This is Why You Were Booed at the Cubs' Convention, Mr. Ricketts

To those of us in the ninety-nine percent, you are an insanely wealthy man. While your ownership put an end to the century-long championship drought, it has also overseen a renovation of Wrigley Field that spouts revenue like those fountains in front of swanky Las Vegas hotels.

And good for you. You are entirely within your rights to make as much money from your businesses as humanly possible. Where you go wrong is when you say “I don't have any more money.” You understand how that sounds, right? It's a screaming, neon-lit definition of disingenuous.

I'm sure each arm in your Cubs' kingdom has a budget and a profit and loss statement, and after dropping 391 million on long-term contracts to Jason Heyward, Yu Darvish, Tyler Chatwood and Craig Kimbrel your wallet is pretty sore.

But here's the thing. The Cubs aren't a quote-unquote business. They're a civic institution. You just happen to be the current owner. And when you say you don't have any more money, you are effectively cutting the heart out of it.

The window is still open. These Cubs are young and in their prime and just a savvy trade or two removed from contention. I'm going to presume this isn't news to you. Otherwise, you wouldn't have fired Joe Maddon. 

And yet you've essentially told the three mainstays in your lineup that their time in Chicago has a sell-by date.

Huh?

Inviting some combination of Anthony Rizzo, Javier Baez and Kris Bryant to put up their feet and stay awhile would accomplish two things: it would destroy the notion you're ready to shred the championship-era Cubs and begin another rebuild (not the wisest proposition as you prepare to unveil your in-house cable channel) while proving you're still interested in further burnishing the Cubs brand (not to mention your own) with another title.

Are you?

Based on their 2019 contributions, three-fifths of your pitching staff could be described as wobbly. Bullpen issues abound. And who's going to play second base?

But the folk who pay forty-bucks to park and munch on seven-dollar hot dogs while swilling ten-dollar beer know these aren't insurmountable problems. There's still plenty of gas in the tank and topping it off for another run is just a savvy (there's that word again) trade or two away.

I'm aware that Major League Baseball's interminable crawl to a decision regarding the Bryant case isn't helping.

But you're putting out mixed signals. Where's the evidence of a clear, decisive game plan? Is moving Will Venable from first-base coach to third-base coach what GM Theo Epstein meant by a “reckoning”? Are you tearing down and preparing to rebuild or are you reloading?

Nothing foments restlessness among the electorate like the mixed messages of indecision.

You have to know that letting Rizzo, Baez and Bryant go with nothing in return puts you closer to Daniel Snyder than Joe Lacob and Peter Guber, right?

Look. The Cubs' organization is obviously very fond of David Ross. Do him a favor and give him a chance. And just imagine the hero worship if the Cubs could pluck one more title from the MLB firmament. 

Even if you do enable that contagion in the White House.

 

I'm Going to Kansas City

If it hadn't been for the Dallas Cowboys, I'd be a Chiefs fan.

The hometown Bears were as boring as shit, and run by an out of touch NFL legend who would only draft players he thought he could sign on the cheap. Not surprisingly, the Bears sucked.

They sucked like a vacuum.

Like today, they had a decent defense. But scoring points was a problem. It was like asking someone with chronic constipation to squeeze out a good-sized stool every day. Painful. You don't know who Jack Concannon or Bobby Douglass or Bob Avelleni are for a very good reason.

By contrast, the Dallas Cowboys and Kansas City Chiefs had two of the most remarkable teams around. They could score like Joe Namath at a bridal shower and pound you senseless on defense. I often wondered why the Bears couldn't do that.

Oh that's right—they were saving money. Check.

For reasons still not entirely understood, I tilted towards the Cowboys. But the Chiefs remained my favorite AFL team. They were the yin to the evil Oakland Raiders' yang, and I delighted in seeing the Chiefs beat the Raiders. Especially in Oakland, where it was still sunny long after the Midwest had gone dark.

Len Dawson, Bobby Bell, Curly Culp, Johnny Robinson, Jim Lynch, Buck Buchanan, Willie Lanier, Jerrel Wilson, Jan Stenerud and especially Otis Taylor were my heroes. I was over the moon when they beat the Raiders (in Oakland) in the last AFL championship game and moved on to defeat the Minnesota Vikings in Super Bowl IV.

