Stupid Is As Stupid Does

As someone not old-enough to know how we came to look upon southerners as intellectually inferior compared to people from other parts of the country, I understand perfectly now why that perception might again be in play.

Rightly known for their hospitality (at least as long as you didn't look or worship differently from them), I first experienced it on a family vacation to Kentucky and Tennessee. Of course, as a ten year-old I wasn't engaging anyone in conversations about civil rights or segregation.

No, I was marveling at the natural wonders of Mammoth Cave and the Smoky Mountains, being intoxicated by the century-old vapors in the smokehouse at the Henry Clay mansion and falling in love with a caramel-colored race horse named Traffic Judge who insisted on following me and two siblings around the fence of his (or her) enclosure.

The passage of time has obscured the reasons my parents gave as to why we couldn't take our newfound friend home.

Not so many years later I began to learn about the Civil Rights movement. And the older I got the more plain-spoken my lessons became. The venom displayed by so many in that region was hideous. Ugly. Appalling.

I'll never forget the footage of people spitting on and screaming at the five Black children being escorted into Little Rock High School and the rage that contorted those faces into something not quite human. Or the unprovoked and entirely unjustified treatment accorded the marchers who crossed the Edmund Pettus bridge on March 7, 1965.

No one was going to tell southerners what to do. Or who they could or couldn't hate. If they wanted to treat Black people like the material we flush down toilets, well then by God they were going to do so.

After rejecting the Democratic party en masse when it sought to stop their overt mistreatment of Blacks, that defiance has again flared to new heights.

Acting in the interests of the common good, a mostly Democratic coterie of politicians and public health officials have urged Americans to mask and get vaccinated in the hopes of containing the Coronavirus before it mutates into the variant capable of killing all of us.

Without a single, coherent reason, a largely-Republican contingent has resisted these measures each and every step of the way.

Being asked to wear a lightweight mask amounts to 'tyranny'. The virus is a hoax. And most-pathetically, their brainless, middle-school obstinacy proves they are indomitable. Impervious. And immune.

I'm not even going to touch the hypocrisy of their “my body, my choice” rationale.

And for a time, it was debatable. But as vaccines have become widely available and the sentient portion of our population took advantage of them, the resistant continued to resist. Centered in the south, it is those very states that have suffered the highest infection rates from the Delta variant.

And it is precisely that portion of the population who knows what random and capricious bullshit science is. For the rest of us, this outcome couldn't be more predictable. They ignored the virus, pretended it wasn't a 'thing' and still clutching to their cult leader's words, insist it still isn't.

But even after their cult leader admitted vaccines were important and that they should avail themselves of them, they booed him. While Mount Everest straddles the border of Tibet and Nepal, the Mount Everest of Stupid rests squarely in Cullman, Alabama.

Even as their children are hospitalized in record numbers and the availability of ICU rooms evaporates like spit on a Las Vegas sidewalk. Even as surgeries can't be performed because hospitals are stuffed with unvaccinated patients. And even as our health care workers teeter on the edge of exhaustion

As a once-popular comedian observed “You can't fix stupid.”

This is the fallout from the political party that once called itself the 'Family Values' party. Apparently that includes preventing school districts from protecting your kids from a stubborn and persistent virus. How about it, Ron DeSantis?

I would like nothing better than to indulge Republicans and their COVID death-wish. Taken as a group, they're a largely despicable and ignorant one. America's weakest link. The phrase 'thinning the herd' springs to mind.

But unlike southerners and their misplaced hospitality, I have no interest in providing COVID-19 a forever home. Yeah, I know. You're the fearless one. I'm the snowflake. I get it. Right up until the moment you or your kids are wheezing on a ventilator and having second thoughts about vaccines. 

I'll keep that in mind as I read your obit. 

 

This Is News?

It was commonly agreed the two decades and trillions of dollars we spent in Afghanistan were mostly a failure. True, our presence drove the Taliban underground, but the fact they continued to exist confirmed how compromised this mission was.

Not that we're the first superpower to fail there. Afghanistan is credited with undermining what remained of the Soviet Union following their decade-long war in the nineteen-eighties. (Nope—it wasn't Ronald Reagan, Republicans. Sorry.)

Yes, Afghanistan is a toughie.

