Mister Faded Glory | www.misterfadedglory.com

So I thought we were sitting pretty last week, when Mr. Faded Glory returned to blogging. Turns out it was a happy mirage.

Today, for example, time has run out on me. Stupid time. This always happens. And it always ticks me off. Where does all my time go? When did I become The Weather Man?

So that’s what’s infuriating Mr. Faded Glory today, and why you’re getting a QuickPost instead of something delightfully profound. I mean, could I really devote a full post to my new Favicon? (Go ahead, admire it.)

Nope, I used to have plenty of time. (Uh, when I was 15.) No, I used to have more time. That’s it. Because now that I live in Lawrence, Kan. (And I’m not going anywhere. Not even to the Big Ten), I have joined the most soul-crushing of pursuits, the most decidedly of American frustrations, the tie that binds those of us trapped in middle casteclass …

The commute.

Yes, I’m now a commuter. I never was a commuter before. Not since 2000, anyway. Bet you didn’t know that.

In Kansas City, I lived downtown, four blocks away. At the old place, I was a 5 minute drive from work. Now, it’s 35 minutes. And it’s not far, the traffic isn’t so bad, and it really could be much, much worse.

And it’s not even the drive that’s that bad. Sure, there’s jerks on the road, weaving on their Bluetooth, not knowing to hit the merge lane running, instead of stopping to signal. There’s annoying tollbooths, but less-than-annoying K-Tag/Speedpass lanes. And I don’t really mind waking up earlier. I always wondered how older guys enjoyed the morning hours better than late night, and when it started. My dad, for example, always got up at 4:30.

But now that’s me. I don’t mind getting up. I even have a Bedtime Monitor on this laptop, so I don’t mind going to bed earlier. And I don’t mind getting caught up on podcasts, particularly if Tony Kornheiser and John Feinstein are caught in a spat.

But it’s the loss of time that’s frustrating. Each day, that’s 70 minutes, gone. Seventy minutes, not spent with Ms. Faded Glory or Franklin or Sophie. Seventy minutes, not writing. Seventy minutes, not furthering that writing. Seventy minutes, not running on the treadmill, or stretching before a workout, or mowing the lawn.

And the waking up isn’t hard, but holy dear God, I’m never so tired as when I pull the car into my garage. I mean, it’s pulling teeth to get me to do anything except stare into Jeopardy! before I’m trapped in a power nap. Then I wake up, putter around like most dweebs, and/or workout or eat takeout or whatever, and I’m up too late doing (this?) whatever; watching sports or screwing around on facebook or burning through a season of Mad Men. (Excellent so far, by the way. Just like my career, or my job. Well, except for the drinking and smoking and sex and money…)

And I go to bed too late, wake up too early, and lose seventy minutes each day, that I don’t blame on the Internet or procrastination or power naps or Tivo. I blame it on the commute.

And we all do. That’s why we’re frustrated, sometimes. For me, at least, today.

And were we to call for a revolt, us commuters – denizens of the turnpike, subway, or sidewalk, who would we revolt against? Us? We’re the ones who live here. No, we’ll just endure. That’s what we do. That’s what you do. That’s what I do.

One of the necessary evils, to live where you want and supposedly do what you want, and all that jazz. I’m sure it’s fine.

But anyway, it’s late, and like I said, Mad Men, really good. Watching penultimate episode of season one, and each time it’s interrupted for a preview of Rubicon, I tell myself – after missing seasons of Mad Men and Breaking Bad, I’m getting in on the ground fucking floor with Rubicon.

But wait, that sounds familiar. I’m kind of tired. Did I say that already? Must be the seventy minutes again.

You’re wondering how quickly I’m yanking out tufts of my hair – beyond annoyed at the excruciating behavior of the Cubs.

While in Dallas, I neglected to watch the Cubs, who apparently forgot how to hit immediately after Rich Harden’s weird Sunday meltdown against the Astros. Regardless, they’ve been absolutely owned by the Cardinals this season.

I still know not what to think about this team; it’s not as though they played awful against the Cardinals, the pitching has been great. The bats, however, are atrocious. I’m pretty sure the Cubs are now being played off the field by Keyboard Cat. (Thank you, Deadspin.)

In addition, it’s not as though Busch Stadium is the Cubs’ favorite place, nor as if the pitching match-ups were in our favor. Joel Pineiro already has dominated us effortlessly 2009, Cris Carpenter made a holier-than-thou return on Wednesday (Carpenter – neck and neck with Tedy Bruschi for biggest douche in sports history.), and Adam Wainwright toys with us each and every start. Hey, another CG! Fantastic..

