from having my desk in an atrium, to go along with the sunburn, is that I get excellent satellite radio reception.) That I haven’t tired of it even though I listen almost eight hours every work day is proof of concept. I abandoned terrestrial radio for something new. More often than not, Sirius satisfies that. Even when it fails, it fails less often and on a smaller scale than XM. So I stick with Sirius.
When it fails, though, it annoys me. Which is the point of my mini-rant, which seemed to have started a few paragraphs ago but is really just beginning now. Mark Goodman, Nina Blackwood, and Alan Hunter are the only deejays on Sirius who I enjoy. I enjoy them because of nostalgia (they’re on the Big ’80s) and because they don’t act like the normal moron deejays. They don’t give ridiculous inflections. I normally hate deejay stories, but when those three offer them, they’re usually relevant to something. There’s a theme. It’s acceptable.
Some of the other stations, though, pester lilsteners with deejays who think they work at the local Lite-FM station. Ugh. I don’t want dull stories about their dogs or their friends or their neighbors. Unless it’s me, I don’t care. Their mothers are the only ones who care and I’m not convinced about that. If they want to tell personal stories, they should get a blog and type with weird spelling and no punctuation like every pre-teen who might be interested. Otherwise, shut up and drop the needle onto the record push play on the computer. It’s not complicated. Sometimes, it’s so over the top that it makes me mad.
Listening to Jim Kerr this morning, the deejay on Sirius 31 New Country, provided me with a specific example of why I hate deejays with a passion. I will offer it to you now.
Because he can’t just shut up, he must “talk up” the record, giving an introduction until the moment before singing starts. The witty Mr. Kerr offered this wonderful transition.
That was “There Goes My Life” by Kenny Chesney. I’m looking forward to seeing the second episode of “Revelations” on NBC tonight. Here’s SHeDAISY with “Little Good-byes”.
Not only is that the most ADD scatter-brained transition ever, it’s also flat-out wrong. Revelations is on at 9pm on NBC. Everyone knows that the only show on television tonight worth looking forward to is Alias. That it’s on at 9pm only makes the argument for Revelations more useless. Duh.
You want a revelation, Mr. Kerr, I’ll give you one. Just wait for the amazing way Jack Bristow evades his latest hurdle, a nuclear radiation-induced genetic mutation.
Last night Danielle and I went to the home opener for the old Montreal Expos/new Washington Nationals at RFK Stadium. I have some random thoughts and observations about the game, which I don’t want to put in to any form of essay. There really is no overriding theme, at least when I start this, so a list with clarification will have to suffice. Lists are the new prose, you know. Just ask Entertainment Weekly. Without further mumblings, here goes:
I did enjoy this moment because it was a ball and not a strike. Nationals catcher Brian Schneider had to leap out of his crouch to catch the throw. I was hoping for an errant throw to thump a small child on the leg or something, just for the curiosity of the sight. The whole “Hit the bull” aspect. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. And I say this knowing that if I’d thrown out the first pitch, it would’ve hit the backstop.
Also, despite what some may believe, I didn’t boo. I can get swept up in the “He’s the President of the United States!” hysteria with the best of them. I’m a sucker for the History Channel and all things historical. Besides, I’ve never seen a POTUS in person, so it was cool.
But. Why, for the love of God, do I have to stand in a herd of people just to watch him walk from the dugout to the mound and back? For the privilege of being poked and prodded and having my belongings searched, President Bush should’ve done something more, like twist the cap off of my $4 bottle of water for me. That’s not too much to ask.
Having been to enough Redskins games where this undignified practice is also practiced, I’ve come to expect it here. (It does make me appreciate seeing games in other stadiums around the country because they do not do this nonsense. But I brace for it, anyway.) But last night was the Nationals at RFK Stadium. Folks, you begged for your own team. Major League Baseball finally granted the request. Be thankful, please. Root for the Nationals or drive to Baltimore. Duh. I mean, really, just duh. And Peter Angelos was worried…
I know that this is all the Orioles’ fault somehow because they did such a poor job training the local fans. On Opening Day, though, it’s hard to go wrong. Nothing can ruin this:
All that, and Danielle and I received crazy cool medallions.
