Selig, Bonds & Clemens

Like so many other public institutions, the Baseball Hall of Fame has become something of a battleground. Who belongs, who doesn't. Who has been unfairly ostracized, who has been unfairly admitted. The allegations (and the debate) goes on and on and on.

The current disagreement is over the players who benefited from steroid usage. While technically not a rules violation (baseball was notoriously slow to act on their usage), it obviously provided an under the counter advantage for those who imbibed.

Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco are only the most-prominent names who admitted to using. Dozens (probably hundreds) of others also used them. But even in an era of bloated hitting statistics, steroids didn't turn everyone into Mickey Mantle.

Which is fundamental to the pro-steroids argument. Bonds and Clemens would've made the Hall of Fame, anyway. Why should they be punished for enhancing their skill set?

And I agree. To the first part, anyway. Both enjoyed notable and highly-successful beginnings to their careers. But as we were to see, that wasn't enough. It didn't matter that Bonds was a Gold Glove All-Star and a perpetual MVP candidate. Or that Clemens was a consistent Cy Young contender. They had to be Babe Ruth, too.

Bonds also underwent pronounced physical changes, including an enlarged head. Never one of the games nice guys, he became highly irascible, lashing out at fans and the media at the slightest provocation. I'll never forget his pronouncement that “we” didn't like him because he was Black. 

Really, Barry? Is that the reason? Are you saying that if you were white I'd be your fan club president? 

Hmmm.

Whatever regard I carried for him evaporated at that point. I relished his unofficial nickname: Asterisk. In addition to his chemically-enhanced output, he became the game's biggest asshole. Is that what's known as a win-win?

To the remaining members of the steroid club, Bonds was a blessing. As the player who enjoyed the greatest, most eye-popping benefit, he took a lot of heat off of those performing in smaller markets or with under-achieving teams.

The most convincing pro-steroids argument came from a baseball writer at the Chicago Tribune, who defended her picks thusly: The Commissioner who turned the blindest eye possible to the steroids scandal was voted into the Hall of Fame. Why? Because he made his employers a whole lot of money.

Should we really punish the players?

It is an argument I cannot fault. 

After the 1994 strike, baseball found itself on shaky ground. Or at least ground as shaky as a multi-billion dollar business ever finds itself on. It was scared. It's probably an overstatement to say the 1998 home run chase between McGwire and Sosa saved baseball, but again, it poured an awful lot of black ink into baseball at a very crucial time.

Being businessmen first, last and always, it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to envision team owners urging Bud Selig to go as easy on steroid use as the public would allow. And for that reason and that reason only, I'm grateful for Barry Bonds. His outsized success was impossible to ignore. Ditto questions about the game's integrity.

Judging by the vote counted Monday by the Contemporary Baseball Era Player's Committee, plenty of questions remain. And none of them appear to be answered with the words 'Hall of Fame'. Neither Bonds, Clemens, Palmeiro or Curt Schilling received the number of votes required for entrance.

I'm sure another generation, by and large ignorant of the steroid era, will look at their numbers and wonder why a previous generation had a problem with them. But for now, justice has triumphed. And in 2022, that's something.

 

Ten Years Gone

I am as naive as any right-wing conservative you care to name.

For instance, on December 14, 2012, as the news about the Sandy Hook, N.J. elementary school shooting broke, beyond my revulsion and sorrow was the thought that maybe, just maybe this might be the mass murder that would propel the United States to enact profound changes within the Second Amendment.

Yep, I was the doctor who confused pancreatic cancer with indigestion.

Meanwhile, unflushed conspiracy-theorist-slash-radio-host Alex Jones ranted and raved about the shooting, claiming it was an event staged by the U.S. government that would one day enable the government to confiscate America's firearms.

(Dear Trump-tard, Be honest. Isn't everything that happens in the world ultimately a plot to confiscate American's guns?)

So. If burying your eight-year-old daughter wasn't traumatic enough, imagine some mentally-ill conspiracy theorist trumpeting this idea and inciting the mental-defectives which constitute his audience to actively and deliberately harass the parental victims of this shooting.

Which of course they did.