The announcement that we were withdrawing only brought a muted response. Amid the chaos and upheaval of 2021, it takes a lot to make page one.

More interesting is the response to the Taliban's re-emergence. Yes, bad news always trumps good. That's how we're wired. But is this re-emergence and the ineffectiveness of Afghanistan's security forces really a surprise?

Is this really news?

Remember what happened in Iraq when we, um, laid Saddam Hussein to rest in 2006? There were no contingency plans then, just as there are no contingency plans now.

Naturally, Republicans have suddenly grown a conscience and are decrying the humanitarian crisis unfolding under Taliban rule.

Not that I deny it or am in any way okay with it. The Taliban are Afghanistan's version of Republicans; a political entity happy to rule via fear. Like all psychopaths, they can rationalize any and all behavior. Were the world a good and just place, the Taliban would be in a bin suspended above an enormous meat grinder, and its adherents would be dropped in one by one. 

But the world is not a good and just place.

My regret is that we didn't prepare a plan of escape for the Afghani who assisted the American effort at great risk to themselves, and in our haste left valuable military infrastructure behind. Worse is leaving the entirety of Afghanistan's female population to the sadistic whims of the Taliban.

To those Republicans who suddenly find themselves in possession of a moral compass, I offer that the same has been going on in Nigeria for years under the Boko Haram. Where was your concern then? Oh, that's right. Nigerians are Black, and there was a Republican president in office.

(Whew. So hard to keep track of you and your shape-shifting concern!)

Beyond the poor planning, what of our military? We lavish billions and billions of dollars upon them, continually buying the newest and most cutting-edge toys and this is what we get? They couldn't oust insurgents with grade-school educations? 700 billion fucking dollars for a 0 – 0 tie? 

Whew. I'm going to need a moment to process this.

If I can presume the majority of the world is outraged by the Taliban, it will quite literally take the world to extinguish them.

If I can presume the majority of the world is outraged by Boko Harum, it will quite literally take the world to extinguish them.

Asking one nation (albeit an enormously wealthy one) to take this on single-handedly isn't going to work. It gives the sub-humans who constitute the Taliban and Boko Harum one big, giant, solitary target.

I mean, who doesn't love to hate the United States?

To too many, it gives them what I will call—for lack of a better word—street cred. But if a coalition of un-hated countries also played a part, it could assume the weight of moral legitimacy

Shame could be a thing again. Imagine.

Arrrgghh!

With a triple-layer cake of anxiety foisted upon us by a panicked political party interested only in its survival, a lingering pandemic and the onset of undeniable climate change, I, like the Chicago sports fans around me, am somehow able to locate still more sources of angst.

Yes, the long-expected sell-off of the Cub's Anthony Rizzo, Kris Bryant and Javier Baez came to pass and was as emotionally-grueling as expected. It slammed the door on any holdover hope that something, anything might still happen.

But to be absolutely and perhaps even cruelly honest, this squad had only regressed since their 2016 championship. The succeeding years have seen some of the weirdest baseball in franchise history. One year they couldn't hit. In another they couldn't win on the road. There were multiple late-season fades.

Two desultory wild-card appearances served to twist the knife of their newfound futility.

Granted, owner Tom Ricketts wasn't exactly pro-active when it came to tweaking the roster and adding the bits and pieces necessary to sustain success. But in the end, I'm reminded of the time Branch Rickey infamously told Pittsburgh Pirates slugger Ralph Kiner when the latter approached Rickey for a raise: “Mr. Kiner, we can finish last without you.”

Whatever the reason, these Cubs weren't getting better. And as awful as it was to see the core of the team that finally—finally!—won a World Series ripped away, it was time.

With the ascent of the crosstown White Sox, Cub fans can further salt their wounds by endlessly rehashing the Jose Quintana for Dylan Cease and Eloy Jimenez trade.

At the time, Quintana was a pretty fair pitcher for some mostly undistinguished south side clubs, regularly posting mid-three ERAs and several WARS of five. Cease and Jimenez were prospects. Guys with who-knows-for-sure potential. Question marks.

Fast forward four years.

Quintana was mostly inconsistent with the Cubs and never came close to replicating the years he enjoyed with the White Sox.