I used to be a fan of the NBA, starting in the late 1980s. I didn’t watch much basketball before then, but the rivalry between Magic and Bird was so big that it allowed me to develop an appreciation for the game. My developing enjoyment for the game grew around the point guard position and made me a fan of Rod Strickland, a point guard for the New York Knicks at the time. I thought I’d become a fan of the Knicks, but I was really just a fan of Strickland. When the Knicks traded him to San Antonio, I stuck with him and followed the Spurs. The same happened when he went to Portland and then to Washington. I enjoyed the shifting around because it led to Washington, which was the local market for me after I finished grad school in ’98. Shortly after Strickland left Washington, he played fewer and fewer minutes with each successive team. I’ve followed him, but more sporadically as his career winds down. I’ve entered the phase where the game and the emerging players have to hold me as a fan, but that’s not happening. I haven’t watched a full NBA game for several years. Worse, I no longer care that I’ve become this apathetic about the game.
NBA Commissioner David Stern seems to understand why. He’s proposing a simple change to the NBA that could improve the game, if in no other way than image. Consider:
“We are seeking to raise that to 20 or two years out of high school. The NFL’s minimum age is 3 years after high school. I’m optimistic the union will agree to some raise in the minimum age in the current collective bargaining,” Stern said in a recent ESPN.com chat.
That’s about right. An age requirement is definitely a blunt-edged tool where something with more flexibility might be better, but it’s a start. The level of play has fallen over the years (in my opinion) and one reason I have that perception is the increasing abundance of straight-from-high-school players. That doesn’t help the league. For every LeBron James and Carmelo Anthony, there are the players who don’t develop or develop slower in the league than normal players. The increasing numbers of high school players impact the overall competition level, as well. This isn’t good for the league.
Lest we ignore the players, consider this quote from Indiana Pacers forward Jermaine O’Neal:
“In the last two or three years, the rookie of the year has been a high school player. There were seven high school players in the All-Star Game, so why we even talking an age limit?” O’Neal said.
Are high school players in the All-Star game an indication that it’s not a bad idea? Again, the high school players will look better when facing high school level competition. There is something to be said for the maturation and development that any player undergoes in college. Mr. O’Neal also made the point that Major League Baseball doesn’t require anything beyond a high school diploma and that’s true enough. However, he conveniently ignores that the majority of high school players take longer to get to The Show than college players. The college players experience a de facto minor league system. It’s not a perfect substitute, of course, because of aluminum bats and the professional life, but it’s close. The same maturation occurs. And that’s what the NBA is lacking.
For a true understanding of this, Mr. O’Neal’s need look no further than his own career. Consider:
O’Neal went to the NBA straight out of high school in 1996 and was drafted by the Portland Trail Blazers, who made him the 17th overall selection.
O’Neal didn’t blossom into the star he is today until he was dealt to the Pacers during the 2000 offseason. He has made the past three Eastern Conference All-Star teams.
By my calculation, graduating in 1996 and blossoming into a star in 2000 is a four year span of maturation and learning. What other experience can we think of that takes approximately four years to complete? Admittedly he played more games and experienced the professional life during those years, but should the teams pay for that maturation with the millions of dollars spent on rookies, whether high school or college? Remember, when the teams pay those millions, that money has to come from somewhere. That somewhere is the pockets of fans. In the ’80s and ’90s, I could pay for Magic and Bird and Jordan and Barkley, guys who were flashy and showmen, but were also team-oriented first. If they shined but the team lost, they weren’t happy. I don’t get that feeling with today’s NBA. That is why I don’t watch the NBA any more. Sometimes the “good old days” really were better.
Just in case anyone is thinking that I’ve gone soft with all the tender posts lately, know that I haven’t completely thawed my soul. Politics still matter to me and within politics, I have a few pet issues that seem to never attract common sense from our elected representatives. Today’s lunacy is brought to us by Rep. James Sensenbrenner, who stated this about indecency and obscenity on our public airwaves:
“People who are in flagrant disregard should face a criminal process rather than a regulatory process,” the Wisconsin Republican said at the National Cable & Telecommunications Association annual convention.
