Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

I think I’d be just about the last to weigh in on Sammy Sosa’s imminent departure from my beloved Cubs, but I would be remiss if I chose to remain silent on the mother of all bizarre trades, emanating from Clark and Addison.

I’m not going to bother posting a glowing sonnet about how Sosa saved baseball in the summer of 1998 (he didn’t), and I’m not going to waste time ripping on Sosa’s egocentric me-first behavior, that grated on many Cub fans, who, apparently want to continue to lose “the right way.”

Sosa was the greatest Cub player of all time, with no one even a close second. He willed a 1998 team into the playoffs with virtually zero support and almost did it again in 2001, with a better season and even less of a supporting cast (Remember cleanup hitter Ron Coomer?). He was an egomaniac, thriving on meaningless homers in 10-2 routs, never improving shoddy defense, continually asserting his superiority over the media and Cubs officials. Yet when called upon in 2003 to contribute in the Cubs playoff run – did so above and beyond any other offensive regular.

For the Cubs to punish him on the way out the door with a negative public-relations blitz and catfight-stirring stories published daily in the city’s two rags – well, let’s just say he deserved better.

It was time to move on, Sosa is 36 (likely 38) and is on the downside of his career. The Cubs are reinventing their lineup, with more youth, speed, OBP (well, I can dream), and less power, and Sosa’s penchant for striking out with men on was hindering the team’s development as well as current aspirations. Built around starting pitching, the Cubs hope to contend yearly in the future.

Sure, if you buy all that, it sounds nice. But it also seems fishy. If Sosa was surely a goner (traded for nothing), then why was there no extenuated push for Carlos Beltran? Why wasn’t Chicago fave Magglio Ordonez inked before the Tigers threw sacks of money at him? Why are sportswriters in Chicago continuing to spout off about an impending Jeromy Burnitz signing? An Aubrey Huff trade that may not occur till June?

I’ll stop short of saying the petulant Sosa deserved better, but from a community that lionized one egomaniacal, fanatic, translucent, two-sided, harsh character – the Sosa backlash is hard to reconcile. I guess, ultimately, winning championships does matter the most. Though all we hear from Chicago and national sportswriters is the opposite. Sosa was dumped for character. He was disgruntled. They needed a divorce.

From a Cubs perspective, it’s unbelievable to understand why they would continue to smear Sosa, devaluing his trade appeal and diminishing their chances for any inequal returns. Now, they’re paying him 12.5 million to play for Baltimore, which doesn’t necessarily help their own team at all. It may not hurt, and it may not be the right move — but it couldn’t have been handled more clumsily.

And for the playing Cubs? I don’t mind a starting outfield with Todd Hollandsworth and Jason Dubois surrounding Corey Patterson. I don’t mind a closer selected from Michael Wuertz, Jon Leicester, Angel Guzman and Ryan Dempster. I do mind that the organization seems to continually tighten their purse, and make shortsighted move after shortsighted move, never interdependent of each other. The team has made some good moves this offseason – but if Sosa was destined to go, why not sign Ordonez early? Why not keep Clement? Why, in the world, would the forgettable Burnitz enter any conversation?

Keep the faith, Cubs fans. Remember the greatest Cub ever – but also enjoy the new guard of Corey, Kerry, Z, Prior, Nomaah, Lee and Aramis. Maybe Dubois and Kelton can join them – we’ll see.

The beginning and/or end of civilization department.
Expect college graduation rates to dip to the low end of the spectrum with the launch of this. An intermittently great idea and horrible initiative, it’s best summarized:

“Until now, beer guzzling was a self-regulating activity. Sure, drinking too much made you do stupid things. But drinking too much also tended to make you fall asleep before you got into trouble. Passing out is nature’s way of saying you drank too much, and it has saved many a beer drinker from acute embarrassment. But with caffeine keeping beer drinkers cranked up, there’s no end to the fun. Which could get ugly.”

…

A Moonshot exec agrees. “If you tend to do stupid things, you probably shouldn’t drink it,” she says. “It’s not for stupid people.”

Wait, I’ve almost got it. So, beer laced with caffeine is not for stupid people. Hope that’s on the label.

Sideways
I recently crumpled up the five-year-old already-written ending to the novel I’ve been envisioning since my graduation from college, since it would have been remembered as a total ripoff of this movie. Not sure if I’m bitter or satisfied about that.
A great film, and Thomas Haden Church almost – almost – succeeds in forever stripping himself of the “Lowell from Wings” label. Still, his remark as the pair chases after his lost wallet was pure Lowell: (exasperated) “Do I have to do everything?”
For those of you who resist remembering Lowell from Wings, well, you’re better people than I. And you apparently didn’t watch the USA Network from 1989 through 2002.