Inevitably, those Chiefs grew old and the franchise was forced to rebuild.

The nineties brought sustained success under the tutelage of Marty Schottenheimer, and saw the Chiefs return to the playoffs in seven of the decade's ten seasons. Sadly, the Chiefs were coached by the man who, had the Chicago Cubs been a football team, would have been their coach.

That's how cursed he (and they) were.

No matter how good and how dominant those nineties teams were, post-season success eluded them. The coach who ranks eighth all-time in victories and who compiled an impressive .613 winning percentage with four different franchises couldn't get his Kansas City charges to the conference championship game.

In eighteen playoff games, Schottenheimer's teams went 5 – 13. Among coaches who oversaw ten or more post-season games, only Steve Owens falls below Schottenheimer's .278 winning percentage.

It takes a Cub fan to understand.

But that was then. And this is now.

The Chiefs' incredibly loyal fan base has been rewarded with an all-world quarterback and a stout defense capable of shutting down anyone. If not another distinguished head coach who lacks the post-season success he deserves.

I am so very, very happy for them.

Go beat the crap out of the 49ers.

Squeezing Our Eyes Shut

Individual empowerment is a wonderful thing.

Without it, the Boeing employee troubled by his employer's rush job on a poorly-designed airplane stays silent. The woman being victimized by high-ranking executives at her firm has no option but to submit—or quit.

Individual empowerment is a critical component of a functioning democracy. Otherwise, power congeals at the top, where it is too often abused. But abuses of power can run both ways. They can flow from the bottom up as well.

The best example are the stupendously naive Americans who believe having to vaccinate their kids constitutes an onerous breach of their civil liberties and is a classic case of government overreach. They claim it violates their religious beliefs. And is cover for a insidious plot to turn their children into aliens.

(Okay. Just kidding on that last one. But I doubt anti-vaxxers would know the difference.)

Anti-vaxxers tend to be young, and grew-up in a world free of things like measles, polio and rubella. Sadly, they also grew-up in a world infested by social media, where in a truly perverted take on democracy, anyone with a phone can concoct a conspiracy theory (remember pink slime?) and have it go viral.

Millennials and generation Y in particular embrace these theories, allowing them to gain traction instantly. I mean, if it's not from an established media source it just has to be true, right?

This much more quickly than the realization that hey—we never had measles outbreaks when I was a kid. Why is that?

That's because another generation, undistracted by the vacuousness of social media and possessing a more inclusive hierarchy, understood the value of mandated vaccinations. They kept us healthy.

Yes, there's a reason why you grew up unconcerned with measles and polio and rubella!

You get that, right?

Yet anti-vaxxers persist, even as children all around them die. Don't they realize their exaggerated sense of entitlement will kill still more? But congratulations on defending your religious beliefs (exactly what religion forbids vaccinations, anyway?) and exercising your misshapen idea of free will.

They're definitely worth risking our public health for.

Remarkably, there was an outbreak of common sense from Seattle's public schools. They had the temerity to tell the parents of its students that if their children weren't vaccinated, they would be prohibited from attending its schools.

Wow. Someone clearly has a clue.

But in other, less-enlightened places like New Jersey, parents protested pending legislation that would require similar action by its parents. Sadly, the parents succeeded and the bill died.

So who will they blame when their kid succumbs to measles? I'm guessing it won't be themselves.

Dear millennial. I'm just a racist, sexist, materialistic, technophobic boomer. Feel free to dismiss this with an fatigued recitation of "OK, boomer" and an airy wave of your hand. Yes, we are to blame for the wretched conditions under which you exist.

But you know what? I actually agree with you. Blame rests entirely with us for not insisting you learn how to think. If we had, you'd know George Santayana was right. He said those who remain ignorant of the past are condemned to repeat it.

The best of luck in finding your way to the truth of mandated vaccinations. I hope your a-ha moment arrives before your kid's infection.

This Is Utopia?

Like so many things, music blogs begin with the best of intentions.

Imagine a utopian community rooted in its love of music, with people sharing hard-to-find treasures and personal favorites at the same time they're exposed to new ones. Excitedly sharing thoughts and impressions with other like-minded individuals.

It's the spontaneous record store conversation given permission to continue beyond the threat of an expiring parking meter.