“That way you aim the cannon specifically at the people who are committing the offenses,” and not at everyone, he said. “The people who are trying to do the right thing end up being penalized the same way the people who are doing the wrong thing.”
Good plan, Congressman. To be fair, he doesn’t support expanding current regulation to cable and satellite broadcasts, though I suspect he’d vote for it if it came up in Congress. And he does have a brief glimmer of rational thought about the easiest, least intrusive solution, which I will point out before analyzing his new idea. Consider:
“The first thing we need is education has got to get better, he said. “You can’t expect the government to replace parental responsibility.”
He said it was “far better” for consumers to press a button on their remote control to lock out programs or channels than for the government to set the standard.
This sounds remarkably like some other comments from the convention:
Glenn Britt, chairman of Time Warner Cable, agreed that the industry needs to do more to educate customers about parental controls but added that the industry can only do so much.
“What we can’t do is … make parents take responsibility,” Britt said. “But if parents do take the responsibility to be concerned about what their children are seeing, this industry provides all the tools they need.”
Imagine that. Technology is so good that parents can actually solve the problem. Let’s see, what can they do? They can sell their television. They can pick up the phone, dial between seven and ten numbers, speak with a representative of their cable company, and cancel their subscription. They can use the little buttons on the television/cable box/remote that reads “Power”. They can use the v-chip embedded in their television, assuming it’s there, of course. They can even set the parental lock on their cable box to block certain channels. No need to be a luddite, folks. Technology kicks ass buttocks.
But what about Rep. Sensenbrenner’s plan? Could it work? After all, indecency and obscenity are already criminal offenses; the government merely enforces them with a regulatory agency. It’s certainly possible that our government has made a mistake in the past and could reverse course and prosecute indecency and obscenity with criminal penalties. I wrote about this on another blog (hat tip: Jeff Jarvis for the story), but realized, I shouldn’t leave some of my better writing elsewhere. It’s mine, all mine, so I’m going to use it here, expanding and editing where necessary. Here is my simple thought experiment that began with a simple question: “Diminishing the FCC’s power is the goal of my protests, for Constitutional reasons. Is the solution to transfer the FCC’s power to a district attorney, and by extension, a jury of citizens?”
I agree that having it decided by citizens instead of the FCC is a good idea, but probably only in theory. The United States is a republic to legislate and lead through calm, rational reasoning, not the mass hysteria that seems to pass for democracy. The FCC is made up of lawyers who refuse to follow the Constitution, seemingly unable to understand that “Congress shall make no law…” isn’t a suggestion. Should we have confidence in lay people who don’t have a legal education? And it still doesn’t resolve the issue of the definition of obscenity. I don’t see legislatures defining it any time soon. So we’d have 12 citizens deciding the traditional “community standards” for everyone. Are we confident that that’s the best place to legislate for everyone?
Of course, if indecency/obscenity enforcement becomes a criminal matter instead of a regulatory action, that puts it in the hands of prosecutors and defense attorneys. I bet the defense attorneys will be better funded than the prosecution and able to convince the juries of what the Constitution means, right?
I don’t think so. In criminal cases, the facts are the facts. If someone commits murder, there are facts. There was a living person, now there is a dead person. The suspect’s fingerprints were on the gun. Simple. (I simplify for the purpose of my point.)
Ok, now apply that logic to indecency/obscenity. Let’s consider a hypothetical situation. The producer of Fox’s latest reality show airs a segment that contains the phrase “He’s an ass.” A TV viewer in Peoria, IL decides that she doesn’t like that and complains to her local district attorney. The local DA files criminal charges. The jury of twelve peers decides for the city of Peoria that “He’s an ass,” violates their standards. The jury deliberation is closed, so we don’t know how they specifically came to this conclusion. Either way, “He’s an ass,” is no longer acceptable on television in Peoria.
At the same time, a viewer in Clearwater, FL also disapproves of the phrase “He’s an ass.” He complains to his local DA and the case goes to trial. Now the producer must stand trial in two districts. Of course, in this case, the producer is acquitted, so the phrase “He’s an ass,” is still acceptable on television in Clearwater, FL.
