Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Cub fans all knew Felix Pie wouldn’t go anywhere today – during a trade deadline that came and left with only a whimper – but still, it’s a little unsatisfying to see the deadline come and go with no further tinkering to the Cubs’ roster.

Supposedly the Cubs were in on Eric Gagne until the end, but that pursuit only prompted Boston to up its offer to include two of its best (and one major-league-ready) prospect for Gagne. Maybe there’s something in the water up there – the Celtics just shipped out their entire roster last night, including Marty Barrett, the Cask & Flagon, Cam Neely, Paul Revere, a leprechaun, and seventy copies of The Departed for Kevin Garnett. (Granted, it was a good move, even dealing with an idiot.) Perhaps the Sox were similarly charitable.

Anyway, the trade deadline is always fun. Message boards create heroes and villains, and every armchair GM is positive he could pay seventy cents for a dollar (And if you’re actual GM Jim Bowden, you’re sure of it.). Check out these Cubs doozies that didn’t happen – maybe holding steady was actually OK.

• Felix Pie for Gerald Laird. Rumored early, but the Cubs have been shuttling backup backstops all season. And they’re gonna hand over Prospect Numero Uno to do it again?
• Sean Marshall and Ronny Cedeno for Jon Garland. I know, this came from a blog just as recommendation, but nobody mentioned how painfully idiotic it was until the Trib’s Sully weighed in. Seriously, Marshall is better and younger than Garland right now.
• Jermaine Dye for anyone. I’ve been pretty clear – Matt Murton is better than Cliff Floyd. Isn’t he also better than Dye, who’s aging in dog years?
• Eric Gagne for, presumably, Felix Pie. I’m sure the Rangers were asking for Felix here. Gagne was a hot commodity.
• Reggie Sanders for prospects. The Royals shopped Sanders aggressively; I’m kind of surprised at no takers. He’s old and brittle, so maybe that scared people off.
• Carlos Silva from the Twins. Silva scares me – he’s hot and cold to a fault. Which, actually, makes him a perfect Cub player.
• Bobby Kielty after his DFA. This could still be coming, and Gammons is even still pushing it. I’ve always kind of liked Kielty and Dustan Mohr, who remind me of one another for no particular reason. Plus, having two outfielders with insanely red hair, like Murton and Kielty would have been kind of fun. AAH! My head’s on fire!
• Xavier Nady or Jonny Gomes. If there was any truth to these rumors, I think either would be a Cub. Gomes offers right-field pop at second and would have allowed DeRosa to move to right field. Nady can shuffle back and forth between center and right, and he’s a better slugger than Murton, Jones, DeRosa, or Floyd.
• Ken Griffey Jr. for Felix Pie, Matt Murton, Sean Gallagher, and Ronny Cedeno. Several variations on this – I would have pulled the trigger had any been legitimate, unless they included some variation of Bronson Arroyo for Rich Hill, but, whatever. Pie could be good, and Murton is good – but it’s Ken Griffey Jr.! Even if the Cubs fell short with Junior, Tyler Colvin and Eric Patterson are also hot prospects who can play center.

So deadline dealing is filled with conjecture and rumors and hearsay, and even now, I see some of the names above and think what might have been. The season’s end is all too close, the deadline signifying the crescendo of the first two thirds of the year. And, lo and behold, the Cubs (who have tinkered all year) are totally in this thing; neck and neck in the loss column with Arizona (WC leader) and the Screwers (Central leader.) Who would have thought?

So perhaps predictably, with a future owner still in doubt, Chicago made zero knee-jerk moves at the deadline, which actually, probably, will turn out okay. The Cubs got this far, and rolled off their June and July run by circling the wagons (Yeesh…I just thought of Chris Berman) – who’s to say they can’t become even more cohesive during the last few weeks?

Yep, it should be fun at Wrigley. At least.

That is, if the Cubs can get through the next week. Say what you will, they’ve been atrocious against the NL East all season long – after the Phils-Mets-Marlins-Braves schedule run in May, we all were ready to jump off a cliff. The darkness before the dawn, perhaps.

And now it’s the Cubs’ test again. The Phillies, replete with their “Cavalcade of Pitchers Who Beat the Cubs Like a Drum,” are currently slugging it out with our Boys in Blue. (Seriously, Brett Myers, Cole Hamels, Jaime Moyer, Adam Eaton – and even newcomer Kyle Lohse have all turned in more than one stellar performance against the North Siders over the last decade. You can look it right the hell up. What’s with these guys?) After that, the Cubs welcome the Mets. Four and three (even with last night’s loss) is the dream. Three and four doesn’t kill the Cubs. Worse than that? Er, it just might.