However, without Aramis, enduring a Soriano cooldown, watching Derrek Lee age in dog years, seeing Fontenot exposed, Soto prove to be a mirage, and Milton Bradley’s struggles Boggling the mind – the season still doesn’t feel quite right, as we’ve said. As others have said. At any rate, I’m done bitching, I still think they’ll wind up atop this crappy division. If they don’t hit, they won’t win.

How’s that for a triumphant return? Rocket science, I know. But that’s what you get here, at our big-league Cubs blog (If you’re looking for detailed minor league Cubs analysis, however, check out TCR. Those guys can’t wait for 2013!).

I try not to get worked up about things like this anymore, but since I lauded the Worldwide Leader for its nearly-cogent ranking of all-time shooting guards, it pains me to point out their 758th sort-of annual wideout rankings. Of course you know Jerry Rice is No. 1, but where would MFG-favorite Marvin Harrison land?

No. 2, no – that’s, uh, Randy Moss. Er…

Not 3 or 4, oh, there’s Michael Irvin, of course, he wasn’t outlandish and outspoken and overrated.

Hmmm…still no Harrison.

Here we are at 7, hmmm … not here, either, did they forget him?

No. 9 of course is T.O., all right, that’s ridiculous. Where the heck is Keyshawn, while we’re at it?

There’s Marvin! No. 10! Perfect. The single-season record-holder for catches, second all-time in catches and yards, with an outside shot to supplant Rice at the top of some record boards. Granted, I’m biased, but seriously – tenth? Quite the joke, WWL. Quite the joke.

Still a little unreachable. Here’s my thoughts, after arriving back from Zihuatenejo (85 degrees) in the Midwest (2 degrees).

1. Why does anyone live in the Midwest?

2. Thank you, Indianapolis. Glad to know that 2006 and 2007 was the aberration and not the rule. And next time the Colts (a) have a bye sealed, (b) decide to tank Week 17, (c) face a weathered opponent peaking at the right time, (d) suffer another Tony Dungy distraction, or (e) play in that stupid noon Sunday time slot, I’ll run away scared. Let’s just say even though everyone played like they were half-asleep, every call went totally for them, but they still choked and shot themselves in the foot each and every time. And they were the only team who could defeat New England. Get ready for the unconscionable hype of Brett Favre vs. Tom Brady. I hate sports.

And, just remember, if the Chargers knock off New England. Remember where you first heard the comparison between the underdog Steelers knocking off the Colts en route to a title, the Colts knocking off the Ravens en route to a title, and this year’s Chargers. Right here first.

3. Did the Cubs really sign Jon Lieber? This is the kind of move I can get behind. (Ducks while bloggers throw copies of Baseball Prospectus 08 at my head).

4. There better be an Oscar ceremony. Because Vedder won. And even though awards mean nothing to him, I’m pretty happy. Guaranteed.

4. Wow, a whole week without the internet or cell phones. You know what? I didn’t miss a thing.

No, sorry, Mister Faded Glory can’t help but be a Scrooge. Seriously, we curse ourselves for it every year. Even though Christmas is somewhat enjoyable, even though we somewhat enjoy the company, and even though we don’t even hate kids, the whole thing is just such a humongous hassle that we’re practically ecstatic when it’s over. Our outlook will no doubt change a little when Junior Faded Glories are running around (Don’t hold your breath, mom), but for now, Dec. 26 is a holiday in and of itself.

Even Franklin the Cat, official feline of Mr. Faded Glory, enjoyed his two-day run of the house with little destruction. He certainly didn’t go nuts like one of his brethren in San Francisco.

All kidding, aside, uh, what the hell? What in the world causes something like that? Is it the full moon? The animals banding together, planning an overthrow? Though somewhat of a zoo savant, I’ve never been to the San Francisco Zoo, and I certainly can’t imagine a loose tiger running around, scared and deranged, or imagine how the beast got loose. The story fascinates me, as tragic as it is. (Though, yes, if I had to choose a way to go out, a tiger maul would be on the short list. Still, it’s horrible to think of the kid killed just while enjoying a zoo.)

The tiger was kept in a grotto with a moat 20 feet deep and 15 to 18 feet across, surrounded by a 20-foot wall. Officials could not immediately say how the animal escaped, nor do they know precisely how long it was out of its enclosure.