Well, we’re officially already into the dog days of 2005, the let-down of post-holiday festivities, the armpit of the year – whatever you pick to call it. I find myself a little sluggish and anemic with each day, awake and sleepy at strange hours and somewhat zombie-like as I attempt to live through the mildest of all winters.

With that cheerful segue, here’s what’s bandying about my head today. (What a shock! No energy AND a simple, ridiculous post with random bits. How frizzigging clever.)

Coltfizzle
So, despite an encouraging season, the Horsies didn’t get it done. The loss is not solely on Peyton, not on the defense, and it’s not like they won’t have the same success or better next season. Still, it stings, particularly because of the karma-like shift in the game best described here when coach Tony Dungy didn’t try and advance the ball on fourth-and-one with the best offense of the millennium.
And, also, it stings in part because one of my favorite writers continues to sink further into self-congratulatory arrogance as his teams improve. Yeah, right, Bill. The Patriots get NO respect. No titles, no wins, no featured games, no columns, no endorsements, no nothing.

Seriously people, if your baseball team finally won the title and your football team was the best NFL team I’ve ever seen, winning a title in the same year, would you have to play an inciteful no-respect card? I didn’t think so.

In Good Company.
Very slick, very pleasant movie, that accurately depicts the bullshit that is corporate life — as well as the suck-up go-getters that resemble its populace. I was impressed with Dennis Quaid and Topher Grace, and I thought the movie was genuinely witty and poignant. The ending may have been a little clean and slick, but the movie had some soul to go with its heart, and even more brains to go with the above. I recommend it. Not all movies have to deal with the fucked-uppedness of human nature for me to like them …

…however, this one does the trick.
Closer
Saw this Saturday night, and knew it was about four semi-hateful people, but I really liked where the movie attempted to go, the conflict within Jude Law’s character that it barely resolved, and the questions it acknowledged – yet didn’t necessarily answer.
The movie tends to circle through the audience’s empathy for certain characters. The minute you felt like you could align yourself with one of the human characters – they disappointed or stunned you. Like I said, circular with the character development and the plotline. (By the way, if you’re into symbolism, circles continue to reappear as prominent settings throughout the movie. You’re not into that? Well, then never mind.) Anyway, the movie doesn’t necessarily prove that sex rules all relationships, and people are destined to hurt others – but it doesn’t rule that out either. Acknowledges the dark side of human nature, and is an intriguing picture for doing so.

Thought I had more going on, but that’s it for now.

Well, my head just finished bobbing up and down to Kelly Clarkson’s latest song, Since U Been Gone. Not only did I turn up my radio at work, in my cubicle, but after the song ended, I actually felt a sort of remorse, a clamoring to hear the song again. And I then thought, exactly how far have I fallen?!

It was like a vacuous, sharp, pain in my midsection. Do I actually like a Kelly Clarkson song? An American Idol winner? Moi?

Admittedly, I’ve been trying to reduce my societal role as a music elitist, but seriously — have I really sunk this deep into the inane quicksand of pop culture? With no real outlet — Net, television, radio — into any sort of alternative rock and roll, how quickly will I further regress? It boggles the mind. And, yes, I do like that song. (sigh) I don’t know myself anymore.

Coltsplosion
Is this it? Is this the year? After watching the Red Sox dethrone their longtime rival, the Yankees, in dramatic fashion this fall, I’m empowered to watch the Colts once again take on New England. Indy isn’t a perfect team, but I think all the pieces are there to knock off the champs. Also, consider — in their last three meetings, Indy has played (a) mediocre, (b) terrible, and (c) unbelievably error-prone. I’m optimistic.

In Good Company
Well, I’m returning to the cinema tonight. The Salina theatre is finally releasing its stranglehold on SpongeBob and The Incredibles after remarkable 78-week runs. I’m going to give this one a shot, the frozen tundra here rarely gets any good flicks, and I’m cautiously optimistic about this one.