So off we go. Look, the sky’s the limit for these guys. I don’t know how good they are – still - even after having an idea by quality starts and run differential. They still give too many at-bats away, each quality start is mere pitches from devolving into catastrophe (Ask perpetual tightrope-walker Jason Marquis) and the bullpen will give me a coronary by September.

But they’re still here, and still battling away. And isn’t that all we ask for? Well, besides Xavier Nady. And Bobby Kielty. And Junior. And on…

“Our days are numbered, six, six, six. And I’ll begin counting, by calling off the circus. Somewhere in these cryptic scriptures ‘ll find myself drifting in a sky…“

Vendetta Red, Shatterday (2003).

The Seattle short-lived act VR clocks in at No. 29 with a recent classic – coincidentally from nearly the last year I regularly listened to any actual radio. And, if you’ve visited MFG.com anytime within the last four years, you’ve no doubt seen that very line crop up every so often, on every few countdowns. And here’s what it represents – my continued misconception that anyone actually views me as mysterious.

Jimmy Page once described Led Zeppelin (well, maybe it wasn’t Jimmy Page.). A rock critic once described Led Zeppelin‘s greatness as rock and roll “at its best when its a little bit scary.” That was Led. To all teenagers before and since, Zep was mystical and dabbling in unspeakable evil. As those teenagers grew up, they (we) all realized Zep was just trying to get laid.* Even though Kashmir was totally dripping with Satanism until Puff Daddy covered it.

Anyway, I’ve long espoused (or at least hinted) the notion that black magic, Satanism, dark, spooky movies, and the occult are a little bit cool, especially in rock music. I even gravitated toward bands like Misfits and Venom, and others for a long time simply to give off the impression that I was a bit mysterious, scary, mischievious or maybe even a little insane. Ticketed straight for hell, or at the very least, a “loose cannon.” Which is, incidentally, what my high school principal called me, while kicking me out of National Honor Society on graduation day.

In actuality, I’m nothing but. I like to think I operate my best when keeping people off guard – whether it’s being cryptic, mysterious, or a little spooky. If that includes forming a 3-on-3 basketball squad called Danzig with each player’s number as, “6,” then so be it. In any case, subconsciously or consciously I’ve always hoped my underlying blackness hinted at a total badass underneath a quiet surface. In fact, it probably doesn’t – and I’ve probably seemed to overcompensate for the last 15 years. Regardless.

Anyway, it’s not as if 30 is a turning point for me in this regard. I’m still going to love it when Maynard rips Christianity in nearly every APC song, I’ll still love Metallica‘s cover of Mercyful Fate‘s Into My Coven, I still remember clapping as Tool purposely misused a Star of David on a Yom Kippur concert, I still think the Quantum Leap episode where Sam meets the devil is the series’ best, I still play Stairway backwards occasionally to hear “Evil is Good” or whatever the fuck they say, I still secretly worship The Crow, and I still think The Lost Boys is the most underrated flick of all fucking time. And, I’ll still use the f-word in sentences with a sneer, even as I type.

So of course I would predictably love Vendetta Red’s callous and nonsensical lyrical use of the mark of the beast, 6-6-6. Maybe our days are numbered 6-6-6. What does that mean? Well, what the fuck do you think it means?

See, I told you. I may actually be a badass.

*Note: Neither Led Zeppelin nor any occult hints ever got MFG laid. In fact, probably the opposite. But now that we’re almost 30, we know this.

Let me be clear before I begin. Dogfighting is awful. It’s barbaric, stupid, and wrong, and I don’t condone it.

Okay. That’s part of the problem with the Michael Vick saga – anyone willing to spout off (and believe me, uninformed sportswriters masquerading as magistrates are legion) needs to offer a disclaimer on dogfighting, lest you irk any masses. Yes, Michael Vick is probably a bad guy, a moron, a jerk, and possibly even a criminal. We got it.

But here’s what gets me about the whole thing – isn’t the outrage (and, yes, dog lovers, it’s justified) a little misplaced when Vick’s circumstances are (a) discussed within the confines of his NFL career, or (b) juxtaposed with other sordid athlete crimes?

