Cal Ripken rips Orioles' management
- it's about damn time! Oh yeah, happy birthday, Ian Paice.
Good God, what a day. Rod Beck, one of my favorite players ever and a helluva character, was found dead at age 38. That's a year younger than I am (insert a BLAST of sudden mortality here). Also, Chris Benoit and his wife and son were found dead Monday, June 25, at their suburban Atlanta home, a suspected double murder/suicide. There are also reports, unconfirmed as this goes to press, of copious amounts of steroids being present in the house . . . I know many people look VERY far down their collective noses at professional wrestling and they can go perform the usual anatomically-impossible act. I've been a lifelong fan as I mentioned in an earlier burst of bad craziness. There is something to be said for a violent, acrobatic soap opera for men and that is what pro rasslin' is. And small guys usually never are the big dogs of the show; most don't generate enough "pops" from the audience. This was never true about Chris Benoit, who wrestled in his native Canada, Japan and the United States. At 5'11" and 234 lbs, Benoit packed a lot of muscle into a small frame which, when combined with his arsenal of aerial offense, made for a hell of a show. His upper-rope Flying Headbutt was famous around the wrestling world and his ability to sell a match was matched, maybe, but never equaled. Whatever the cause of his demise, I prefer to remember the Rabid Wolverine as a great performer who realized his lifelong dream of being a champion professional wrestler - RIP Chris Benoit.
Rod Beck was an atypical closer, all location and precision, not heat and bluster. The mustache was really the only typical "closer" part of his look but a solid low 90s heater mixed with a nasty forkball allowed him to be dominant when healthy. He was a vital part of three postseason teams (Giants, Cubs and Red Sox) and also managed to return from Tommy John surgery late in his career to have a Comeback Player of the Year season (2003) with the San Diego Padres. Lord, was he fun to watch. The sport needs more people like Rod Beck . . .
Cal Ripken, God's Own Baseball Player if you believe the PR flacks, has expressed displeasure with the merry-go-round that is the Orioles' management. He is on record as saying that the constant shuffle of personnel is distracting to the team . . . well, no shit, Cal. Captain Obvious notes his respect for Andy Macphail, who drank the kool-aid and was named President of Baseball Operations this past week . . . "white night, white night". Welcome to AngelosTown - there will be self-criticism meetings and ritual worship of the Godhead that is Big Pete. Christ . . .
Random baseball babblings: the Cards are promoting Troy Percival, hoping he can settle a pen that is in shambles; the Red Sox are a lock and the real action is gonna be on the wild-card slot with Cleveland, Seattle and maybe Oakland hooking up in some serious deathmatch-style shootouts; 'Bye, Ozzie - enjoy anonymity, you zero; the Brewers will have to go over the cliff to miss out on the NL Central title and the NL West will be gory; the Bravos have two problems: they need another veteran starter BAD and Tim Hudson is schizophrenic, with Good Tim being dominant and Bad Tim being essentially league-average. He is also getting hammered at Turner Field (.272 BAA and .681 OPS). God help . . . Joe Torre will be enjoying dark chocolate and Italian dessert wines this time next year. You can make book on that.
The Band No One Here Gives A Damn About this week is the Manic Street Preachers who emerged in '86 from Wales with the following manifesto: release one album that would outsell "Appetite For Destruction"; tour the world; play Wembley Stadium for three nights; and subsequently break up. Their first LP, "Generation Terrorists", is all bluster and energy with "Motorcycle Emptiness" leading the way. The band carried on quite well in the 90s (except for here, of course) and then the sky fell in. Richey James, the troubled heart and soul of the band, disappeared in February of '95. The band debated whether to continue or not and returned with a sonic blast equal to "The Holy Bible" (the last album with Richey James) - "Everything Must Go", which contained "A Design For Life" which may be the most powerful statement of melancholy purpose I have ever heard . . . I could go on and on about these guys - they're THAT good. Listen to the music and, for once, read the bios. It's worth the effort.
I gotta go and read some more Nicky Wire interviews.
Later taters (Go Braves/Go Tribe!)
