Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

The best Sunday Night game of the year took place tonight in San Diego, of all places, and Indianapolis eked out a win over the (sort of) rival Chargers on the leg of Adam Vinateri, who knocked a 50-yard field goal as time expired to seal the win, 23-20.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t perfect. And the Colts have some serious issues on their offensive line – but for whatever reason, they were able to survive and advance. I mentioned earlier they needed to navigate the six-game meat of their schedule at 4-2 to make some noise in the AFC. Well, they’ve done that. They’re not whole, they’re not quite right, but they exorcised some Charger demons and managed to pull out a win tonight.

Suffice it to say if we didn’t expend so much energy detesting the Patriots or loathing the Jaguars, we might actually lament the Chargers. They who seem constructed almost exclusively to defeat the Colts, who seem to knock out a key Colt during each matchup, and they who we cannot solve, even as every other team can. The underperforming team who derailed the Colts’ 2005 undefeated run; the bizarre team who notched 6 picks and two Darren Sproles run-backs to squeak out a win last year in San Diego; and of course the debacle of the final Hoosier Dome game. I feel sorry for San Diego fans – how much agony can one season present – but, seriously, the Colts needed to finally beat these guys.

And beat them they did, somehow, some way. Good game, good win, get the hell back to the Oil Drum, and we’ll see what happens.

I hate to attempt to care about sports awards, such as the American League MVP. First, they’re fodder largely for sports radio, empty-headed columnists, and as fans, why should we really care?

However, when an egregious mistake is made, based solely on the ridiculous argument that Player X means the most to his team rather than giving the award, simply, to the best player, well, that’s pure folly. Sorry, Dustin Pedroia. But if I were Red Sox GM, I’d trade the MVP Pedroia straight up for at least 15 other players in the American League, no questions asked.  Rob Neyer lays out a better case for Joe Mauer, and also decries the ugly criteria for self-important MVP voting. Neyer quotes Joe McDonald‘s sheer lack of wisdom:

Whether the voters from the Baseball Writers’ Association of America select Pedroia as the A.L. MVP, he had an MVP-like season. If he did not produce in such a manner, the Red Sox do not have the success they enjoyed and the club does not reach the playoffs. That’s how you should judge the MVP. … He’s a unique player, one who plays the game right every single day. He wants to win and because of that the Red Sox do win. He’s a good hitter who becomes a great hitter in big situations. He’s a good base runner who becomes very good in key spots. Defensively, there aren’t many balls that get by him. Actually, he’s probably helped the Red Sox win more games with his glove than his bat. 

I’ll be blunt: What a fucking idiot. More than almost anything in sports, I cannot stand sportswriters playing semantic professors and debating the meaning of “valuable” to befit their own groupthink or cognitive dissonance. Most Valuable Player means Best Player. Period. End of discussion.

Nobody remembers the 2005 movie The Weather Man. One of Nicolas Cage‘s best movies, featuring actual gravitas and emotion instead of ghosts or riders, the somewhat macabre flick actually nails the thirtysomething male mind, at least in part.

In one scene, Cage‘s character leaves his Chicago apartment to pick up a gallon of milk or something. During his entire walk, he vacillates between fantasies about a jogger and other, random thoughts bouncing around his noggin. He almost forgets exactly what errand he actually runs. (In fact, he may actually forget it, I can’t remember. No, the irony isn’t lost.)

But that’s reality; and Cage is me (Also ironic, if you’ve ever seen a photo). Only a scant five years ago, my mind could partition off the little things, the major things, the important things, the ridiculous and the sublime. Now, I have to pretty much scribble down each and every thought as they occur, or they’re lost forever. Memorized grocery lists are totally forgotten, my hands are ink-stained with smeared notes left to myself, I always neglect the prescriptions at Walgreen’s, and I just went to the fucking pet store and forgot to get something for the pet.

How on earth does this addled male dementia develop? I’m OK with my mind no longer finding room for the career trajectory of Adam Oates (though I fucking loved him on NHLPA ’93), but seriously, how could my Quantum-Leap, swiss-cheesed memory jumble possibly happen?