For example, let’s take (a). For weeks now we’ve watched talking heads parade on TV, wondering aloud whether or not the NFL would suspend Vick. Even more ridiculous are the assertions that “Vick needs to take time off” to “defend his case.”

Oh, really. A multimillionaire athlete dumb enough to associate with a dogfighting ring is going to – what, exactly, during his self-imposed legal hiatus? Write amicus briefs? Research case law? Seriously. Michael Vick supposedly wants to play – and well he should. He’s not occupied with his own case in any form other than as a warm body. And secondly, it may be his last chance.

But no, we get sportswriters chomping at the bit (sorry), hopeful of a suspension or a conviction or at least some form of story other than wild speculation.  And more specifically, the standard finger-wagging at the very prospect of dogfighting. I’m not going to link to anything. You’ve no doubt become saturated with it all, from the WWL-imposed talking points on Mike-and-Mike to the numerous blogs on AOL Sports to the actual indictment on Smoking Gun, and to its penetration of mainstream media like Newsweek. You can find it yourself, if you’re not already burnt out.

But the finger-wagging, disclaimers, outrage, and war cries hint at my second point, or, more appropriately, my question. What is up with the overstuffed outrage at a dogfighting indictment (Remember, I think it’s wrong, too), but when an NBA star is accused of rape, barely an eyelash is battered. Remember Kobe Bryant? He was barely put through the wringer even early on (except by Nike and Sprite), and considered a hero during the season simply for flying back and forth between court hearings and game nights. I cannot stress how misplaced that was. Ridiculous.

And with just a cursory glance up and down sports Web sites, it seems though Vick is a villain unlike any other athlete. Worse than two-time DUI offender and vehicular homicide offender Leonard Little. Worse than habitual wife beater Lawrence Phillips. A slight tier below accused murderer O.J. Simpson and well below convicted murderer Rae Carruth. And certainly worse than accused rapist Kobe Bryant.

I pose the question – why, exactly, is that? Why is it that we scoff at person-felonies, particularly against women, denoting them as superfluous mistakes made by athletes – but the meatheaded Vick is now excoriated as the villain of the century for bankrolling (maybe) a crude, pet-fighting ring?

And don’t assume that it’s because Bryant was acquitted (he wasn’t) or pleaded; or that Little was exonerated (he wasn’t). At this stage of the story, Vick and Bryant were in similar predicaments – both accused, both stripped of endorsements, both facing myriad speculation of prison time or worse yet – League-imposed suspension!

But now, it’s four years later for Bryant, and he’s Nike’s guy again. More popular than ever. And, like Little - he’s still playing. Will the same be said for Vick? And if not, does it really speak to the public’s balance or perception between (crimes like) dogfighting and (crimes like) rape? Seriously, which is worse?

I know what I think is worse. But I don’t have the answer or insight into the media frenzy. And wearily, I hope the mere question doesn’t paint me as callous, indifferent, a moron, or a dog-hater. I’m none. I’m just pleading for some perspective, personally.

I know, I know, in a world without any. You got me.

That oughta boost my readership.

Anyway, it’s now the dog days of summer (I think), and along with those come another fun-filled, hopelessly narcisisstic and whiny, and completely indulgent Mister Faded Glory Countdown! You remember last year, as we counted down the Top 25 Grunge songs of all time as a prelude to our voyage to Seattle.

This year, however, the countdown becomes a bit (more) melancholy. As many of my regular readers (Um…both of you) know, in October Mister Faded Glory celebrates his cataclysmic 30th birthday. I’m not quite as paranoid as some would believe – I alternate between wanting to jump straight out of a window and quiet contemplation of a promising future. Well, and the random drunkenness.

Anyway, to commemorate this reluctant occasion, throughout the next 60 or less days we’ll be counting down the Top 30 songs, er, rather – the Just 30 songs with particularly poignant lyrics on the precipice of becoming, maybe, an adult. I realize that’s not a pithy name, but you’re just going to have to deal. And, as always, no complaints about the predominance of grunge lyrics in the countdown. As you know, MFG was born during the waning days of Generation X, and is one of its very youngest members. In case you forgot, that means I’m totally prone to self-congratulatory depression, peppered with occasional wistful nostalgia.