His mismanagement of a once-proud Oriole franchise is nothing short of, say, criminal. He bought the team in '93 and had some early successes with Ripken breaking Gehrig's record in '95 (a MARKETING success); the wild-card berth in '96 (hello, Jeffrey Maier); and the division title wire-to-wire in '97. Then, the Great Man has a spat with manager Davey Johnson and fires his ass posthaste. Since then, it has been a world of suck with lots of losses; massive on-field and front office turmoil; and egocentric media circuses that a young Steinbrenner would've been proud of. The ego of lawyers is impossible to overestimate, most of the time . . .
Damon Albarn - Blur (ya know, that song that went "whoooo-hoooo!" like nine million times) and Gorrillaz, which have only been slightly larger than Scientology since they hit.
shoe leather diet. MLB's Specialist for Media Relations, Michael Teevan, must be on an ethanol binge after this fiasco. Gary Sheffield is like gas stored in a plastic gas can sitting in the hot sunlight - it's just a matter of time before there is a spectacular explosion . . .
known. Oh well. Hey Paul Draper - reference serotonin; the Book of Mormon; and Richard Rogers in one work such as "Six" and I’m sold. The Marquis de Sade asides are just wonderful bonuses . . .
Ejections seem to be on everyone's mind lately. Here's Bobby Cox one or two away from the all-time record but I can't be precise 'cause he may be tossed between when I transcribe these fever dreams and when you read them. The viral video of the Mississippi Braves' manager Philip Wellman being ejected has been number one with a bullet over the past few days. If you haven't seen it, Google it now! The hand grenade bit is priceless. Just to top it all off, Wellman was the Lookouts' manager for four seasons, the latest being 2003. Nice to see Chattanooga make the news somehow . . . oh yeah, EJECTIONS! Godamighty, Lou Piniella channeled Billy Martin last Saturday, the day after Michael Barrett and Carlos Zambrano fought for the heavyweight championship IN THE CUBS' DUGOUT! You must, must be shitting me. Team falling apart, fights on the bench, hemorrhoids . . . I know! Let's pitch a bitch and kick dirt all over the third base umpire (who looked ready to stomp some old man ass, believe you me). Cubs fans, you get what you deserve. Stay home and don't watch on WGN either. Otherwise, the baseball equivalent of that brutal prison sex that you are on the catching end of will continue with NO lube. Roughly a cool $300 mil was invested over the off-season and it looks like they would've been better served going to Pimlico and trying for the trifecta. Next time just sign the Centobites and save time, huh?
No musical revelations this week. I'm just here to tell you that anyone who writes two pieces as sublime as "Johnny and Mary" and "Looking for Clues" has to be taken seriously. The voice that I heard at the age of six wailing Moon Martin's "Bad Case of Loving You" was unreal. My God, with all the treble being upped by producers of that era (in order to sound better on AM, natch), it literally pinned my ears back. Robert Palmer was a badass when it came to singles and some of his albums also stacked up well. "Riptide", "Pride", and "Clues" were all phenomenal and widely ignored for the most part. His blues album, "Drive", was superb. However, all anyone will remember will be the Power Station singles (and videos, for my era), the Identical Girl videos - "Addicted To Love" and "Simply Irresistible" and "Bad Case of Loving You". Too damn bad for the unwashed. They are the people who only know Warren Zevon from "Werewolves of London". Do yourself a favor - get "Live At The Apollo" (or if the gods smile on you with a copy of "Maybe It's Live") and turn it up pretty loud with some good wine and your Other, ya know, the one that makes you you, completes the puzzle, soothes your soul . . . you get the idea. Anyway, groove out. Robert Palmer's music really said a lot that I didn't understand until I had a lot more scars on my liver and miles on my feet. Fine music for people with mileage . . .