I’m no less intelligent. I’m much more productive; refined at nearly all tasks from writing to conversing to household chores to sex. I somehow found the time and drive to write a novel and adopt a cat, and I guess I’m even pretty good at my job. And I keep up this blog for all six of you. But feed me a twelve pack of Harp’s and on Monday I still can’t remember who sang Mambo No. 5, much less the Pythagorean theorem. (Hint: Lou Bega. And the sum of the squares of the two sides of an Isosceles blah blah blah.)

But how could I be expected to remember trivial stuff like the words to Family Ties‘ theme song, or Joe Dumars‘ alma mater, anyway (McNeese State)? Not with such cerebral gems in my cortex as Monday’s:

• I wear lots of shirts with pockets now. At dinner Saturday night, I absently began picking what looked like peanut crumbs out of the shirt pocket. My friends looked perplexed, and I was too — I had no idea how they got there. However, this morning, eating Rice Krispies, I noticed as I elevated the bowl to chomp my breakfast and keep an eye on Night Court, a few stray Krispies tumbled into my shirt pocket while I maneuvered the spoon around the bowl, hoping to soak the entire kernels. Hmm, that must be it, I thought. I clearly was on to something. Of course, late in the day, in the bathroom at work, I discovered half a Dorito in the pocket, so clearly I’m just a fucking slob. Some mystery.
• Is there a televised ESPN weeknight game that Jim Kelly doesn’t attend? Shouldn’t a Hall of Famer be busier? I struggle to think how he’d shuttle from sideline to sideline if Miami (Fl.) somehow played Buffalo.
• About time Syracuse fired disastrous head coach Greg Robinson. Doomed from the start, Cuse’s USC-imported athletic director hand-picked Greg – and watched an entire fan base turn on a storied program immediately upon the poor schmoe’s arrival. Not good. Forget Robinson’s lack of head-coaching experience, zero ties to the northeast or awareness of Syracuse history. He bounced around from offensive juggernaut to offensive juggernaut (Denver Broncos to Kansas City Chiefs to Texas to Syracuse) as a defensive coordinator, only all his teams were markedly terrible at defense. That is, on some of the most memorable, revolutionary offensive squads of all time, Robinson‘s defenses routinely loomed as some of the worst of all time. Good Lord. Syracuse shouldn’t even let this joker coach his last two games; but next week’s is against Charlie Weis, so the empathetic administration probably wants Robinson to simply enjoy the experience of coaching against an equal for once in his life.
• You heard it here first: Kerry Wood will not be done as a Cub. Oh, I know what I said – but I think this is all a ploy, planned by Jim Hendry to strong-arm Ryan Dempster (Yeah, I know, the motive isn’t clear).  I see Wood still unsigned by a team on Dec. 1, and the Cubs then offering arbitration, with Wood accepting the one-year deal before Dec. 7. Sure, it seems remote – but it wouldn’t hurt the Cubs, or Wood – who still has durability issues – to partner for one more year. Maybe I’m too clingy.
• Almost daily, my early morning involves a thrilling fantasy dream involving Ms. Faded Glory doing neat stuff she doesn’t habitually do, right before the shrieking alarm rouses me. During each Olympian exploit, my subconscious continually refreshes me “Wake up early, tomorrow morning, this could be real!” Of course, my subconscious is tricking me, because I never actually wake up on time. Which explains why I spent my last snooze break embroiled in a tussle with Sean Penn over who got the top bunk in our dorm room at NYU. Luckily I had to hangglide to transfer student orientation in the Bermuda Triangle, so it was moot.
• Yes, I now completely recall all my dreams. And wow, are they fucking stupid.
• I just watched my DVR of this week’s Saturday Night Live - was the satirical institution making some sort of gay statement decrying California’s Prop 8? Each and every sketch contained tangible homoerotic overtones – from four guys’ singing in between gay anecdotes, to meathead turnpike attendants offering subtle Proposition 8 commentary; to Andy Samberg painting a fully nude Paul Rudd, and the slurpy, kissing family. The show was fairly funny – but the theme was palpable – too much so to be completely coincidental. NBC must plan to re-air this on Bravo, ad nauseum.
• Speaking of sort-of-which, I’m watching a fairly entertaining Browns-Bills game (The mute’s on; I have no need to listen to Tony Kornheiser fawn over Trent-freaking-Edwards while complaining incessantly about the weather), and I’m wishing the Bills trotted out 1974 throwbacks, just so they could offer an attractive counterpart to the Browns’ gorgeous visiting uniforms. Instead of caring about the game, I could simply gaze at two of the best uniform designs ever. And now I’ve said too much; each time I call the Browns’ uniforms ‘gorgeous,’ Ms. Faded Glory bookmarks a divorce attorney.
• Bob Sanders now has missed 33 out of a possible 74 games as a Colt, and I can’t decide if this adds to his legend or detracts. The Texans always play the Colts tough, and I wasn’t surprised with a hard-fought Colts win. I won’t say anything stupid like, Here Come the Horsies, however, they are almost through the killer stretch of their schedule, with a chance to go 4-2 over their last six. Maybe luck is turning? Of course, San Diego derailed their season twice last year – Indianapolis proved fully mortal after the bizarre Week 11 loss in S.D. last season.
• Speaking of division rivals, the Titans outlasted the mentally bankrupt Jacksonville Jaguars, and precisely zero commentators made the apt comparison – the Titans are the Jaguars; the spitting image, only featuring an actual, competent head coach.
• Say, these random lists doubling as columns sure are easy to write, Peter King! Especially the dated pop culture references! You know what I’ve been jonesing for? A show set in Manhattan, which whimsically details the lives of six fresh, youngish suitemates. The other day, perusing the Network of Turners, I found it – called, simply, Friends! What genius! Check and mate. Start polishing that mantel, Mr. Schwimmer.
• So here we are. Six years into this blog, and I’m totally rambling and unleashing horrendously trivial thoughts, nary a common thread among them. Not even a homoerotic one. You’ve probably already guessed the worst, however. That’s right, I didn’t create a rough draft, so I have fully forgotten three crucial thoughts. Guess that brilliance will have to wait for another day.