Now in his third season, Cease is having a decent year. But it's nowhere near those Quintana had. Jimenez, also in his third year, has enjoyed some early success but has proven to be injury-prone. He also struggles in left field and is resistant to the idea of being a DH.

Cub fans? This ain't Lou Brock and Ernie Broglio. Relax.

Turning the tables, Sox fans can gnash their teeth about the continued rash of injuries, the oft-debated managing prowess of Tony LaRussa and the reasons they struggle to beat teams above .500.

From an outsider's point of view, LaRussa's managerial ability is a no-brainer. With that ever-longer list of position players being felled by injury, the fact he's been able to consistently plug-in worthy replacements and keep the Sox afloat speaks volumes.

Those injuries could be a massive distraction and the perfect excuse for not being in first-place, but that hasn't happened. Case closed.

Young teams need to learn how to win. And the Sox, with the exception of Jose Abreu and a couple of their starting pitchers, are a young team. I'm reminded of the 1988/89 Chicago Bulls, who went 0 – 5 versus the emerging Cleveland Cavaliers that season.

Naturally, their first-round playoff opponent was noneother than Cleveland. And you know what happened? The storied ascent of the Jordan-era dynasty began with that series when MJ hit a last-second jumper in game five to clinch it.

And speaking of the Bulls, it's nice to see some action after so much inaction. Especially after waiting and waiting and waiting for a core of Zach LaVine, Lauri Markkanen, Coby White and Wendell Carter, Jr. to gel, overseen by a couple of hapless coaches.

New GM Marc Eversley has been aggressive in moving on from the talent GarPax assembled, most notably landing center Nikola Vucevic from Orlando in exchange for the injury-prone and under-performing Carter and guard Lonzo Ball in a sign and trade.

That acquisition cost Tomas Satoransky, a hard-nosed guard who provided the team's most consistent play at the point. It was tough to see him go. But to get something...

A little more angst-y is the sign and trade for DeMar DeRozan. No questions about the player or his abilities. He's the real deal. He can play. My concerns revolve around his compatibility with LaVine and Vucevic, and at 32 years-old, is an $85million-dollar, four-year deal really a good idea?

And is it wise to give away still more first-round picks? I'm thinking not. I mean, are we witnessing the reincarnation of George Allen here or what? I'm grateful the previous regime is gone, but too much of anything is generally a bad thing.

I'm hoping very, very hard that Eversley and vice-president of basketball operations Arturas Karnisovas are looking before they're leaping.

Finally, what discussion of sports-related anxiety would be complete without a mention of the Chicago Bears?

The team continues to struggle against the expectations it created in 2018. Hamstrung by an NCAA Division 3 offense, it was obvious to everyone the Bears needed a bona-fide NFL quarterback. Some NFL-worthy wide receivers and offensive linemen wouldn't hurt, either.

Well, the Bears got a quarterback. Two, in fact. But the other holes remain unfilled.

Over the past ten drafts, the Bears have used nearly a fifth (5 of 24) of their first, second and third round picks on offensive linemen. 2013 first-rounder Kyle Long was a stud, but recurring injuries decimated his career after just three and-a-half seasons.

2016 second-rounder Cody Whitehair is a keeper, even having been named to a Pro Bowl.

After that, the waters muddy. They did spend second-round picks on Teven Jenkins in April and James Daniels in 2018, but Daniels went down for the season five games into 2020 and is currently unable to practice because of a quad injury. Jenkins has yet to attend a practice because of a back condition.

2015 third-round pick Hroniss Grasu (I don't know how to say it, either) is a reserve for the 49ers.

The rest of the line is a motley collection of free-agents, walk-ons and stragglers.

And of that estimable crew, nearly a dozen have suffered injuries or are in COVID protocols, leaving the Bears barely able to field a line for practice. And with actual NFL-quality quarterbacks to protect, it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to envision the already creaky o-line giving way to a critical QB injury.

At the very least this cripples a camp that was to have been dedicated to revitalizing the Bears' tepid offense.

Maybe some things just aren't meant to be.

Absorbed

For many people, squinting at the matrixes on the runout portion of 2,500 record albums to determine where they were pressed would qualify as court-ordered punishment. As would individually discerning the condition of those records and their jackets.

It most-definitely is not a job for the ADHD-afflicted.