In La Piazza Gancio land, Jones would have been placed in an industrial-strength meat grinder with his remains scattered for the benefit of any diseased rodent that cared for them.

Sadly, it seems that turds also enjoy the benefits of the Constitution. Which is another way of saying that, yes, Alex Jones had rights.

Thankfully, so did the survivors. They sued Jones for his toxic re-interpretation of the shooting and in late-November, won. While I've no qualms with the damages awarded the families, I do regret the lack of oversight which might have been able to freeze Jones' assets.

Thusly, he is moving as a much more slender man, hiding and transferring whatever he can lay his fat little hands on to prevent it from being part of the damages. He even declared bankruptcy, just like his buddy Donald.

Yes, imitation is truly the sincerest form of flattery.

I don't know how successful his attempts will be. But for a domestic terrorist who employs a lawyer who declared the verdict as a “very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech”, just about any annoyance or inconvenience we can heap on Jones is appropriate. (Meat grinder included.)

Before I close, let me correct Jones' lawyer, Norm Pattis:

Mr. Pattis, I believe the very, very, very dark day for freedom of speech you refer to was the day your client opened his mouth about Sandy Hook. 

Wikipedia lists Jones as having four children. In a better world, he would soon know the pain those Sandy Hook parents already know.

BG

By all accounts, Brittney Griner is a gentle soul. Quite a feat, considering the challenges being a six-foot nine-inch female who weighs two-hundred five pounds and is openly gay present. (Not to mention that unless your name is Giannis Antetokounmpo or Joel Embiid, she can probably kick your ass to the dark side of the moon in a game of basketball.)

As players in the WNBA often do, she had traveled to Europe to play a second season following her 2021 WNBA Finals appearance with the Phoenix Mercury. It is unknown if she had successfully smuggled cannabis into Russia previously, but this time her attempt was unsuccessful.

I don't pretend to know Russia's drug laws or precisely what is meant by “a small amount” of cannabis, but I'm guessing that even in Vladimir Putin's Russia, this is not the equivalent of a first-degree felony. And yet Griner has been treated nearly like a serial killer.

Detained in February and tried in August, she was sentenced to nine-years in prison. Her legal team filed for an appeal and were denied in October. Now comes word that she has been sent to a penal colony, an extraordinarily harsh punishment in light of her crime.

At first glance, it's hard not to wonder if she is being treated more severely owing to her status as a celebrity. After all, this is Putin-land, where cases like this proceed in whatever fashion will guarantee maximum exposure.

A commonly held belief is that Griner is a political pawn, kept in storage until such a point she can be used as a bargaining chip in the aftermath of the war in Ukraine. And if this is the case, does it make sense to let a valuable prisoner languish in such deprived conditions?

This is supposition, of course. For all I know, Putin lost a butt-load on the Mercury in the 2021 WNBA Finals and this is his preferred manner of extracting revenge. But given the dire reality of Putin's twisted autocracy, the probability remains that this woman has become a pawn in his latest political drama.

All that is left is for the U.S. and Russia to determine her worth before the inevitable negotiations begin.

Another chapter in the book of human cruelty.

Inflation

Two-thirds of the U.S. population is under fifty years-old. Which means that the inflation currently gripping the country is something they have never experienced. Never felt. Never lived through.

For them, it is an especially unnerving thing. At least until Tuesday, when they can vote Democrats out of office. With Democrats gone, inflation will disappear and the economy will magically repair itself.

Right?

As someone who came of age in the inflation-happy seventies and early-eighties, I can and will laugh at them.

Contrary to their politically-motivated feelings, our parties rarely have much to do with inflation. In 2022, the pandemic, the ensuing lockdowns, supply and labor shortages and overwhelming consumer demand have a bit more to do with inflation than whatever Democrat(s) you choose to blame.

Take gasoline. I don't know the person who hasn't carped about fuel prices. But climb into your car and hit the road. Is the amount of traffic not markedly higher than in any of the past five years? I, myself, routinely sit through multiple traffic light cycles where I never did before.

If Americans can't afford gas, we are doing one hell of a job at hiding it.