My best thoughts often arrive randomly throughout the given day while I multitask from one annoyance to the next – from XLSs to Quark to Outlook to Photoshop to all points in between; a phenomenon probably hardly unique. I’m truly a denizen of corporate America. Perhaps even a (bite your tongue) successful one.

So it’s no surprise that recycled, pithy, surreptitiously hilarious emails wind up becoming blog posts from time to time. In fact, I’m currently trying to link WordPress and my bank-protected email system so I can automatically populate posts throughout my day, but I doubt this is possible without (a) getting mercilessly fired, (b) pissing off an entire company, or (c) both. After which, I’d be decidedly less amusing. (Yes, it’s possible.) In any event, if you find yourself perusing a repeat, simply consider yourself lucky to be in the inner minutiae-based circle of Mister Faded Glory. Maybe we’ll even get you a fucking T-shirt.

ANYWAY, two national columnists prompted scornful email banter from me this week; and though both thoughts are reruns, they’re important. Fresh off the heels of the relocation of one of Mr. Faded Glory‘s matinee idols, two columnists have deigned to impugn two larger-than-life athletes Mister Faded Glory holds supremely dear, without fail. The first is the self-and-other-deprecating Dr. Z on SI.com, who writes the only must-read power rankings in all of football’s list-driven media coverage:

No. 3 Indianapolis Colts (5-4)
Too high a spot for them, I know, but I’m stuck with them. They beat the Steelers. Carolina played a bummer in Oakland. The Eagles lost. I was watching ESPN before the Cards-Niners Monday night. They were defining the resurgence of the Colts. First Steve Young. “Don’t say it,” I pleaded. “Don’t say it.” He didn’t say it. Then Emmitt Smith. “Don’t say it.” He said it. “Well, they’ve got Bob Sanders back now.” Aaarrgggh! The most overrated angle in football. He’s one player, friend. One player! And he wasn’t that much of a factor in the Steelers game, anyway. I figure this angle will be good for about three more weeks, then it might, repeat might, die a natural death. If I don’t first.

BOB SANDERS DOES NOT CARE FOR YOUR CASUAL DISMISSAL, DR. Z.

As a Colts fan, this is extremely frustrating. At what point will anyone understand what role Sanders plays on the Colts’ defense? Sure, he’s not a perfect safety, but he swings the entire performance of the Colts and has for four years. Ridiculous. Sometimes he’s a middle linebacker swirling in the Colts’ scheme, sometimes he monsters on the opposing team’s best player – whether it’s Randy Moss, Maurice Jones-Drew, or Hines Ward. It’s no coincidence he frees up the rest of the defense, elevates Antoine Bethea to all-pro, and is the Colts’ MVP. Beginning four years ago, he transformed the Colts – as a rookie – from a horrific defense to stout; in the Super Bowl year he returned from injury to elevate the Colts from also-ran to champion. He thrives in the Colts’ system, and the Colts thrive because of him – a symbiotic relationship proving he’s our Defensive Player of the Year, every year. Do not doubt Bob Sanders, media types.