As a guy with a really long attention span, it's not quite punishment of the court-ordered variety. It doesn't even suck. Being that they're mine, and that it's been over a decade since I've had fact-to-face contact with them, it's actually quite a pleasure.

It is also very time-consuming.

Let me explain.

I had largely forgotten them. They sat, packed away in cardboard boxes since the onset of the Great Recession. One of the lessons imparted by that misery was that possessions are for the solvent. The employed. To have space for things requires money.

And for too many of the ensuing years, money was mostly a rumor.

The boxes sat unopened until just recently. After years fraught with stress-related weight gain, sickness, unemployment, poverty and death, revisiting the flower of my youth, when I obsessively scoured the length and breadth of Chicago's record stores for soul, blues, rock, reggae, jazz, country and western and soundtrack LPs, has been—for lack of a better word—startling.

My passion burned hot.

The covers. The labels. The posters and the stickers and the iron-on t-shirt transfers. Reacquainting myself with the output of some of my favorite fated-to-obscurity bands: Green on Red, Fetchin' Bones, The Family Cat, Blancmange, the Windbreakers and the Silos.

Feeling the heft and the thick, rounded edges of the old vinyl and the sharp, unfinished edges of the newer evoked oceans of memories. Of youthful, uninhibited freedom. Of disposable income. Of turntables and apartments and parties and girlfriends. Of mix tapes and friends in a better, far less-convoluted time.

In a world untouched by the Internet, record collecting was a matter of visiting stores and crate digging. Thumbing through countess bins of vinyl. Of hopes raised—and then dashed—as the vinyl within a pristine jacket appeared to have spent several hours on the the Dan Ryan Expressway.

But the joy of unearthing a pristine copy of Ann Peebles' I Can't Stand the Rain or Syl Johnson's Total Explosion, or of encountering Bob Koester (R.I.P.) at the Jazz Record Mart on Grand, where he regaled me with a story of Howlin' Wolf and Sonny Boy Williamson as I was set to purchase Howlin' Wolf – Live in Europe 1964 were priceless.

As was recognizing a girl from the previous night's Graham Parker concert at Wax Trax and simultaneously striking-up a conversation and a friendship. Or of finding new, still-in-their-shrinkwrap Japanese pressings of Otis Redding's first five LPs at the same store.

The real miracle is that I remained ambulatory.

But it has changed. A few keystrokes on a computer keyboard eliminate countless forays to far-fetched record stores, where imbued with a lottery player's faith I sought copies of Paul Kelly's Dirt or the Ohio Players' Pleasure.

I rarely succeeded, but the search was the thing.

While the Internet has certainly made collecting more-efficient, there is no sense of hard-won satisfaction. Or of the rewards of diligence. No sweat equity. It's record collecting reduced to the same ordinary-ness one encounters in the purchase of frozen vegetables.

There is no context. No sense of rarity. No buoyant joy of discovery.

But I am lucky. Given the choice, I preferred my way. The old-fashioned way. It drew me into parts of Chicago I never would have seen otherwise. And the joy of unearthing a long-sought after record after so many fruitless trips rivaled the Christmases of my childhood.

The goal was always to build a comprehensive vinyl collection. One that would incorporate the multiple influences that went into the creation of the musical chili called rock and roll. Did I succeed? Who knows?

But I've had an absolute ball trying. 

Keepin' the COVID Alive

Way back in 1980, the Beach Boys enjoyed one of the last hits of their estimable career, Keepin' the Summer Alive. It espoused all the things they were famous for and was a pleasant bit of radio fodder.

Forty-years and change later, it is ironic this sunny, harmless tune could serve as the anti-vaxxer's death-wish anthem, albeit slightly re-titled. Let's call it Keepin' the COVID Alive.

Without employing words like mental illness or stupidity, it is tough to figure these folks out.

I was hugely relieved when the worst of the pandemic lifted. The virus was ugly, a monster without a face. Excepting the knots of rural Republicans treating it like a fetus, we'd have eliminated it by now.

What I found most disturbing was that in the middle of our political and societal rancor, we mostly ignored the medical miracle that happened underneath our noses. That three—three—vaccines were developed to combat the novelcorona virus.

I mean, who wanted to croak before watching Republicans destroy the democracy that has been the envy of people the world over? (I'm over the moon that Republicans are finally showing themselves as amoral, power-mad sub-humans as I've always suspected they were.)