Seriously! Are you kidding me? Did the cat have a freaking extension ladder?

Police then started to search for the tiger, finding it at the zoo’s Terrace Cafe, about 300 yards from the tiger enclosure. They approached with their emergency lights on.

Picture a Siberian tiger, sitting at an outside cafe table, calmly sipping a coffee and reading the Chronicle. Police approach, and the tiger puts down his frosted flakes, staring blankly into the emergency lights. (Who cares about the lights? Why is that a story detail? Not only are these stories absurd, horrible, and morbidly intriguing, they wind up as test cases in newswriting 101.)

So here I am, in the midwest, stupidly worried about my housecat scratching up my TV screen. Perspective, we found it.

Anyway, we returned home from the official in-law ranch of Mr. Faded Glory to find Franklin safe and sound. Promptly after feeding the hungry guy, however, Ms. Faded Glory began putting dishes and gifts and kitchen stuffs away in a cupboard, only to inadvertently knock the refrigerator’s cold water hose from the valve, re-enacting ascene from several Three Stooges movies, water spurting all over the kitchen, a frantic, parched Franklin attempting to drink straight from the pipe. A frantic Ms. Faded Glory rushing back into the room with towels.

Luckily, Mr. Faded Glory received a cordless drill for Christmas, and is now a licensed handyman and resulting badass. Seriously, though, he rushed to shut off the water valve and repair the fridge. This homeownership is trial by fire – had I not had to secure a third-party mover to install the fridge, I would have had zero idea what to do with the bursting pipe. After the ordeal of checking all the fans and motors and cleaning the floor and fridge, drying everything off, we’re now left with a ruptured cold water line hose. Tonight on This Old House, MFG will attempt to reconnect a new water line.

Ironically, (or perhaps just stupidly) the MFGs fretted for two full days that Franklin the Cat went batshit on the drapes, frustrated at Christmas solitude. However, within ten minutes of returning home, we (well, more accurately, MS. Faded Glory) destroyed our kitchen. Merry frigging Christmas.

Anyway, lest you think this is a blog about News of the Weird (sigh), Christmas (shudder), home repair (snore) or my cat (help, I’m emasculated), back to sports.

This morning we flipped on our favorite WWL show, Mike and Mike (tongue firmly in annoyed cheek), treated to a talking head segment worthy only of Sportscenter. (Well, maybe it was SC we watched, actually. I have a tough time telling the two apart, especially with snarky little bastard Greenberg missing from M&M.)

ANYWAY, fat loudmouth Chris Berman, practically spiling turkey gravy, politely interviewed fat loudmouth Bill Parcells, in a segment entitled: “Which of Bill Parcells’ Greatest Teams Could Supposedly Beat the Patriots.” (paraphrase and italics entirely mine.)

Now, these teams weren’t even limited to Parcells’ Giants teams, so it was basically an exercise in lazy showfilling, ratcheting up hype to new levels as pompous Parcells informed viewers how the 1978 Steelers would match up with New England. Verdict: Who the fuck cares.

However, we watched with a chortle as ESPN continues to prop the Patriots up as greatest team ever, even though they have yet to play a playoff game. We’re practically giddy seeing the hype swirl into a white sportswriter’s perfect storm – What easy angles! 15-0! Tom Brady is a white Adonis! Bill Belichick wins at all costs! Presumably Bob Sanders watched SportsCenter this morning repeatedly smacking his fists into a wall. Thinking no network could better serve as the Patriots’ mouthpiece than moronic ESPN, we stood corrected as CBS and NBC rushed to swoop up the Saturday night tilt with the Giants (And the NFL’s public relations blitz exploded). Hopefully karma will take care of all this.

Hopefully karma will allow the douchebag Patriots to finish 16-0 and lose promptly in the playoffs, either against an upstart smashmouth Jacksonville squad or the defending champs (Though, yes, we’re totally freaking out about San Diego, Norv Turner be damned), especially after ESPN, the NFL, and lazy, white sportswriters sucking at the NFL’s proverbial teat have upped the ante during a Pursuit of Perfection Hype Blitz? In four weeks, we’ll have our answer. In just six days, you can thank the writers’ strike for the gaggle of horrific announcers calling a meaningless game, on just about every channel. The NFL! It’s fantastic!