The second object of our vengeful venom is favorite friend Bill Simmons, who bracketed a mind-numbing description of his favorite T-shirt (You’ll never guess – he bought it on a trip to Vegas with four of his loser friends, a frattish group of ne-er-do-wells whom he assumes is vastly superior to all drunk, snarky male circles) with a potshot at Hall-of-Famer and MFG idol Mr. Clyde Drexler.

…If you polled every non-Jazz player and non-Hornet and asked them if they’d rather play with Paul or Williams, Paul would win in a landslide. There hasn’t been an NBA argument this dumb since everyone decided before the 1992 Finals that MJ and Clyde Drexler were on the same level and we needed to argue about them. Just stop.

Well, never fear, Bill. I still argue for Clyde!

Still, all of us Blazer fans and avowed MJ-haters know Drexler isn’t quite as good a player as Jordan. We get it.

Our point is that comparing the two is not a personal affront to all holier-than-thou chortling sportswriters. Beginning as far back as 1984 the burgeoning sports media began a cheesy slurping contest surrounding Michael Freaking Jordan – who can suck up to His Airness the fastest, a contest still going to this day.

Sportswriters raced to outdo each other, to deal solely in absolutes, to shout down any naysayer bold enough to suggest Jordan had – get this – a peer. In 1992, one of Clyde’s best seasons, his production and the Blazers’ performance made him worthy of inclusion in the MVP discussion; and the pair could easily be considered two of the top-five greatest 2-guards of all time. Sure, the Bulls were better defensively and won the title, but neither heavyweight guarded the other in the Finals. Clyde couldn’t even earn his deserved All-Star game MVP because Magic came back and shot 500 times. To dismiss Drexler simply to celebrate MJ is folly, both deserve a seat at an elite table (with Kobe Bryant), even if Mike‘s chair is closer to the head of the table than Clyde‘s.

And while we’re on the subject of stuff MFG unceremoniously worships, 30 Rock‘s treatment of Night Court last night was utterly sublime. At once reverent and contemptuous, 30 Rock perfectly paid tribute and poked fun of a show oddly melding sophomoric, smutty humor and serious hand-wringing.  Like I said, one show not taking itself too seriously celebrates another. Fantastic. And with that, I’m off to watch it again. (No, seriously, I am.)

I’m trying to avoid most Cubs speculation, posting or the like, leaving that to the others.

Today, however, the Cubs acquired a new fireballing reliever, Kevin Gregg, from the Marlins. This is a dubious move, first, because Gregg is terrible. He saved a ton of games in a fluky, enormous park, and he walks more guys than, well, Ryan Dempster. Matt Lindstrom would have been a much better target.

Secondly, the report include remarks from Jim Hendry that appear to seal Kerry Wood’s fate. Others will write this better than me, but it’s a sad day. No Cub since Ryne Sandberg, or Ernie Banks before him, quite captured our attention, affection and admiration like Kerry.

For a generation of us Cub fans, not the same happy-go-lucky lovable-loser-worshiping, tradition-spouting mopes as our forefathers, Kerry was our Mr. Cub. He failed, he tried, he failed, he succeeded, he won, he lost, he lived, he hurt, he cared as much as we did. He was us, for ten years. And it’s too bad he has to go.

All things end, I guess, and most of us have learned that athletes don’t bleed like we do. This is a job, after all. Still, it’s almost heartbreaking. More than any before him, I will miss Kerry Wood the Cub.

All the best, 34. Unless you’re a (gulp) Cardinal.

You’ve probably noticed by the media blitz and water cooler buzz and pamphleteers and maybe even flyovers and the general circus surrounding tonight’s revolutionary episode of 30 Rock, entitled “The One with the Cast from Night Court.“

That’s right, in a scant two-and-a-half hours, one landmark 9:30 Thursday NBC show celebrates THE landmark 9:30 Thursday NBC show; and as one of the few people worldwide brave enough to celebrate the greatness of the sophomoric, satirical, courtroom romp, I’m absolutely elated.