See any problems yet? I count at least two. So what do we do? To (hopefully) eliminate the need to defend himself in every jurisdiction and to have conflicting standards for national broadcasts in local markets, Congress passes legislation that makes indecency/obscenity a federal offense. Community standards (Federalism?) are no longer relevant. It’s national standards now, but so as not to offend anyone, we set that standard at the lowest level possible rather than the reasonable person standard supposedly in place today. Sound familiar yet?
Of course, with this idea, federal prosecutors are now the clearing house for criminal complaints. The PTC continues to catalog every possible offense occurring on television. They send lists on a daily/weekly basis to the federal prosecutor’s office. There are too many requests, so the federal prosecutor hires more attorneys to handle the case load, to review what should and shouldn’t warrant criminal charges. Eventually Congress decides that the case load is too much and creates the, oh, I don’t know, the Federal Department of Homeland Decency to handle these cases. Problem solved.
That scenario seems plausible to me. Likely? Probably not, but nothing else about the last fifteen months of indecency nonsense was probable. Congress certainly seems gung-ho to deal with everything through an expansion of federal powers and control. Is my scenario really so far-fetched?
Our criminal system deals with complexities every day, but in
those cases, the crime is determined prior to the crime. With obscenity, the crime only occurs if the wrong person is watching or listening and the material offends his individual standards. Do we really want a jury to decide if someone has harmed nothing more than a community’s sensibilities? Criminalizing indecency/obscenity doesn’t change the situation; it just moves disregard for the Constitution from one location to another. The true solution is to understand that the Constitution is the law of the land and no amount of moralizing is going to change that. Personal responsibility still matters and is the easiest, most immediate solution.
Today is Opening Day. Why it’s not a national holiday is beyond any rational comprehension, but it’s not. Even without the holiday it deserves, there are few moments better during any year than Opening Day. Winter is over, Spring is here. Hope is renewed with the anticipation of much joy and excitement to come. America’s National Pastime is back and all that goes with it. It’s all very cliché, and yet, there is still comfort in those clichés. Opening Day is the quintessential day to dream. Every fan knows where his or her favorite team is supposed to finish, but on Opening Day, that’s still only an expectation. No matter how high or how low, expectations don’t determine outcome. The game decides who will reign supreme at the end. On Opening Day, every team has a chance. And every fan wants to believe; not only wants to believe, every fan has permission from the gods to believe the silliest, most far-fetched success imaginable. And believe they do.
Phillies phans are not every fan. Phillies phans see every glint of sunlight as the dying light of daytime, of dreams and hope. There is no possibility that the light may be the beginning of a sunrise. After being disappointed fifteen times too many, Phillies phans decided long ago that cynicism is more enjoyable than any other response. For Phillies phans, the phacts, although interesting, are irrelevant.
I don’t believe that. There is a time for pessimism in phandom, although that time is closer to September than Opening Day. Yet, Phillies phans have disavowed even mere pessimism as pollyanna-ish and embraced cynicism in it’s darkest form. Consider this example:
The Phillies have long had a promotional slogan – repeatedly requesting that we “Catch the Fever!”. The slogan was printed on cups, shirts, hats and bats. It was even a cheesy disco song in the seventies starring Schmidt, Bowa, Luzinski, Maddox and the rest (send me an e-mail and I’ll send it to you, very funny).
But with one championship in 122 seasons, I question if I really want to catch the kind of fever they’ve been promoting.
Yeah, it’s a negative way of looking at things – but that’s what being a Phillies fan is all about. The team puts something on the field worth supporting once a decade or so, and the fans spend the rest of those decades dispassionately following teams mired in mediocrity or stuck in dead last place.
Why is that what being a Phillies phan is all about? I don’t get it. The last decade has been frustrating with either losers or not-quite-good-enough teams, but the point of fandom isn’t to support the team once it wins. Being that kind of phan is no different than being a Braves fan. Perhaps Phandom requires this, but I don’t accept that. Personally, I’m going into this season with optimism until play on the field warrants otherwise.