On a side note, doesn’t the NFL’s farming out of the game to networks signify an admission they were wrong to completely undercut their own business model by launching a watered-down mouthpiece network? Doesn’t it at least hint the league might now be aware that America’s thirst for pro football isn’t actually as widespread as it thought? Isn’t it shocking that no one rushed out, pounding on cable company doors when they couldn’t see that Niners-Bengals game? How can I type all these questions while laughing profusely?

I fail to link to remind you, but a few weeks ago I excoriated our favorite homer columnist for his incandescent diatribe against NFL officiating, assuming the whole league was against the Patriots.

Well, after tonight, I challenge any Patriot sycophants to champion that cause. It maybe was a penalty right there, at the end, but honestly, how often does it get called! I guess Baltimore’s crowning moment this week is going to be the release of season four of The Wire, after all.

Ooh! Tom Brady’s press conference is on, he’s being condescending to the media and his opponents! This I gotta see!

I’ll spare you all any of my petty nonchalance as college football approached and then kicked off.

The fact is, I spent nearly all Saturday in front of my TV, working on smallish projects or the novel, still totally immersed in our most fractured sport. So, let’s dive right into winners and losers tonight!

Losers
ESPN
The Kansas State-Auburn game – easily one of the day’s best until the Wildcats flushed it down their leg at the very end – featured horrible announcing, completely incompetent officiating (Seriously, we expect penalties in week 1, but Tiger and Wildcat fans pulled their hair out with more than 15 penalties called at every turn – and delayed action with nearly every single penalty, and several terrible personal-foul calls. Just ridiculous), and a terrible gaffe by ESPN.
It’s the network’s featured game, but the Leader stupidly thought a college football public would rather watch the last few outs of a 10-0 Red Sox no-hitter thrown against the Orioles. Awful. They lost a minute of the football game, and spent more than 5 minutes showing a cheering Fenway crowd. Who the fuck cares? Any other baseball team (except one), and they never would have broken in. Never. Also, the game was a stomach-punch to K-Staters, after the Wildcats played well enough (and should have) to win. They gladly would have taken a 10-point loss 2 weeks ago in anticipation of this game. Now, they’re suicidal. No one goes from zero to insufferable quite like a K-State fan.

Syracuse
Supreme idiocy reigns at a former football power, now featuring completely bastardized uniforms, a terrible coach, and an irrelevant program.

How far the mighty have fallen, indeed. Remember how they balked at migrating to the ACC four years ago with their rivals, preferring to remain in the Big East? At this rate, in 2010 they’ll be lucky to be in the MAC.

Kirk Herbstreit
ESPN bumped Bob Davie from the Saturday night announcing team, and flew Herbstreit cross-country from Blacksburg to Berkeley on game day, preserving his morning circus duties. Take it from me, ESPN, overkill is a real, tangible thing, especially among college football fans. The more insight or analysis Herbstreit is allowed to dispense, the more chances exist for imaginary bias, fueled and exacerbated by insane fan bases watching each and every ounce of pregame coverage and assuming Kirk hates their school. Overkill is the recipe for overthrow.

Viewers
None of these gaffes are the worst. Not the Auburn refs, not Desmond Howard, not Ron Franklin’s ongoing condescension of Holly Rowe. It’s ESPN’s newest feature – a distinguished alum, celebrity, or player introduces the starting lineups! James Carville to mispronounce LSU, Tim Hudson to record only offense takes, or Miss Mississippi to introduce State’s players. In fact, ESPN aired Hudson introducing the offense when the graphics showed the Auburn defense. The network featured a different take of Hudson when the actual, offensive players took the field for Auburn. Bad, bad, bad. Embarrassing. It’s unwatchable and laughable now, and it’s bound to become absolutely terrifying later in the year. I waited for Kirstie Alley’s smiling visage to tear a mouthful out of a turkey leg while introducing Kansas State, but no such luck.

Winners
Terrible announcers
This is your day in the sun. With more than 500 billion football games on a multitude of TV networks, you all are now employed. Prone to clichés like “Coach said we just need to stop beating ourselves?” Here’s your paycheck. Unwilling to do any research on Auburn or K-State besides the quarterbacks? Show up on Saturday. Unfamiliar with college football rules? Welcome to the club! Eager to use and misuse the term “indisputable evidence?” Enjoy the featured game. Sigh. No wonder college football fans are always so pissed off.