Sure, it will be just a cameo on a critically acclaimed show that few people watch, but this is a chance to launch a new generation of Night Court fans. Soon, the entire season will be released on DVDs! Fans of madcap, fast-paced Arrested Development, Scrubs and similar single-camera sitcoms will discover snide, subversive situation comedy in its knee-slapping pinnacle (I’m gonna EAT! THAT MAN’S! EYEBROWS!). History and present and humor will roll into one, probably resulting (finally) in the release of a Night Court feature film. They probably don’t even need to write a script, simply updating the series’ opus four-part Her Honor story arc would do. Hell, just put the episodes on a loop and release it into theatres. Guaranteed profit.

Yep, it all begins tonight. The return of Night Court, and the subsequent discovery, by anyone who knows Mister Faded Glory, that he pilfers nearly 100 percent of his quips and jokes from a faded 1980s sitcom.

Hmm. Maybe the revolution really shouldn’t be televised. Anyway, see you tonight.

Oh, you’re wondering about the book? Still soliciting agents, batting about .500. That means, 50 percent outright rejections and 50 percent ignoring me altogether. Still, it doesn’t pay to be discouraged.

The market is crying for a story weaving together the insecurities and self-obsession of the twentysomething male lifestyle. Not everyone is a Lothario or Gordon Gekko. Some worry and fret and opine to a fault, frustrated guys who can’t quite grow up, muster self-confidence, get laid or even successfully extricate themself from unhappiness. Some guys serve as the poster children for wasted potential in the arid heartland. And it’s about time someone wrote a story about that, while paying tribute to the casually bereft Midwest.

Oh. Thanks, again, Chuck, for taking the words right out of my mouth. Thanks for probably writing this in a weekend while These Monks took me nearly five years. Thanks for working in the Saved By the Bell references effortlessly while I struggle to perfectly capture the whimsical follies of 1990s children. Thanks. But the world can read both, right?

Regardless, if Klosterman‘s usual hand-wringing and self-righteous contemporizing robs me of any chance for mainstream (or any stream) success, I’ve got no choice to be inspired. (And seriously, I’m reading that Klosterman book first chance I get. I’ll like it, and I’ll wish I had written it. Not that I’m not proud myself.)

I’ve got no choice simply because of this Malcolm Gladwell piece, celebrating the fortitude and tenacity and sheer survival through heartbreak, failure, and apprehension. Perhaps the most inspiring profile I’ve ever read, it’s also prescient. Maybe genius isn’t always directly related to precocity. Maybe, in fact, true geniuses simply know enough to keep improving oneself. Maybe true geniuses know how to improve themselves, and that makes them genius. Perhaps genius only emerges when someone’s been around enough to learn it all, and know more than others.

Or, perhaps, it manifests only out of sheer talent. Juxtapose Gladwell‘s Late Bloomers with NY Magazine‘s profile of stats wunderkind Nate Silver, creator of Baseball Prospectus and also the reason I wasn’t too worried on Election Day. Silver is absolutely a genius – exhibiting the kind of intelligence, knack and brilliance for statistics most of us yearn for in any discipline. But is he any more genius than Ben Fountain, finally a success after years of starting over? Is Fountain any different than any starving artist – we discover them all too late?

Finally, what about the genius whose gifts are subtle – who effortlessly inspires those around them? How does that fit in? How do we know Silver and Fountain exhibit even a modicum of common sense or decency? Could it be genius is inherently related to charisma, or the unique talent to embody energetic passion simply to do one’s best, never seeming to yield? Maybe inspiration is the most sincere form of genius after all.

Quite simply, maybe the truth about geniuses is they never stop to ponder whether they are or aren’t; maybe they aren’t narcissistic at all. Maybe it’s not quite worth it to aspire to genius; you can’t quite get there if you’re always wondering Why Not?

The truth? Who knows. For those of us who toil fruitlessly, failing at several tasks and learning from each, and experiencing true giftedness only in all-too-fleeting moments of brilliance, we simply have to hope for our Fountain story. Or conversely, hope to discover some skill we embody as well as Silver does stats.

Maybe it’s writing. Maybe it’s blogging. Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s the simple, daily process of hoping to be better tomorrow than what you are today, no matter what better is.