The NL West is the WWE cage match of baseball, with three teams within a game of one another and no one leaves unbloodied. Arizona, San Diego, and Los Angeles in three-way King of the Ring and winner take all. Speaking of cage matches - if you have never seen the Undertaker/Mick Foley Hell In The Cell cage match at King of the Ring 1998, do it now and understand the primal draw that is pro wrestling. Growing up in the South, I never had any idea the rest of y'all were the great unwashed when it came to rasslin'. Man I tell ya when I was a kid I thought Rome, Georgia was the center of the universe because, by God, every Saturday night down there, IT WAS ON. Andre the Giant; the Anderson brothers; Dusty Rhodes, the American Dream; and the one and only Natureboy, Ric Flair. WHOOO! Wrestling was more real than the chair I am sitting on right now and my father and I bonded over wrestling better than any bullshit Dr. Phucking Phil could have suggested. Another thing where what you "know", what you may have been "taught" is wrong. Play your instincts and go with your first answer. That's the secret of "testing well", a useless skill I'm quite accomplished at . . . Enjoy rasslin' or roller derby or, in my case, Arena Football and to hell with the infidels . . .
More Nada Surf. More Hellacopters. More Robert Fucking Palmer, who will be a large part of next week's column. Less packaged horseshit. Hell, I don't care if you like Alabama, as long as you mean it. Death to poseurs and scenesters. Power to the people and kick out the jams, brothers and sisters. Listen to the MC5 now and bring me the head of Ryan Seacrest . . .
Anyway, you knew we were gonna talk some hardball regardless of the title, so here we go - Kyle Davies broke one off on the Mets Tuesday, with a three-run homer and eight solid innings of one-run pitching. Big Bob Wickman wrapped it up to get some work in and, lo and behold, the Braves after a 4-6 road trip stomp some Mets ass and get back to within a game and a half of the division lead. That's the fifth time in seven games against the Braves that the Mets have come up sucking tailpipe. If I were Willie Randolph, I'd just be looking to get out of the ATL with some self-respect and maybe the division lead . . . in other news about the Bravos, they finally cut Mark Redman and are actively looking for a fifth starter. This comes quick on the heels of Craig Wilson being shown the door (as in "don't let it hit you in the ass").
There. Is that concise enough for you perverts and heathens that compose my readership, all seven-and-a-half of you? Name the work that is your fave for rubbin' fuzz and any stories concerning you and your freakiness that you wish to contribute to the discussion as well. I'll pick the winner totally subjectively. The only guidance I will give is that the more graphic and scatological accounts will receive added consideration, because they can be used to fill column space next week and will add spice to the mix. Hell, I might even tell y'all mine . . .
I have never seen anyone throw like Randy Johnson and I've watched a helluva a lot of baseball. The way older people who saw him play and talk about Koufax pitching like a house on fire, that's the way we're all gonna be in twenty years about the Big Unit . . .
And we are poorer for Ian Curtis's absence, more so every passing day. I'll spare you all the purple prose, pro and con, that have been laid on him, Joy Division, and their musical legacy; I'll just state, honestly, that hearing them absolutely changed my life. Why? Because I could never again think of music and what it is and what it can sound like and how close to the bone you could cut with your art and . . . anything like that in the fashion that I did before I heard them. Period. Everything shifted and colors changed and the two hemispheres of my brain switched sides - it was that powerful. I feel lucky in how powerfully music affects me. I'm not Suzi Quatro-I don't have orgasms on stage-but it is a primal force, ripping through chakras located at the base of my spine and rippling throughout my body, twitches in muscles, gooseflesh, involuntary smiling (which I just DON'T do much). Music that powerful makes any drug better; any drink stronger; any sex more carnal; and any breath of air the first oxygen of life. There. And if it doesn't hit you that way, if you're not a music person, I truly feel for you - you are missing out.
As for Clemens, I cannot top nor will I join in the journalistic onanism that continues to spurt from every media outlet left and right as they attempt to get EVERY detail about his impending return to the Yankees, up to and including what he says when he ejaculates and spawns another poor child destined to have a name starting with the letter K. Have fun - I'll take my ball(s) and go home.
HEY CUBS FANS! Before you get all hot and bothered by the (as of Tuesday past) five-game winning streak, allow me to let you in on a little fact: the Cubs are a mediocre team. Lee, Ramirez, and Rich Hill are for real. Ted Lilly and Ryan Theriot will keep on keeping on but the need for another front-line pitcher is very evident and the acquisition or non-acquisition of one will determine if they have any chance of destroying my "Cliff Sherrill Perfect World BrewCrew Scenario". Right now, they have a much better manager than last year who is playing chess with far too many pawns and not enough knights and bishops.