Fact: inflation is the byproduct of a market where demand outstrips supply. That's why automobile dealerships, despite their often bare lots, are making two to three times the income than they ever have before. That's why the price of gasoline and airline tickets leap like a twenty-four year-old Michael Jordan.

And when the product itself isn't undergoing material or labor shortages, the cost of getting it to market has—as you know—exploded.

So. How do we beat inflation?

I propose a radical idea: consume less.

Don't run to Target for a fresh jar of moisturizer. Don't go to the grocery store for a carton of ice cream or a bag of chips. Consolidate your trips. You'll use less gas, save time and hopefully wean yourself from the illness known as instant gratification.

It is us, you see, who are at the root of inflation. Ask yourself: what are we telling Exxon Mobil and British Petroleum and Royal Dutch Shell when we mindlessly lap up the latest increase they have gifted us with?

We don't care! Price isn't important! Raise it again—we can afford it!

Until supply outstrips demand, companies have no incentive to drop prices. Their purpose is to make as much money as possible, and under current conditions they are doing a fabulous job.

Some have even resorted to price-gouging just because the current climate allows it.

I'll say it again: the more we consume merely because that's how we've always consumed, the more we will pay for our purchases. With the mid-term elections happening tomorrow, it's a great time to ask of ourselves that which polls indicate we most want to ask of our candidates:

Do something about inflation.

We can make it happen. Reigning in our thirst for instant gratification would help.

Kyrie Irving's Entitlement

Dear Kyrie Irving,

Please tell me how you would feel if a prominent white basketball player linked a movie that was hostile to Blacks to his various social media accounts.

My guess is you'd be pounding on Adam Silver's door demanding the player in question be removed from the NBA. You'd be crying to every TV camera in sight about the relentless slandering of Blacks.

Finally, you'd be filling any and all available social media space with accusations that the NBA is a racist enterprise and needs to be held accountable.

But that didn't happen, did it?

You linked a movie damaging to Jews to your accounts and because you are an obnoxiously-paid, high-profile athlete, the rest of us are supposed to either forgive, excuse or (gulp) understand.

Got it. 

That go for Kanye, too?

Sincerely,

La Piazza Gancio

 

I Tried American Express for a Year. Here's What Happened.

In the midst of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was presented with an appealing offer from American Express. Desperate to break the monotony of sheltering in place, I signed up. It was a shiny, new thing. I gave in.

Sadly, that was the peak of my Amex experience.

I should admit I don't lead what would be called an American Express lifestyle. I don't stay in thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites. I don't wear tailored suits as I jet off to London or Dubai on business. I don't drive a German luxury sedan or an Italian sports car.

An internationally-known chef has never prepared my dinner. 

Am I painting a picture here?

Yes, the card featured free balance transfers and a zero-percent APR for the first year, but as someone who rarely carries a balance this was only a minor perk. The cashback bonuses were nice, but since I didn't use the card that much, they were also negligible.

Following a post-holiday review of my finances, I realized I didn't need another credit card and called American Express to cancel. This was as painless as you'd expect it to be and was confirmed by American Express in a follow-up e-mail:

“Dear La Piazza Gancio,

This message is to confirm that American Express has processed your recent request to cancel the following Card (sic) account(s):

Blue Cash Preferred ending in XXXXXX.

If you have other Card accounts registered for Manage Your Card Account online they will still be available online at americanexpress.com.

Sincerely,

American Express Customer Service”

 

It paralleled the language of the agent who had handled my request over the phone. But as I was soon to learn, American Express and I have very different definitions of 'cancelled'.

Even after cancelling the card I continued to get bills for the $95.00 annual membership fee, which I found quite strange being that I was no longer a cardholder. $95.00 for a card I no longer have? Wow. Seriously?

Assuming it was another error by a short-handed and over-worked staff, I ignored them. I mean, this was as cut-and-dried as consumer stuff gets, right? I had the card and now I don't. Why would I pay a membership fee?

Things were peachy until I was hospitalized in July. During my hospitalization a relative graciously stepped-in to take care of my bills, and when the American Express notice arrived she processed it as if it were a bill for purchases.

Only it wasn't.

I cringed. I immediately called American Express to request a refund.