Maybe. At the very least, I yearn to find out. And that, in itself, is something.

Isn’t it?

That’s a win I didn’t expect, and like yesterday, that’s what makes football so great.

The Colts marched into hostile Heinz Field to face Pittsburgh, who I am convinced may yet be the best team in the AFC. (Stop it with the Tennessee talk. Yeah, they’re well and good, but in the AFC title game, in Nashville, hosting the Steelers, who do you take? Thought so.)

Indianapolis has had its issues with Pitt over the years, but they gutted out a win, bending but not breaking against the Steelers, and scoring when they needed to. They kept pace in the Wild Card standings, but more importantly, look as though they survive and advance, anticipating a return to form at some point. As the weeks go by, the Colts fight through bad luck and get better and better.

Of course, I’m not sure who to congratulate – I saw nary a second of the contest. Here in Kansas, we were unfortunate enough not only that the Chiefs made their first visit to the left coast, but they played competently against the Chargers, so I saw none of CBS’ featured game. (Let the record also reflect it was absolutely the right call by Herm Edwards to go for two and win against S.D. They lost, but too often in the NFL coaches are complete and total pussies. With nothing to lose, a 1-7 team, it’s important to continue to teach your team how to win. Herm ain’t exactly a brain surgeon, but his team keeps improving, by leaps and bounds, each week.)

ANYWAY, Peyton Manning threw three touchdowns, Reggie Wayne caught one off a weird bounce (Karma owed us this, right Lance Briggs and Green Bay?), Antoine Bethea was a beast, our stand-in corners each had a pick, and Dwight Freeney had two sacks. The Colts held Pitt to 20 points – and only three in the second half. That’s a monster win for our embattled boys in blue.

We’ll savor this tonight. Perhaps I can say, again, the best is yet to come.

(And if the Cubs land Jake Peavy tonight, I’ll buy a freaking lottery ticket tomorrow.)

It’s completely trite and self-serving to claim I foresaw Iowa’s heart-stopping victory over No. 3 Penn State yesterday. Somewhat true, I actually thought all week that the Hawkeyes would bounce back and finally nab a close win, growing up a bit as a team. However, I didn’t post anything, so to maintain I “knew this the whole time” makes me sound like Skip Bayless.

Regardless, the win isn’t about me. Certainly, the Hawkeyes’ victory was one of the best recent games in Kinnick – rivaling Purdue 2002 and Michigan 2003. Moreover, it’s perhaps a sign the team is on the upswing. Bereft by close loss after close loss and conference failure the last two years, many pundits (Pat Forde) and Hawkeye Nation members called for Kirk Ferentz’ head. Hopefully this win hearkens back to 2001 – a good team struggling to learn how to win; yet when 2002 arrived, everyone knew. To me, it seems eerily similar. Granted, I’m totally in the tank for Ferentz and always have been, but the parallels exist.

Two more wins for the Hawkeyes and they may stare at fourth in the Big Ten, which, all things considered, is probably where they belong. Sure, the Illinois, Pitt and Northwestern losses sting – but PSU, MSU and OSU are all worthy teams, and I’ll take the promise of the future over hand-wringing about the past. The best is yet to come.

Also, I whine about how ridiculously stupid college football often is, and I don’t digress from that. Yet any time a scene occurs like last night in Iowa City (or last week in Lubbock, etc.), you’re reminded how blisteringly fun college football weekends can be, despite the sport’s corruption, warts, and general fan boisterousness. Yesterday, I felt that – for the first time in a while.

Go Hawks.

Finally, a great, revolutionary, phenomenal day. Right?

What a moment. It’s tough not to gloat, to waggle fingers, or to proselytize, but whatever. Tonight is great, and thanks to any of you who voted for the correct choice. Thanks to the state of Iowa, my home, for proving your intelligence.

Perhaps it’s trite to claim Barack Obama’s win as a landmark. But I suspect most of us feel the same way about Mr. Obama that the devilish Baby Boomers felt about John F. Kennedy. In any case, as great a leader as we think President Obama; none of our pride, happiness, or thrill can even compare to the feeling African-Americans must feel tonight. I mean no disrespect; this is truly monumental, and I’ll never understand or describe it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel some empathetic pride.

Maybe this is the sea change for which we all hope. Maybe. Yes, yes, we can.

Thank you.

It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, for the times, they are a-changing.