Hancock had turned 29 just eleven days earlier and had been involved in a small accident just three days prior that left him shaken but intact. The talk since the original shock and grief at the beginning of this tragedy has been about Hancock's supposed inebriation from having too many drinks at a near-by restaurant. The Cards' own manager, Tony LaRussa, had DUI issues on March 22ND of this year when he was found asleep at the wheel of his SUV that had stopped in the middle of an intersection in Jupiter, Florida. As for deceased pitchers, the memory of Cardinal pitcher Darryl Kile, who died in his sleep on June 22ND, 2002, still hovers over the franchise. Goddamn, isn't that just uplifting?
Let's finish on a high note:
Told y'all about the Brewers. Two-and-a-half up in the NL Central as I write this and the Cards are 1-6 at home so far this year. Now, that won't last (neither will Albert Pujols' .229 batting average) but none of the teams in that division can afford for any other team to get too big of a lead. Talent levels of the NL Central teams have started to reach a sort of equilibrium, what with no Rocket or Pettite in Houston and the Cards just suckin' into '07. I don't know if I like the Brewers in the NL Central but, then again, I don't know if I like ANYONE in the NL Central.
Mansun - "Six"
Man, weeks like this are the reason I still listen to albums like The Doobie Brothers "Minute By Minute" . I mean, here I was, primed and ready to celebrate Jackie Robinson's amazing life AND set y'all straight on some diamond wisdom PLUS break off a little music knowledge (MASTODON!) . . . and that horrible thing occurred in Blacksburg. "Minute by minute by minute by minute/I keep holdin' on . . . " How true is that . . .
Mastodon is strong as train smoke, progressive metal with no apologies for those left behind. Everyone has hip-hop/R&B/soul/etc. in mind when you mention Atlanta but this bunch is here to represent. AND they filmed the video for "Colony of the Birchmen" inside Ruby Falls, a weird little tourist attraction right here in my back yard. Kick ass . . .
Hey, wait a fucking minute, this is a baseball/rockandroll kinda freakout, innit? By the freakin' way, listening to more Actress tracks on MySpace (The Evil One! Devil horns thrust in air) and it rocks harder every time. Total tangent alert - if you can ever get to see the video of the Ronnie James Dio interview where he explains how he started using the gesture at rock shows, DO. It really is an interesting view into a highly-underrated performer . . . oh yeah, BASEBALL!
Carpenter's DL'ed in St. Loo; Schmidt is headed the same way (probably) in LA; and Mark Prior's in the minors. Damn dude, if I was a big-name major league pitcher, I'd go in witness protection or some shit. Big props for Braden Looper and Adam Wainwright and Kip Wells for doing more than most thought they would/could this early in the season. Treading water isn't glamorous (KILL FERGIE NOW!) but, in the NL Central, it'll do until they formulate another plan, i.e. Albert Pujols actually hitting (.136 as of 4/9).
Ozzie Guillen will be gone for the exact reason listed in the DBT song: he's never gonna change. He speaks without thinking sometimes, which can be handled with good media handlers, but his main problem is that he rides his starters like rented mules and it's starting to show. Mark Buehrle's been over 200 innings for six years running with a K/9 rate starting to sink fast; Jon Garland's been over 190+ innings for five; and Jose Contrera's usage is just about the same and he's slightly older than dirt. This season (2007) is going to be Ozzie's fourth at the helm of the South Siders and he has shown no indication that he has any inkling of what new stats, or "metrics" as those fellows over at SABR (Society For American Baseball Research) like to call them, are out there showing how wrong his approach is. Ya know, names like that make me wanna form something like the Society For Omani Baseball Research and call it SOBR and have meetings in bars but I'm a natural-born smartass and I digress . . . there's a thing called Pitcher Abuse Points that was posted over at Baseball Prospectus 
By the way, Daisuke's throwing a screwball from what I've been able to see. It's not an unheard of pitch to throw (see Fernando Valenzuela) but no one throws it much because the strain on the arm is tremendous. However, Matsuzaka's never been an injury problem in Japan, so who knows? Maybe we're in for a treat - a fine pitcher slinging a pitch that an entire generation of baseball fans have never seen.