MJJ
And finally, finally, finally, someone agrees with me! After 17 years of arguments in classrooms, on courts, in dorms, in frat houses, on barstools, in academia, in hallways, in essays, against TV heads, on the Net, on airplanes, on subways, in taxis, in seminars, in hotel lobbies, and generally freakin’ anywhere, my argument against the greatness of Michael Jordan is succinctly echoed here. Yes, it’s dissipated a bit with the ascension of Kobe Bryant (You know, is it possible for an evil, arrogant, asshole to have an similarly evil, anti-charismatic twin?), but the gist (He’s a cocksucker, a marketing creation, and an unconscionably overrated jerk.) of it still exists. Sweet validation, I hardly knew ye.

Well, I’m finding affirmations of yesterday’s post in various places online. An owner also is annoyed with the haughty Joe Buck. SI’s Dr. Z — though I’m not a fan of his writing or analysis — always does a fairly good evaluation of NFL broadcasters each year. You’ll see that Sunday Night’s Personal Hell of broadcasters is represented accurately at the bottom. And even (shudder) Jason weighs in defending a repeated quarry of his, in this space.

I’ve been trying to drum up the ambition to post a comprehensive list/ranking/whatever of announcers, scribes, talking heads, and the like, but have yet to do so. Some days I feel like turning this blog into a permanent sports-media rant, but I am flighty, and though I watch a ton of sports and read a ton of media, I don’t yet have the criteria, input, or ambition to do so. Coherently, anyway. Undaunted, I provide a quick-hit list:

Best play-by-play announcers
1. Dan Shulman (all sports, ESPN)
2. Thom Brennaman (baseball, football, FOX)
3. Harry Calas (baseball, Philadelphia)

Worst play-by-play announcers
1. Mike Patrick (basketball, football, ESPN)
2. Brent Musberger (all sports, ABC)
3. Dick Enberg (football, tennis, poetic schlock, CBS)

More later.

Apologies for the utter lack of posts, truths, postulates, corollaries, nuggets and novel-length displays of narcissism in this space, but I�m back on the horse today, after a long weekend of nothing save the NFL playoffs, and a three-day weekend looming of more sports, sloth, and the like.

At any rate, it�s all-NFL all-the-time, floating through my head, and that�s what I�m spouting off about today. Will it be a 5,000-word opus like, well, every other piece of babble I write? We�ll see, I guess.

There�s a part of me that revels in expressing disdain for the NFL � I have a friend who refers to NFL fans as �mouth-breathers,� and while I abhor the league�s holier-than-thou status among its loud, faux-macho, gambling-addict fans, I do still like the game and the season, perhaps most closely reflected in this, the �thinking man�s football column.�

And so, as the playoffs march on, I watch each minute, eager for the perfect-for-TV drama, yet nauseous at the plethora of pompous, ignorant, self-serving reporters stirring up endless hype as they cover the NFL � excuse me, National-Foot-Ball-League, pronounced as a federal edict requires � and blatantly whip themselves into a lather, refusing to admit any context, consequence, or converse to any of their written words. (No links, but SI�s Peter King, ESPN�s Sean Salisbury, ESPN�s Paul McGuire, ESPN�s Michael Smith, FSN�s Jay Glazer, CBS�s Dan Dierdorf, the list goes on. King is the most egregious example, at once a name-dropper and floozy, simultaneously a comical judge and executioner.)

And so, as a Colts fan, I learn to live with the celebration of Peyton Manning, a quarterback having a statistically impressive season, showing much more maturity than in the past � yet still with an uncertainty in big games. The pundits love Manning. He is a good quarterback. He is a great player. We Colts fans live with his past failures, because he�s good for us right now. Is he the second coming? Well, not sure, but if reading ESPN.com, nfl.com, or SI.com, you would sure think so. And why not? He�s wholesome. He�s white. He�s never been arrested. He�s down-home-country. He�s a geek. Just like many sportswriters.

Another deity in the National-Foot-Ball-League is Brett Favre. This article puts Favre�s current standing much more succinctly than I could, but suffice it to say, the madness has got to end.

Yes, he�s a hall of famer. But not anymore. Even Sunday, ESPN�s Chris Berman had the audacity to praise Favre for a wacky, underhanded pass he tossed casually into the end zone at the end of the play, on a crucial third-down. The pass cost the Pack not only a field goal, but a first down, a touchdown, a momentum swing, and a boost for an ailing Vikings defense.

But, guess what � It�s just fun to watch him play the game! He�s great, a real treat, and that play was just emblematic of his unmatched passion! You�re right, Chris. Though it didn’t count, and doomed his team, at least a Packer caught the pass, unlike four or five others slung directly to Vikings.