With this vision in mind, I joined several. I tried to be a nice guy. I shared things, fulfilled requests when I could and thanked those who fulfilled mine. Basic human behavior, right?

But never having been part of “the business” or counted a famous label executive, producer or musician as friends, I rarely dazzled anyone with my shares. Put another way, I wasn't uploading studio conversation between Tom Wilson and the Velvet Underground as they worked out the finer points of Venus in Furs.

Nevertheless, I contributed.

But in these sour and divisive times, it wasn't enough.

Disputes sprang up like weeds. Who got credit for posting something first? Who didn't think Terje Rypdal was Norway's answer to Charlie Christian? Who didn't get thanked enough? And what kind of godless heathen would post anything in a format other than FLAC?

The sniping went on and on and on.

Adding to the problem was that I used the same screen name in those blogs that I do here. And however I comported myself within those blogs, the political opinions expressed here made me an insufferable presence to many.

Why are we allowing radicalized socialists in here? was a persistent concern.

And then there were those who seemingly tracked every download versus every upload and screamed bloody murder if a perfect 1:1 ratio wasn't maintained. Or if posts were repeated. Or if you didn't adore the same bands and musicians they did.

This while one blog incessantly trumpeted itself as a place where “kindness wins”.

(To be sure, there were some incredibly generous individuals who regularly shared amazing music. And to those individuals I hope I made my appreciation clear.)

In my profile, I describe myself as a social critic. And under that aegis, I'll say that only inhabitants of the twenty-first century would complain that after uploading music, people downloaded it.

Seriously?

Yes, there are people in the world who take advantage of things. It is our nature. Pay much attention to the goings-on in Washington DC? Come on. Are you really going to tell me you never took two crackers topped with a delectable sharp cheddar despite being told that only one per customer was permitted?

Of course you have.

Downloading music proffered only with the expectation that said music be enjoyed seems like one of humanity's lesser crimes if you ask me. If this truly disturbs you, you might want to re-evaluate how and where you spend your time.

Firmly disabused of the notion that these communities were first and foremost only about the music and a haven from the ills of twenty-first century society, I drifted away. I drop in occasionally to download things when they appeal to me, but my desire to share has largely died.

Besides, with more music than I could ever hope to listen to and other, more pressing demands on my time, accumulating more seems pointless.

Like civilization itself, music blogs are a great and noble concept. But the reality is far less-appealing.

I realize now that music blogs can't help but reflect the societies from which they spring. And that just sucks.

Thank U, Next

In February of 2002, I was happy for the New England Patriots. After three tough losses in title games, watching Adam Vinatieri's field goal sail through the uprights as time expired in Super Bowl XXXVI felt like a welcome blast of karma.

Who didn't love the story of a long-suffering team helmed by a sixth-round quarterback finally getting to the top of the mountain?

Ditto two years later, when Vinatieri capped a fourth quarter shoot-out with another last-second field goal, giving the Pats their second championship.

But then they became a dynasty. And their quarterback married one of the world's most-beautiful women. And their grizzled coach began to believe his press clippings. The whole thing took on an air of entitled arrogance.

Then there were the 'gates'. Spygate. Deflategate. Antonio Brown-gate. And filming the opposition's sideline action from the press box. It was distinctly unsavory. And despite winning their division in 2018, the Pats somehow landed a first-half schedule loaded with softies this season.

And when they raced off to an 8 – 0 start and outscored their opponents by a margin of 250 to 61, the media tripped all over themselves anointing their defense “historically great”.

Ugh-huh.

The truth revealed itself in the second half of the season, when the Pats took on NFL-level competition. They stumbled to the finish line with a 4 – 4 record, outscoring the likes of the Baltimore Ravens, Kansas City Chiefs, Houston Texans, Dallas Cowboys, rejuvenated Philadelphia Eagles and emergent Buffalo Bills by a scant six points.

Yeah.

Beating up on cellar-dwellers and struggling against contenders is the first sign of a young team beginning to feel its oats, or a former powerhouse in decline. The New England Patriots belong decidedly to the latter.

Last night's loss to the surging Tennessee Titans was only additional proof.

After years of going without high draft picks and riding the once-ageless arm of Tom Brady, it appears the dynasty has begun a long, slow descent.

Gravity doesn't take personal days. Not that I'm complaining.