It’s not just Phillies blogs Phlogs that do this. The cynicism is as bad in the Philly newspapers. Part of it is no doubt a simple pandering to the crowd, but why should that be so? It may only be the sports page, but it’s still journalism. Consider:
The Phillies are embarking on what is almost certainly the last go-round for the team built on Bobby Abreu, Pat Burrell, Mike Lieberthal, Vicente Padilla, Jimmy Rollins, Jim Thome, Billy Wagner and Randy Wolf.
Another flop or fade will reduce the club to its youthful cadre of Rollins, Ryan Madson, Chase Utley, Gavin Floyd and, maybe, Ryan Howard.
Right, because the Phillies don’t have a chance to win the wild card spot or, gasp, even the division. Nope, nothing to see here folks. We’re just amazed the team isn’t going to forfeit it’s season, because, really, what’s the point? Not for a moment does anyone consider a moment of possibility. The phandom is locked into a dysfunctional, collective comfort zone of low expectations. “I told you so” is easier than being let down if the team doesn’t win.
Here’s an example: Four or five years ago, I traveled to Philadelphia for an afternoon game in April. The Phillies played the Arizona Diamondbacks. In his first two at-bats, Ron Gant doubled and homered, driving in enough runs to win the game by himself. When he came to the plate for his third at-bat, there was a man in scoring position and the Phillies were winning. He popped out to the infield. How did the phaithful react? They booed him. Loudly. Because, you know, that out ruined the entire day.
Sometimes I think I’m more suited to be a Cubs fan than a Phillies phan. I believe. Even in the face of obvious failure, I still believe. Last year, even in the face of the mid-season collapse, I still believed. I was realistic enough to know that we weren’t going to make the playoffs, but I still love the game. I didn’t need a pennant race to keep me interested.
Last week Bill Simmons wrote something simple and profound. He directed it more at the Cubs, but I’m going to redirect it at Phillies phans. It’s sound advice.
Start thinking of yourselves differently. Stay away from the negative TV shows and apocalyptic newspaper columns. You can follow the team just fine without being infected by that stuff.
Positive thinking mumbo-jumbo, sure, but isn’t that the whole point of baseball, especially on Opening Day? Examples abound of false hope bearing fruit. Last year alone provided two examples. There’s the obvious case of the Red Sox. Admittedly Red Sox fans are a different breed completely, but even through the hard times of last season, their fans never quit. They were rewarded with an improbable championship. But also consider last season’s other example, this time as told the right way by a Philly newspaper:
The 2005 Phillies could be last year’s St. Louis Cardinals – or last year’s Phillies.
No one picked the Cardinals to get to the World Series last year, but they did, with a pitching staff that surprised and a lineup that was strong on paper and even stronger on the field, thanks to a few career years. That’s something the Phils could use – a career year or two.
Yes, the Phillies have questions, but almost every ball club has questions at this time of year. But I thought the Cardinals would be a bad team last year because their pitching was so bad. They won 105 games during the regular season. They made it to the World Series. Losing a World Series is the worst feeling imaginable as a fan, as I learned in 1993 when the Phillies lost a heartbreaker to the Blue Jays. But I wouldn’t have traded that pain for the numbness of not making it there. So, yeah, maybe the Phillies need to play above their heads and have a few career years, but every championship team in every sport must have that. The 1991 Redskins had it. The 2004 Detroit Pistons had it. The 2004 Red Sox had it. Maybe the 2005 Phillies don’t have it, but maybe they do. I know I’m going to pay attention and dream. In the words of General Manager Ed Wade:
“I know how much our fans want a championship to happen. I know how much I want to make it happen. And when it happens, it’s going to be tremendous.”
I believe that. When it happens, it is going to be tremendous. I’m going to scream and jump around and cry like a baby, and no matter how long that joy lasts, whether a dozen years or a dozen minutes, every moment of folly and foolishness of my phandom will fade. That one moment will be the reward for the faith. While I don’t know much else, I know that one moment will be sweeter because I believed in that moment along the way.