The agent told me a fanciful story. One that said since the card wasn't cancelled within twenty-eight days of my last purchase, they were within their rights to apply the membership fee. Neither the agent with whom I made the initial request or the follow-up e-mail made any mention of a fee.

Nor did the small print on their monthly statements.

Even more interestingly, the following notation appears on their bills: “We have billed your annual membership fee. However if we do not receive your payment we will need to close your account due to inactivity.”

So. Let's see. I cancelled the card in January and did not pay the membership fee that month. Or in February, March, April, May and June. That's six months. It begs the question when, exactly, is an American Express account rendered inactive?

It's a cash grab—nothing more, nothing less.

I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau September 7^th. Having heard nothing from either party regarding a resolution, I e-mailed the BBB. I was told American Express had contacted me by mail.

If by that they mean there was written correspondence on American Express' corporate letterhead within an American Express envelope sitting in my mailbox, then no. Nothing.

(I filed a second complaint via the BBB. I'll let you know what happens.)

If you enjoy doing business with corporations who issue shady and nebulous fees without explanation, then please. Apply for an American Express card today. But as gambling sites caution their customers, never bet more than you can afford to lose.

Charging a membership fee for a card that no longer exists is beyond the pale. Furthermore, I don't understand how they are able to. Why isn't this illegal?

Until I find out, do business with American Express with extreme caution. (If you're a football fan, imagine being the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins.) Who knows how many more unspoken fees lurk behind their shiny corporate exterior? 

I'm hoping the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau will be able to tell me.

Mail Box Adventure

I'm a guy who routinely returns his shopping cart to the corral in the grocery store parking lot. I take pains to avoid exposing volatile household cleaners to direct sunlight or extreme temperatures. I unfailingly refrigerate after opening.

And if it even needs to be said, I consistently acknowledge those gracious-enough to allow me into traffic—especially during rush hour.

So how is it a mindful and conscientious soul like myself received the following in his mailbox?

Outwardly, they didn't appear particularly threatening. One envelope contained an invitation to one of those we'll-buy-you-dinner-if-you-listen-to-our-sales-pitch, while the other was a notice from my car manufacturer.

No biggie, right?

And taken separately, I'd agree with you. But together they served to impart nagging doubts about my life and the karma I am putting out there.

The invitation was just that, only there wasn't a free dinner included. But it did extend to me the opportunity to explore questions one should ask before one “needs” to ask them. And by that I mean our (ahem) 'final expenses'.

Having just recovered from a bout with head trauma for which I sacrificed two-thirds of the summer, I wasn't particularly eager to ponder—much less plan—my funeral.

I set it down and opened the envelope from the car-maker.

It was yet-another notice informing me of a recall on my seat belt pretensioners. It (again) explained that if deployed incorrectly, the unit's micro gas generator could explode, exposing all within the passenger compartment to jagged pieces of metal hurtling through the car at skin-piercing velocities.

More importantly, four months after the recall was initially announced, there are still no non-explosive pretensioners available. Just paper reminders of the death trap I must ride in daily. If nothing else, the notice lent an eerie sense of portent to the 'final expenses' invitation.

If my body is to be shredded to the point of cessation by what is reportedly a safety device, does the car manufacture's customer care package at least guarantee a ride to the nearest medical facility, where my death can be properly confirmed and recorded?

And if not, is it the comprehensive customer care package the manufacturer states it is? Can my estate sue for misrepresentation?

And looking to the cause-and-effect side of things, is it possible to draw a line between the organization offering the 'final expenses' presentation and any and all explosions caused by the faulty micro gas generators?

Sigh. Life is complicated.

I sidestep the Q&A and visit an attorney. There, I declare my preferences as to how memorial events following my death should unfold. From there, it's off to a firm specializing in body armor. The head-to-toe protection isn't cheap but, this firm excepted, can you really put a price on human life?

It renders driving very difficult and places an undue burden on my car's air conditioning unit. Owing to the proportions of the head protection, I'm thankful for the sunroof. Ignoring heartless comments about resembling a certain seventies cartoon character, I relish my newfound sense of protection.

And to think some people refer to this as junk mail.