But Favre’s not the torch-bearer for all football, all persistence, all America. He�s mastered the media. They eat out of his hand. Kudos to Favre for his PR wizardry, but to the serious NFL fan, his play of late and constant �gunslinger� mentality, reeks of self-absorption. The throw at the end of the game was disgusting. Were Donovan McNabb to try that pass, he would have been scolded. Byron Leftwich, admonished. Trent Green, crucified. Were Favre to dive for the yard marker rather than haughtily tossing his illegal pass into the end zone, well, he might well be gearing up to play another game.

As it happens, sportswriters wistfully ponder the images they�ve created of Favre, even after a loss. What guts! What heart! What fun! All the while hoping he doesn�t choose to retire, (an interminable public debate each and every offseason), alternately hoping he smiles at them. Gosh, what a treat!

Favre�s converse appears to be Randy Moss, but, are they really so far apart? Favre knows his aw-shucks attitude and gunslinger, field general-image plays well in media from Manhattan to Odessa, and he certainly does every bit to embrace this.

Well, Moss does the exact same. He is a great receiver, ultimately arrogant, yet supremely skilled. He delivers when he wants to, and can it really be said that � on the field � he�s ever let his team down? As the Vikings suffered a crushing loss at the end of the year, the media focus was on Randy Moss � the brat � and none of their scrutiny on any of the other enigmatic Vikings, who may well have crumbled under media pressure.

But Moss eats that shit up. He loves shocking reporters. He despises the status quo. He wants to see the heads scream at him, berate him, celebrate the past, and celebrate Brett Favre, questioning his heart. He loves hearing Salisbury and Madden chastise him on TV, because, guess what � he knows he�s different than all of them, and loves it.

Similar to Allen Iverson, Moss is what he is, and he doesn�t give a shit if Joe Fan, Joe Broadcaster, or Joe Sixpack think poorly of him. He plays hard, he contributes, and he does his job. Above all, he wants to win. Moss is also intelligent, and was again, supremely confident in his ability to deflect Viking scrutiny onto only himself � as well as his ability to rise above it Sunday.
Who’s the real loser here, Moss or Favre?

So there you have it, Favre and Moss, media mavens. Similar in their PR skills, dissimilar in their connotations. One final note on Moss, which I can doubtfully lay claim to thinking of first (wasn�t in print here first, but I did speak it to a witness on Sunday. Honest!). His end zone celebration, which really got Big NFL Media�s panties in a bunch � well, who really cared? Fans do worse, athletes suffer through worse, it�s a little less-than-professional, but not really loathsome. He faked mooning obnoxious Green Bay fans. I hardly think that’s the biggest offense most of them have faced.

However, a new entry into Holier-Than-Thou NFL status, Fox�s Joe Buck (Never too slow to leap onto a crude soapbox.) chastised Moss on-air, calling him despicable, classless, boorish, and petty. You�re right, Joe, of course. I�m sure Moss� goofy end-zone antics will have much worse ramifications than a bunch of Bud Light ads, featuring a well-known commentator playing up an ingratiating wideout�s antics. You cashed the check, Joe. Don�t call out Moss when his actions pave the way for your endorsement career.

Wish I had a good closing but I don�t. This weekend I�ll once again be taking in the NFL, grains-of-salts and all, happy for the drama but exasperated at the hype. I guess, though, that�s sports.

You�re lucky � I�m not comparing anybody mentioned above to Carlos Beltran. Perhaps banishment to the Mets is punishment enough for him.

WICHITA, Kan. (JH) – The reported sighting of Mr. Faded Glory sleeping in a Wichita-area hospital waiting room early on New Year’s Day was confirmed as fact today, sources from central Kansas said.

After a long night of partying, drinking, cover bands, Red Bull, digital photos, and frantic auld-lang-sex in the men’s room, the self-described uber-partier faded out and took a short nap at approximately 3:30 a.m., lasting until a gibberish-speaking stab victim’s braying awoke the entire waiting room.

Mr. Faded Glory appeared to drop back into sleep, however, until an unhealthy-looking pregnant woman shrieked – in flustered Spanish – and the frazzled 27-year-old sat up with a start.

It wasn’t clear at the time exactly why Mr. Faded Glory appeared at Wesley Hospital just off of Central and Hillside Avenues in Wichita. Witnesses reported seeing him in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, reeking of beer. He had no jacket and wore no socks, instead cramming his feet into white adidas sneakers. Before his nap, several reputed gang members first scolded him for wearing “signs,” then simply made fun of his drunk ass.