On with the countdown – the Pre-Eminent Pre-Thirty. Off we go. Read more

Ja-son Ken-dall…
Jay-son Ken-dall, yeah…
Ja-son Ken-dall. (ah-yeh hey ah ah ah…)

Sorry, the singsongish nature of this post’s intro has probably managed to convey either (a) excitement for the former Cub Killer’s entrance into Chicago, or (b) a weird fetish for catcher and onetime slap-hitter extraordinaire Jason Kendall. Actually, it’s simply an attempt to liken Jason Kendall’s four-syllable cadence to the 1990s Arrested Development single, and if you caught that – congratulations! You will now have one of the most grating earworm songs of recent memory bouncing around your brain for a probable eternity! Go ahead, I dare you not to sing along each and every time the Cubs’ new addition strolls to the plate. You can’t! Jay-son Ken-dall, yea-ah...

Okay, enough nonsense. How do I really feel about the Cubs’ new catcher? Well, to be honest, I’m a little ambivalent. It’s just another low-risk, fair-reward gamble that we’ve become used to under Jim Hendry. Were not for the Pirates and A’s picking up most of Jason’s remaining contract, I’d assume we just bought another expensive replacement player – because that’s exactly what Jason Kendall is. A replacement level player to replace the replacement level player we needed to replace. (Argh!)

In retrospect, it appears the Cubs just swapped Michael Barrett (via the underwhelming Rob Bowen) and Jerry Blevins for Kendall. Despite what sourpusses and fervent fans think alike (and despite media crunchers’ crush on A’s GM Billy Beane), it’s really not a bad deal for the Cubs. Barrett had to go, as you know. And admittedly, the erstwhile platoon of Rob Bowen and Koyie Hill and Geovany Soto wasn’t exactly lighting the world on fire. And though Kendall’s on the downswing of his career – at least in the past, he has put up some decent numbers. With Bowen and Hill, those numbers weren’t coming no matter what. (Soto gets a raw deal, but will probably be the main guy in 2008.) In theory, maybe Kendall’s energized with a move to the NL or at least able to catch lightning in a bottle one last time. It’s worked before.

Sure, it’s just a glimmer of hope, but not a big deal at all. Hopefully Kendall can coax a walk or two, hopefully he’s a good “clubhouse guy,” – and at the very least, he’s not serving as Pittsburgh’s resident Cub Killer anymore. Koyie Hill – perhaps the perfect backup catcher – gets a reprieve, and the Cubs are just a little better tonight than they were yesterday. With a minuscule 71 games left, that’s the hope.

I got nothing. My a/c, refrigerator, and wife’s car all sputtered out on the same day. There’s onions growing in my backyard, somehow.  It’s hot. But you know what?

Maybe, just maybe, it’s all gonna be all right. Maybe.

As you all know, it’s been hot. As you also all know, it sucks to work in an office.

Here’s my idea, with no more lead-up than that. Office building vendors?

Anyone?

OK, bear with me. And by the way, there’s no way this notion is totally my idea, right?. Surely someone, somewhere has thought of it? If it already exists, either in theory or practice, I apologize. For example, if you’re working at Citi in San Fran, reading this right now, and you have peanut vendors roaming your hallways – please navigate away, for now.

But for the rest of us, here’s how it works: At some point during your hot, miserable, office-dwelling afternoon, let’s say you become thirsty. And let’s say you work on the third floor of a building. Or a twentieth floor. For whatever reason, the drink machine exists either way below you or way above you – and not on your floor or within immediate reason. What better solution, then, is a ballgame vendor shouting “Soda! Get your ice cold soda!” or “Gatorade! Refill your electrolytes!” or “Red Bull! Zap your brain!”

You faintly catch the chorus of a vendor, and you snap straight up from your cubicle. You shout, “Over here!”, and with a smile – perhaps even a snarky quip – Office Vendor chucks a cold soda your way! You catch it, uncork it, and drink, and by the time you utter a refreshing “Aaah,” the Vendor’s right beside your desk to pick up a dollar bill. With a smile, you’re right back to work!

It’s fun, it’s a refreshment, and it’s a break! Honestly, how much productivity could be lost simply because of distracting cries of soda brands? Most employees click off current tasks to check each email message one by one anyway. And think of how much excitement this would create among the office ninnies who live for some sort of treats? It might even eliminate those dreaded monthly potlucks!

In the future, in fact, you may even be surfing the Web, within your cubicle, and happen upon this post as the vendors shout offers for soda and snacks. In that case, you’ve discovered this idea’s origination. And MFG, of course, will be long gone.

(Either selling you the soda or counting money in a faraway Cayman destination, having implemented a fantastic business idea. You pick.)