Transparency, right?

But if you're like me, you're suffering post-COVID political fatigue. And having to watch the legions of the orange-haired continue to dispute not only the results of last year's election but the existence of a pandemic (perpetuated by the very citizens complaining loudest about newly instituted mask mandates) is pretty close to insufferable.

In demonstrating their imagined sense of impermeability, the largely-Republican core of anti-vaxxers has unwittingly sustained and enabled the very thing they say doesn't exist. And when it's not making them sick, it's killing them.

Do I dare refer to this as culling the herd?

I certainly detest twentieth-century Republican's notions of governance, but do I fervently and truly hate them? Do I wish they'd all succumb to the Delta variant and be gone? Probably not.

I mean, my father was a Republican (admittedly of a strain light-years removed from the current iteration) and a sibling is as well. And ironically, I get along with that sibling better than those who declare as Democrats.

Go figure.

And after viewing the documentary Seattle Is Dying, I have as many reservations about unrestrained liberalism as I do about unrestrained conservatism.

Before we're forced further into another round of COVID restrictions which no one—liberal or conservative—wants, can't we come to see this as a health issue and not a political one?

And when our scientists create vaccines and test them and introduce them to a population starving for them, can we at least seize the opportunity to keep ourselves alive today and fight to enact our extreme agendas tomorrow?

To the folk in conservative bastions like Missouri and Alabama wearing their vaccine hesitancy like an Olympic medal, rest assured it is a short-lived thing. When you're suffering the long hauler ravages of COVID, it'll feel like a permanent hangover.

And in the worst-case scenario, how're you going to vote Republican from the grave?

Have you really, really thought this through, people?

 

Looking for Some Deer to Fear

Another old favorite is challenging for a title after numerous set backs. Following surprisingly early exits from the post-season after amassing the league's best record two years running, the Milwaukee Bucks have re-grouped and face the Phoenix Suns for the 2020/21 NBA championship.

Much has been made of the fact it's their first crack at a championship since 1974, five years after the selection of Lew Alcindor (you probably know him as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) in the 1969 draft instantly catapulted the expansion Bucks into contention in just their second season.

(It didn't hurt they unearthed a future Hall of Famer—small forward Bob Dandridge—deep in the fourth round of the same draft.)

The young team needed a stabilizing veteran, and the then-Cincinnati Royals (now the Sacramento Kings) gifted Oscar Robertson to the Bucks in exchange for Flynn Robinson and Charlie Paulk.

While Robinson was a decent combo guard for a handful of seasons, Paulk was out of the NBA just two years later. Given how lopsided the trade was, it's pretty obvious that with Robertson in his thirties and still without a ring and the Royals lapsing into mediocrity, it was a kindness extended to the all-time great for ten seasons of jaw-dropping basketball.

After Alcindor/Jabbar was traded to the Lakers following the 1974/75 season, the Bucks—not surprisingly—declined. But the rebuild was a very short one. Don Nelson arrived for the 1977/78 season and the Bucks were on their way.

Point guard Brian Winters (obtained in the Jabbar trade) had emerged along with forward Marques Johnson to lead the new look Bucks. Guard Quinn Buckner and forward Junior Bridgeman (also obtained in the Jabbar trade) added valuable support off the bench and the Bucks found themselves in the post-season.

They advanced to the second round, where it took the Denver Nuggets seven games to conquer the young'uns.

After a brief stumble in 1978/79 the Bucks returned the following year bolstered by first-round draft choice Sidney Moncrief, the acquisition of veteran center Bob Lanier and the blossoming of Bridgeman into a full-fledged starter.

The addition of Lanier was perfect for a coach who prized spacing and ball movement. His Bucks never had a single dominant scorer, but several who could move the ball around and keep defenses guessing.

And Moncrief became a brilliant guard and just one in a string of Bucks guards known for their suffocating defense.

Deft trades and savvy drafting became hallmarks of the Nelson era and the primary reasons for their ongoing success.

When Lanier finally announced his retirement it took only a single season for Nelson to land his replacement, the similarly talented Jack Sikma.