Appalachian State.
It’s the perfect storm of a smallish school that people only casually recognize as tangential to SNL’s “Appalachian Emergency Room” and ESPN’s desire to anoint everything as “biggest ever.” So this was the biggest upset ever. In any sport. I’ve already forgotten the U.S. beating Russia in hockey, as a matter of fact.

The NCAA.
With Appalachian’s win over sluggish Michigan, a reason existed for announcers to mention the first Division I FCS win over a Division I FBS win or some shit. Apparently, everyone’s a D-I school, some play in playoffs at the end of the year, others fuel a stupid-talking head machine in a race for a select few bowls. The Division I Football Bowl Schools are separated from whatever FCS stands for. Oh, who cares. The point is, the media gets to explain the distinction change, while none of us ever cared otherwise.

Golden Showers
With a win over Iowa State, this bizarre sexual practice is vaulted into prominence. Oh, it’s Golden Flashes. Oh, my mistake. What the hell am I thinking? (Also – an ignominious beginning to the Gene Chizik era, though I’m fully convinced the loss is still blithering idiot Dan McCarney’s fault.)

Chicago
Treated to more than 100 thousand gold-wearing Iowa fans. All major cities should be so lucky. In fact, what the hell was I doing here? Oh, yeah, I don’t care about college football anymore. Right. See below.

Misery
As you grow older, intense fanaticism for certain sports wanes. Years ago, each and every major college and pro sport had a special place and team in your lexicon — soon, they begin falling by the wayside. There’s just not enough time to follow each and every team you liked as a child. With that in mind, I see no reason to fully toss myself into college football any longer. It’s fun to watch, but it’s absolutely fucking miserable.

With one loss ruinous of a season, fans are on edge. With no playoff, there’s no clear-cut winner, ever, so arguments last for decades. The system is rife with ill repute – drugs everywhere, players kiting credit cards, suspension, illegal recruiting, and misuse, unprofessionalism, and sheer priorities out of whack by nearly everyone involved. Honestly, how can I be expected to fully immerse myself in a season that results in complete immolation, tragedy, or frustration, no matter what? I’m already a psychotic Cubs fan – enough of a glutton for punishment.

At this time in my life, I simply don’t have the energy to bleed black and gold or blue and orange when a championship is a one in a gazillion chance. Last year, I viewed Iowa vs. Syracuse as the paramount battle for my fandom? Now, I can’t be bothered to raise an eyebrow.

I simply don’t have the energy to toss away an entire fall planning my day around TV times or avoiding a crowded arrival at a parking lot. College football completely fosters fanaticism, idiocy, and meatheadedness among fans from young to old, from frat boy to stockbroker, from bitter to jaded. The devotion of its fans partially makes it wonderful, but it also makes it totally self-destructive. Bill Simmons said it best – a sport where the players are paid and misused, coaches lambasted, and everyone winds up pissed off at the end of each and every season? No, thanks.

(Wait! Free tickets to Kinnick? Sold!)

So, I know you’ve all been scouring the web, clicking back on MFG and snapping “Refresh” in hopes of seeing my reaction to The Sopranos series finale. Well, my first impression is:

• I didn’t see it. (Haven’t watched the show since season three, really.)
• My second impression is: I probably would have really liked the ending. I enjoy the occasional ambiguous ending, and I definitely think (granted, after each and every TV writer, news analyst, sports blogger, sports beat writer, sports talk show host, AM radio host, right-wing conservative commentator, and entertainment blogger has already offered their input on the episode) that I would have really, really enjoyed the penultimate ending. Somewhat shocking, somewhat ambivalent – but nicely, mysteriously juxtaposing the two major elements of The Sopranos - fear and family.

At its end and beginning, the principles’ devotion to their family doesn’t quite preclude their fear of their uncertainty or fear of what they created. And I think the final episode would have captured that nicely, for me. (Ms. Faded Glory, on the other hand, despises endings that aren’t clear-cut. Had she been a Sopranos fan, she likely would have chucked a shoe into the screen.) And so, I understand the frustration with a murky ending – but I guess I would also offer, remember the finale of Friends? They tied everything up with a bow. You would have preferred that?

Anyway, another series bows out, albeit with more fanfare than the freakin’ Super Bowl. Which brings to mind all series finales – not to say that we’re the first blog to revisit some of the landmarks and timebombs from years’ past, but well, it’s worth a look. We may not be original, but far be it from MFG to discard the wave nicely intersecting with conventional wisdom and trivial minutae.