The second half is nearly upon our Chicago Cubs, and it’s with a optimistic yet cautiously skeptical eye we eagerly await the rest of the season. It looks like a mess, but an encouraging mess. It sometimes looks like destiny, other times, it’s another cruel twist of fate. Is this the definition of a .500 team? Or a capsule of an intertwined squad which has turned the corner?

The beginning of 2007 has been eventful, to say the least, and actually somewhat rewarding. You’ll notice our Cub blogging moratorium is temporarily lifted, and perhaps that’s more indicative of our outlook for 2007 than anything else we’ll discuss here. (In fact, I was going to insert a catty Tony LaRussa-The Genius-Failing to pinch-hit Albert Pujols-losing the all-star game last night comment, but that’s been taken care of throughout the media today. Too bad, that means no Game 7 at Wrigley…)

Sure, we’re a little guarded, not totally sold – but a month filled with sub-.500 teams and NL Central counterparts should give us a good idea where we stand by August 15. However, the first half of the year, rife with distractions, bad luck, and pitfalls – still does nothing to discourage our enthusiasm for the rest of the season, and even (sign Zambrano) beyond (sign Zambrano) this year (sign Zambrano) and in 2008 (sign Zambrano). I’m not going to get all nuts on you and suggest the Cubs have a plan – but at least the first half of 2007 hints they might not be totally clueless. How’s that for optimism?

Read more

No, I’m not going to bore you with a litany of criticisms over Fox’s All-Star coverage, you can find that nearly everywhere you look. I am, however, going to call attention to the telecast if only because we have a new leader in the clubhouse for “Dumbest Sportswriter Attempting to Take Moral High Ground.” Jason Stark, move over – Ken Rosenthal has now taken the lead!.

Even after our favorite ombudsperson’s scathing critique of aggravating preordained talking points during game action, Fox still chose the fourth or fifth inning to unleash Joe Buck and his moral police  – attempting to rationalize steroids and/or canonize Barry Bonds in the process.

As if that wasn’t bad enough – as if we aren’t all sick of Barry Bonds, as if any of us care who watches him break the record, and as transparent as his (wink-wink) “final vote rally” over Alfonso Soriano was – we still had to listen to Buck, and summarily, Rosenthal pontificate on greatness and steroids. The final verdict? Don’t pay any attention, because who knows who did what blah blah blah.

Honestly, I don’t care if baseball writers can vote Bonds into the Hall behind some “He was a HOFer before his power numbers spiked” facade, or blame his proven cheating on baseball’s blind eye, or remove themselves from judgment. They’re wrong, but I don’t really care. It’s their choice. I just care that they shut up about it – and quit attempting to sound intellectually, morally, or rationally superior to any of us.  It’s no tragedy either way, we’re not losing sleep, and we just want the freakshows to go away so we can enjoy pitchers’ duels again. However, in a stunning proclamation of idiocy, the argument closed with Rosenthal‘s triumphant argument for Bonds, and I paraphrase it here:

“Let’s say 20 years down the road, it turns out that 70 percent of all players took steroids, then Bonds was still better than all of them! So, of course, he’s still a Hall of Famer!”

Bravo, Kenny. Rooting for more players’ skeletons to emerge from the closet as if more illegality in baseball saves Bonds. Just like an entire fourth-grade class misbehaving, and the class clown arguing his case in the principal’s office after pulling a girl’s hair. “Everyone else was doing it.” I scarcely need to say that at that moment during Fox’ telecast, I seriously was hoping all sportswriters would jump into McCovey Cove, because, of course, logically, so would Ken.

You’ve probably noticed a stunning lack of activity around these parts recently; well, just think of Mister Faded Glory akin to nearly every other bit of original or contrived programming everywhere – we’re phoning it in. That’s right, half-assed posts, probable repeats (at least in substance), and just a lack of energy everywhere. Who knew we were capable of such sloth?

Actually, the official first novel of Mister Faded Glory is currently being collated and sorted for submission to literary agents. It’s called These Monks – and if you ever begin reading full chapters here, on site, for free, you’ll know I’ve failed miserably. Honest, that’s what I’ve been working on.

More later. Also, Dan Patrick left ESPN, the Cubs are a game over .500 at the break (better than 2003!) and Die Hard 4 was surprisingly good. And my DVR doesn’t work! What am I to do with the Singing Bee starting tomorrow?