We’ll meet again

Even cynics have their soft spots, and I’m no exception. Kitties (notice I didn’t say “cats”), old people and baseball are mine.

I was at The Ted this afternoon for the Bravos’ season finale, and I hated to leave. The local nine are part of my daily routine from April to October, and, like a feline, I don’t like my routines interrupted. Sure, all good things must end, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And while many observers will tell you differently, there are plenty of hardcore baseball fans in the ATL. Not enough, but we’re there.

We don’t all worship at the glitzy altar of football. I don’t dislike the game — I just despise the spectacle. Give me subtlety over Terry Bradshaw and end zone dances any day.

Good pal Al Kosa summed it up nicely on our Braves blog after we attended Friday night’s game:

It felt in many ways like a reunion with friends: most of these folks, minus the couple hundred Astros fans, are true Braves fans, you figure, here like us for a last visit with our team before they pack it in until next March.

It’s been a disappointing season, obviously. But it’s still baseball. It’s still the Braves. In the name of Pearl Sandow, our own Hall of Fame fan, it’s still about as good as any three hours I can think of. Only five months ’til spring training.   

As much as we’ll miss our Braves, there’s plenty who’ll miss them more. It’s all they have, and I hate to see them go without:

At 1:05 p.m. today, they’ll all be watching, anticipating the first pitch of this strangest of season finales.

By then, Sister Miriam will have prayed the Angelus over the intercom, then said grace before lunch. Kenneth Beaton’s hospital bed will be positioned at just the right angle for the TV; perhaps he’ll tap the John Smoltz figurine on his nightstand, a little luck for the Braves’ starting pitcher. Mitchell Drewery, who turned 93 Wednesday, will affix his headphones to hear the play-by-play.

And German Mabry, 80, will hit the call button, summon a nurse and ask, as he always asks, “What channel is the Braves game on?”

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit I choked up while reading the conclusion of Jack Wilkinson’s excellent front page story (excerpted above and below) in today’s AJC about how much the home team means to the cancer patients living at a hospice in the shadow of Turner Field —

This season, uncharacteristically, ends abruptly Sunday for Braves fans. One of them, however, is already looking ahead to 2007.

“The doctor said I had stomach cancer but I can’t tell it,” said German Mabry, who was admitted to Our Lady of Perpetual Help on July 20. “I don’t believe it. I feel fine. Now, we’re gonna get that Braves thing right next spring. I’m going to a ball game.”

Hope to see you there, German.

We’ll meet again

Even cynics have their soft spots, and I’m no exception. Kitties (notice I didn’t say “cats”), old people and baseball are mine.

I was at The Ted this afternoon for the Bravos’ season finale, and I hated to leave. The local nine are part of my daily routine from April to October, and, like a feline, I don’t like my routines interrupted. Sure, all good things must end, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And while many observers will tell you differently, there are plenty of hardcore baseball fans in the ATL. Not enough, but we’re there.

We don’t all worship at the glitzy altar of football. I don’t dislike the game — I just despise the spectacle. Give me subtlety over Terry Bradshaw and end zone dances any day.

Good pal Al Kosa summed it up nicely on our Braves blog after we attended Friday night’s game:

It felt in many ways like a reunion with friends: most of these folks, minus the couple hundred Astros fans, are true Braves fans, you figure, here like us for a last visit with our team before they pack it in until next March.

It’s been a disappointing season, obviously. But it’s still baseball. It’s still the Braves. In the name of Pearl Sandow, our own Hall of Fame fan, it’s still about as good as any three hours I can think of. Only five months ’til spring training.   

As much as we’ll miss our Braves, there’s plenty who’ll miss them more. It’s all they have, and I hate to see them go without:

At 1:05 p.m. today, they’ll all be watching, anticipating the first pitch of this strangest of season finales.

By then, Sister Miriam will have prayed the Angelus over the intercom, then said grace before lunch. Kenneth Beaton’s hospital bed will be positioned at just the right angle for the TV; perhaps he’ll tap the John Smoltz figurine on his nightstand, a little luck for the Braves’ starting pitcher. Mitchell Drewery, who turned 93 Wednesday, will affix his headphones to hear the play-by-play.

And German Mabry, 80, will hit the call button, summon a nurse and ask, as he always asks, “What channel is the Braves game on?”