The Sopranos‘ inspired contention and watercooler talk will certainly parallel the interest in the finales of Cheers (excellent), Seinfeld (abysmal), M*A*S*H (very good), the aforementioned Friends (Burn that tape) and Newhart (the absolute best series finale ever. But in honor of the excellent closing ep of Cheers - you can read about it, anywhere, it was classic – let’s offer Cheers and Jeers to some notable finales from TV’s past: Read more

As you know, I was away over the weekend and just returned to the official stomping grounds of Mr. Faded Glory. Much to my horror, I discovered that everyone’s favorite snooty online ‘zine decided to thumb its nose at one of the – nay, THE – seminal film among twenty- and thirtysomethings everywhere. That’s right, Slate doesn’t like Fletch.

The news greeted me with horror. Fletch! Chevy Chase! It should come as no shock to readers that I consider Fletch my absolute favorite movie of all time, and it is certainly the most-watched movie within my catalog. In fact, several of you very readers probably have seen the movie alongside me, reciting lines at every turn.

Anyway, I found it nearly impossible that someone – anyone – possessed this sort of vitriol against a beloved celluloid classic. Originally, I had planned to line-by-line debunk Mr. Salam‘s angry critique of Fletch - but I decided against it. How is that worth my time? I know Fletch is great. I know the 1980s quip-filled action-comedy was perfected by Chase in his prime. I know all this – and I’m sorry Mr. Salam isn’t privy to understanding the flick’s sophomoric dialogue – which has spawned countless inside jokes and quips and quotes among all cliques during the last two decades. I’m sure in Salam‘s high school the cool kids made fun of his Oldsmobuick and called him Arnold T. Pants. (No, never, never…)

But this guy isn’t the problem. Sure, who cares if he’s too cool for Fletch. The problem is Slate.

Once upon a time, Slate was a shrewd little online magazine, promising a little bit of thoughtful news analysis up and down the mainstream media and pop culture nation. However, it’s devolved into the Skip Bayless of left-wing mainstream thought – each and every article or opinion piece (Yes, except Hitchens and Saletan) is a contemptuous dismissal of conventional wisdom, current trends, or common human behavior. Whatever is currently cool, Slate is certain that it’s actually lame – eager to turn all things mildly popular or even cultish, upon their head. You see, unless you, as a mouth-breathing mastodon, don’t read the magazine – well, there’s no way you’ve realized Slate is actually the arbiter of all things cool. And shame on you.

It’s no tragedy, it’s just an annoyance. Once a collection of good writers, now Slate has simply become a pouty bloggers’ mouthpiece (Yes, point taken. Don’t bother pointing that out.) – the lunchtable with all the kids who laugh at you for listening to Radiohead. You see, Radiohead is on the radio. And counts platinum selling albums. No way they could be cool.

Which brings us back to Fletch. Slate‘s contention is the movie’s failure as comment on the 1980s. Well, they’ve got us. Just like Three Amigos! failed to capture the plight of Mexican settlers in the 1900s and Caddyshack trivialized at the intersection between the golfing haves and have-nots, Fletch failed to properly crystallize the role of the fourth estate in the Reagan administration. Darn it.

Slate’s other criticisms are merely broadside potshots at Chase, a star whose sheen has dimmed. However, even as abrasive and cocksure as Chase may appear, for about ten years he was a star. Hilariously understated, snarky, and the consummate smart-aleck. Even if you hated him, you were on his side. That’s his charm. Imagine Adam Sandler in that role – nobody exuded cockiness, cheekiness, and arrogance yet still with ascertainable affability and undertones of the everyman like Chase. In Fletch, he’s at his peak. At no point do you fail to root for Fletch, even as petty and snarky as he can be. And he’s us – who doesn’t want to be Fletch? Talented, successful, somewhat brave, and, most importantly, ready with an uproarious quip in even the most harried situation.

It’s a fine line that Chase‘s intrepid columnist deftly walks. Fletch is totally cool – even as he’s elitist, cheeky, and snarky, he’s also the people’s champ. It’s nearly impossible for a character, a story, a movie – or a magazine – to pull off snarky and arrogant without coming across as totally unlikable. Which, come to think of it, is almost certainly the reason the flick inspires Slate’s petty jealousy. Not so farFletched.

Often, Mister Faded Glory listens to sports talk radio. No, that doesn’t make me a staggering dunderhead, it simply means I like sports. I can deal with freakouts, flip-outs, revisionist history, and conventional wisdom to an extent – but sometimes the chatter even drives me off a cliff.