It was a far different outfit than in which Mr. Faded Glory first arrived on the Wichita bar scene. Arriving from the desolate land of Salina early in the evening, he enjoyed a dinner at Kobe Steakhouse (the restaurant, not the rapist) with several friends. Decorated in a gold Italian pinstriped shirt and Tallia Uomo suit pants, he appeared to be perturbed as bits of grease and butter dotted him during the exhibitous dinner.

“He was a little pissed,” said an official sister-in-law of Mr. Faded Glory, “But that faded after he did a Sake-bomb with the chef.”

Others present could neither confirm nor deny MFG’s inception of lukewarm rice wine plunged into 20 ounces of Sapporo, with or without the hearty approval of a Japanese chef.

After the drunken dinner, the 12-or-so participants arrived via La Quinta Inn shuttle at Loft 150, a popular Wichita hangout. They paid a modest cover and enjoyed terrible renditions of crappy songs, performed by Big Fat Fun, a band which hails from the same hometown as an official cousin-in-law of Mr. Faded Glory, somewhere in southwestern Kansas.

“I saw him drink at least two Red Bulls and vodka, which [Ms. Faded Glory] says he can’t handle, even two days later,” said another official sister-in-law of MFG. “And they had a special on wheat beer, I’m pretty sure he was taking that through an IV.”

The party raged on through most of the evening, ringing in 2005 to the strains of Born in the USA or some shit until the tired and drunk crew piled into the same La Quinta shuttle and rode back to the hotel for, presumably, pizza and more after-hours drinking.

Around 2 a.m., an official sister of Ms. Faded Glory became violently ill. Would-be Drs. Faded Glory pronounced her fit for the emergency room, after a necessary phone shouting match with a Wichita-area paramedic. A drunken, naked, stumbling Mr. Faded Glory was coerced back into his clothes and asked to (illegally) bring the car around front.

Now clad in black undershirt and jeans with no socks, Mr. Faded Glory also surrendered his leather coat to Ms. Faded Glory as the two, along with a future brother-in-law of MFG survived a chilly wind while transporting the sister-in-law of MFG into the hospital.

Somehow, the sister was called into the emergency room after only a 20-minute wait. However, Mr. Faded Glory was the odd man out, with only two supporters allowed in the actual holding cell – er, emergency room.

The drunken fossil repeatedly tried to drunk dial some friends, but was unable to locate a cell-phone signal in the waiting room.

But, there was entertainment abound. A couple of obese women, both in wheelchairs, were having a conversation with one another, replete with cussing and Texas accents, while their mortified husbands attempted to keep one eye on Univision, playing on the room’s TV.

Still another group of five Wichitans conversed loudly, with several “fucks, motherfuckers, fucked up, gonna fuck him up, he’s fucked” dotting their conversation, both with each other and on cell phone. Eventually the five were escorted out of the hospital, after screaming for service because [sic] “The motherfuckers that did this to this chick is driving by my house right now!” A nurse attempted to pacify them by claiming she could replay all of 2004’s NASCAR highlights on “the TV,” but to no avail.

After the ruckus, MFG stretched out on an uncomfortable row of seats and loudly fell asleep. He apparently woke up for a second after (somehow) almost strangling himself on his sister-in-law’s purse straps.

At around 4:30, the four departed the hospital, after Ms. Faded Glory roused MFG, who was not necessarily asleep but in a hazy trance, apparently transfixed by a Spanish-dubbed Law & Order:SVU. As the four made their way from the hospital, the wind irritated the cold-and-cranky, immediately-hungover Mr. Faded Glory.

The sister-in-law was diagnosed with a severe case of the flu, obtained from a schoolchild at her place of employment. The flu reared its head due to a binge-drinking episode, but was not the deadly Asian bird flu, expected to wipe out half of civilization by 2014.

The four promised to not let the disheartening end to the evening spoil an otherwise exciting and pleasurable New Year’s. Mister Faded Glory, in particular, stated he would always remember the short, passionate sexual encounter with his wife in the bathroom.

However, it was later confirmed by Ms. Faded Glory that this event never occurred, save perhaps in the crowded imagination of her drunken husband. Rather, the event was a product of too much alcohol, too little memory, and the adolescent fantasy of frantic sex in a packed, public bar that Mr. Faded Glory continually suggests on any nights out, at any place.

Mr. Faded Glory was unavailable for comment.

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