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit I choked up while reading the conclusion of Jack Wilkinson’s excellent front page story (excerpted above and below) in today’s AJC about how much the home team means to the cancer patients living at a hospice in the shadow of Turner Field —

This season, uncharacteristically, ends abruptly Sunday for Braves fans. One of them, however, is already looking ahead to 2007.

“The doctor said I had stomach cancer but I can’t tell it,” said German Mabry, who was admitted to Our Lady of Perpetual Help on July 20. “I don’t believe it. I feel fine. Now, we’re gonna get that Braves thing right next spring. I’m going to a ball game.”

Hope to see you there, German.

Truth in labeling

"Conservative" and "liberal" do not apply here. If you believe the Bush administration is telling the truth about Iraq, you’re delusional. The evidence is beyond conclusive. Not because Bob Woodward said it, or Jack Murtha, or Colin Powell. It’s documented. And documents don’t lie, unlike a certain overmatched president.

(I could say the same about those who think Clinton did everything in his power to capture Bin Laden, but I’ve gone there enough.)

Truth in labeling

"Conservative" and "liberal" do not apply here. If you believe the Bush administration is telling the truth about Iraq, you’re delusional. The evidence is beyond conclusive. Not because Bob Woodward said it, or Jack Murtha, or Colin Powell. It’s documented. And documents don’t lie, unlike a certain overmatched president.

(I could say the same about those who think Clinton did everything in his power to capture Bin Laden, but I’ve gone there enough.)

Born a Crip

Sacha Baron Cohen is a worthy challenger, but no one does politically incorrect better than Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Can you imagine anyone else pulling this off, or even daring to try? 

 

Born a Crip

Sacha Baron Cohen is a worthy challenger, but no one does politically incorrect better than Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Can you imagine anyone else pulling this off, or even daring to try? 

 

Sophistication alert

From a Jewish Anti-Defamation League press release regarding the upcoming film "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan," likely to be the most politically incorrect mainstream flick since 1974′s "Blazing Saddles" —

"We are concerned, however, that one serious pitfall is that the audience may not always be sophisticated enough to get the joke, and that some may even find it reinforcing their bigotry."

Sophistication alert

From a Jewish Anti-Defamation League press release regarding the upcoming film "Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan," likely to be the most politically incorrect mainstream flick since 1974′s "Blazing Saddles" —

"We are concerned, however, that one serious pitfall is that the audience may not always be sophisticated enough to get the joke, and that some may even find it reinforcing their bigotry."

We’ll meet again

Even cynics have their soft spots, and I’m no exception. Kitties (notice I didn’t say "cats"), old people and baseball are mine.

I was at The Ted this afternoon for the Bravos’ season finale, and I hated to leave. The local nine are part of my daily routine from April to October, and, like a feline, I don’t like my routines interrupted. Sure, all good things must end, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And while many observers will tell you differently, there are plenty of hardcore baseball fans in the ATL. Not enough, but we’re there.

We don’t all worship at the glitzy altar of football. I don’t dislike the game — I just despise the spectacle. Give me subtlety over Terry Bradshaw and end zone dances any day.

Good pal Al Kosa summed it up nicely on our Braves blog after we attended Friday night’s game:

It felt in many ways like a reunion with friends: most of these folks, minus the couple hundred Astros fans, are true Braves fans, you figure, here like us for a last visit with our team before they pack it in until next March.

It’s been a disappointing season, obviously. But it’s still baseball. It’s still the Braves. In the name of Pearl Sandow, our own Hall of Fame fan, it’s still about as good as any three hours I can think of. Only five months ’til spring training.   

As much as we’ll miss our Braves, there’s plenty who’ll miss them more. It’s all they have, and I hate to see them go without:

At 1:05 p.m. today, they’ll all be watching, anticipating the first pitch of this strangest of season finales.

By then, Sister Miriam will have prayed the Angelus over the intercom, then said grace before lunch. Kenneth Beaton’s hospital bed will be positioned at just the right angle for the TV; perhaps he’ll tap the John Smoltz figurine on his nightstand, a little luck for the Braves’ starting pitcher. Mitchell Drewery, who turned 93 Wednesday, will affix his headphones to hear the play-by-play.

And German Mabry, 80, will hit the call button, summon a nurse and ask, as he always asks, "What channel is the Braves game on?"