And while Winters had been a capable point guard, the addition of Paul Pressy in the '82 draft was a definite upgrade. As was the trade of aging forwards Bridgeman and Johnson in September of 1984 for Terry Cummings and two guards yet to fulfill their promise: Craig Hodges and Ricky Pierce.

Pierce in particular was able to step-up and fill the void left when Moncrief's knees began to fail him prematurely.

Despite another brief trip to the playoffs (they lost the semis in seven to the Seattle Supersonics), they had captured the first of what would be seven straight divisional crowns and set the foundation for what would be a decade of sustained success.

1979/80 was also the first in what would be a dozen consecutive post-season appearances and these Nelson-coached teams would win a minimum of fifty games for each of the next seven years.

But like so many storied contenders, their greatest weakness was timing. The Bucks ascended just as the Larry Bird-Robert Parrish-Kevin McHale Boston Celtics were taking ownership of the Eastern Conference. And on the rare occasions when the Celtics weren't dominating, it was the Philadelphia 76ers of Julius Irving, Moses Malone and Maurice Cheeks.

In fact, those Sixers knocked the Bucks out of the playoffs four of the next five seasons. And when the Bucks got past Philadelphia, it was only to face those fearsome Celtics. 

Like I said, timing.

In fact, in the Bucks three visits to the Eastern Conference Finals in '83, '84 and '86, they lost to the eventual NBA Champion each time.

In the ensuing three decades the Bucks had some nice players and even made the Eastern Conference Finals in 2001 with a team built around Ray Allen, Glenn Robinson and Sam Cassell.

But it couldn't continue. Not until Giannis Antetokounmpo showed up, anyway.

With the Bucks having fallen behind in each of their previous two series, they now have done so again. The Suns are firing on all cylinders and their guards are plainly outplaying the Bucks' pair. Stir in the suddenly-elevated play of Deandre Ayton and fearing the deer suddenly takes a bit of effort.

Is it presumptuous to call tonight's game a must-win?

 

It's That Voodoo That Tom Do

Way before I did, Tom Ricketts realized he had an expectations problem. Saddled with a civic institution of a baseball team and its fan's elevated expectations, he faced a quandary: how do I achieve fiscal austerity, maximize my rate of return and yet convince the public I am vested in this team and its ongoing success?

Distressed that the cash tsunami he anticipated when he purchased the Cubs had yet to materialize, Tom had become irritable. And the public pressure that accompanied the re-signing of three stalwarts, which meant three more expensive long-term contracts that only guaranteed he'd be on the hook for a lot of money, was only making things worse.

Tom thought. And thought. He consulted with consultants. He lost himself in the creation and examination of scenarios. It would be a public relations disaster to trade Anthony Rizzo, Kris Bryant and Javier Baez. As it would to let them leave via free-agency.

And yet, hadn't he spent enough money?

How could he duck re-signing the threesome (one of whom was on the wrong side of thirty, the other injury-prone and the third having seemingly peaked by the age of twenty-eight) without being crucified by Cub fans and the media? In what kind of environment could let his his three stars go without giving the faithful cause to take-up pitchforks and torches?

“Ah-ha! I've got it! I'll make them bad! I'll have Hoyer gut the pitching staff! We can let Jon Lester and Jose Quintana and Tyler Chatwood go to free-agency and trade Yu Darvish! Hell, he's a Cy Young contender and he's under contract! And while Kyle Hendricks is pretty damn good, there's no way he can carry a team!

And best of all, we have no prospects on the farm! It's genius! I can dump salaries today and it'll pave the way to saving even more tomorrow! No wonder I'm a billionaire! And the fans? As soon as those bi-polar crybabies get a load of the new Cubs they won't give a crap what happens!”

And so it was done. The team momentarily veered off-course in May, but is now back to exploring the multitudinous varieties of futility. A rejuvenated Craig Kimbrel is playing like he didn't get the memo, but with the trade deadline just three-weeks and change away, he won't be a problem for long.

Collectively at their career lows, it will be interesting to see what Rizzo, Bryant and Baez fetch—not that it matters.

The heavens will part and ol' Tom will soon be rolling in it. He knows, like we all know, that when it comes to Wrigley Field and the Cubs, the product on the field is less-important than where they play. And he can make money far more cheaply than he would fielding a contender.

Besides, with a championship in the bank, he's set for the next century.

Right?