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit I choked up while reading the conclusion of Jack Wilkinson’s excellent front page story (excerpted above and below) in today’s AJC about how much the home team means to the cancer patients living at a hospice in the shadow of Turner Field —

This season, uncharacteristically, ends abruptly Sunday for Braves fans. One of them, however, is already looking ahead to 2007.

"The doctor said I had stomach cancer but I can’t tell it," said German Mabry, who was admitted to Our Lady of Perpetual Help on July 20. "I don’t believe it. I feel fine. Now, we’re gonna get that Braves thing right next spring. I’m going to a ball game."

Hope to see you there, German.

We’ll meet again

Even cynics have their soft spots, and I’m no exception. Kitties (notice I didn’t say "cats"), old people and baseball are mine.

I was at The Ted this afternoon for the Bravos’ season finale, and I hated to leave. The local nine are part of my daily routine from April to October, and, like a feline, I don’t like my routines interrupted. Sure, all good things must end, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And while many observers will tell you differently, there are plenty of hardcore baseball fans in the ATL. Not enough, but we’re there.

We don’t all worship at the glitzy altar of football. I don’t dislike the game — I just despise the spectacle. Give me subtlety over Terry Bradshaw and end zone dances any day.

Good pal Al Kosa summed it up nicely on our Braves blog after we attended Friday night’s game:

It felt in many ways like a reunion with friends: most of these folks, minus the couple hundred Astros fans, are true Braves fans, you figure, here like us for a last visit with our team before they pack it in until next March.

It’s been a disappointing season, obviously. But it’s still baseball. It’s still the Braves. In the name of Pearl Sandow, our own Hall of Fame fan, it’s still about as good as any three hours I can think of. Only five months ’til spring training.   

As much as we’ll miss our Braves, there’s plenty who’ll miss them more. It’s all they have, and I hate to see them go without:

At 1:05 p.m. today, they’ll all be watching, anticipating the first pitch of this strangest of season finales.

By then, Sister Miriam will have prayed the Angelus over the intercom, then said grace before lunch. Kenneth Beaton’s hospital bed will be positioned at just the right angle for the TV; perhaps he’ll tap the John Smoltz figurine on his nightstand, a little luck for the Braves’ starting pitcher. Mitchell Drewery, who turned 93 Wednesday, will affix his headphones to hear the play-by-play.

And German Mabry, 80, will hit the call button, summon a nurse and ask, as he always asks, "What channel is the Braves game on?"

I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit I choked up while reading the conclusion of Jack Wilkinson’s excellent front page story (excerpted above and below) in today’s AJC about how much the home team means to the cancer patients living at a hospice in the shadow of Turner Field —

This season, uncharacteristically, ends abruptly Sunday for Braves fans. One of them, however, is already looking ahead to 2007.

"The doctor said I had stomach cancer but I can’t tell it," said German Mabry, who was admitted to Our Lady of Perpetual Help on July 20. "I don’t believe it. I feel fine. Now, we’re gonna get that Braves thing right next spring. I’m going to a ball game."

Hope to see you there, German.

Pass the poppers

To be fair, the Al Pacino impressionist on SNL is pretty dead on. But no one does Pacino better than Pacino — watch him at his most unrestrained, as a cop undercover in the gay leather scene (from “Cruising”) –

The unfortunate mainstreaming of Dane Cook

So I’m watching the guy who wishes he was Adam Sandler (the farthest thing from a compliment) host the season premiere of the most irrelevant show on TV. I’d rather endure Taylor Hicks sing Clay Aiken covers. That is, I’d prefer licking John Candy‘s armpit (and yes, I’m aware he’s been dead for 12 years).

Damn 48 HR hangovers!

Your Congress at work

Sen. Arlen Specter, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, last Monday delivered an unusually candid assessment of the Senate’s notoriously light work schedule.

In a National Press Club luncheon speech, Specter noted it was “very hard to convene a Monday morning hearing” because of extended weekends. He continued: “We’ve fallen into a routine . . . of starting our workweek Tuesday at 2:15 after we finish our caucus luncheons, and people start to get edgy and heading for the airports early on Thursday. So we might increase the workweek by 50 percent, say, to three days.”

Really long and really hard

The Best of Mr. Slave

Adam and the Ants reconsidered

There’s no denying it: “Stand and Deliver” is a cool song, and the video is so 1982.