Which brings us to a perfect case study this week – I refer to them as case studies because sports media talking heads are all too happy to pull up a chair and dissect the tendencies, culpabilities, and reactions to an intentional foul as though reviewing an amicus curae brief. No one’s on death row here, people.

I’m speaking, of course, of Amare Stoudemire‘s suspension for tonight’s pivotal game five. This is at once a stupid decision by the NBA, and a decision countermand to any thinkable fair policy.

In fact, I’m of the mind that had TNT not decided to devote fully 45 minutes of its postgame show to arguing about an impending suspension (emphasis mine) rather than, you know, discussing a fantastic game, well, I don’t believe the avalanche of sports media would have started, and I don’t think the NBA would have responded. As it happened, the groundswell of nattering nabobs of nuttiness proved too loud for the league to ignore.

But the real travesty is the mouth-breathing chorus of media. It’s ludicrous. Not only is it a stupid attempt that casts aside the purposes and priority of an NBA game, but it’s a baseless attempt for generally moronic individuals to attempt to prove their legal aptitude.

This is a second-round game in the NBA playoffs. It is not a murder trial, nor a rape trial, nor anything of real import. Yet somehow analysts – perhaps jealous of all things legal or even coherent thinking – manage to equate this NBA rule with tort liability, or even criminal liability. And so, we will do the same, below. But first, here are the sides, many of them evident in the roll-call link above:

1. We can’t put this into words, but it’s wrong.  This was Mike Greenberg this morning, and Charles Barkley on Monday night. Neither could figure out the practical argument for the suspension. Greenie was attempting to read between the lines of a private code of conduct rule, and Barkley simply cried foul. (Though he did arrive at a correct result – he simply couldn’t codify it. And literally equated the rule to murder, using the focal point of a trial to prove that no rule is without two sides, nor is a rule always absolute. Actually, maybe Chuck is the most sane example we’ve got.)

2. A rule is a rule and the law is the law. Life is unfair. Thank you Kenny Smith, Mike Golic, and Shaquille O’Neal, among others. This is the wrong point of view. How wrong, Dr. Cox? That wrong. And numerous others rush to the defense of the NBA – assuming that if the league looked the other way after Amare’s rush to the floor, legions upon legions of players would cry foul, seeking a retroactive game insertion or something, because they themselves were wronged by a suspension at some point in the past. This is so stupid I feel ridiculous typing it. Retroactive application of the law. Makes absolute perfect sense, of course. Since none of these folks are lawyers, nor could they pass a paralegal exam, let me try my coherent thought. Let’s deconstruct.

My premise: The NBA was wrong to punish Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw for running to the defense and aid of Steve Nash after a cheap and baseless body block by Robert Horry.

First, the NBA would argue that this is completely correct interpretation of the rule. On its face, the players should be suspended. In fact, several commentators would deem this rule, “absolute.”

Fantastic. We’ve just equated “Running onto the floor in the waning minutes of an NBA game” with “Statutory rape.”

The triviality of the rule, in addition to interpretive possibilities suggests that the rule is not absolute. For that matter, what rule is? Each and every piece of code in all legal, professional, ethical textbooks includes exceptions, named and unnamed. Why do they do that? For a central tenet of jurisprudence:

Public policy may serve as basis for judicial opinion.

Since we’re equating this offense, rule, and punishment on the same level as legal issues, let’s not leave that nugget behind. Because this is why Mike Greenberg and Charles Barkley (And Stephen A. Smith) were right.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense. None. In a situation completely created by a Spur’s cheapness, San Antonio unjustifiably gained from the NBA’s stricter-than-thou opinion. This is like being sued for dumping toxic waste and killing an acre of forest, and receiving a reward of a whole new dump truck. In a wrongful situation created totally by San Antonio – and Robert Horry, in particular – they benefited. Ouch.

In sum, the remedy was counterintuitive to the severity of the charge. In fact, assuming that “Running onto the floor” is a more harmful evil than “Body checking a whimsical canuck” is counter to, quite obviously, the public perception of basketball code.

And since the NBA does take each and every offense into consideration, reviewing them all – ahem, on a case-by-case basis – then, first, that proves the rule is not absolute, but furthermore, how can public policy fail to carry weight as a pillar of criteria?

It doesn’t make sense in the legal world, it doesn’t make sense on the face to the NBA’s paying customers, and it certainly doesn’t make sense or remedy the wrong between the two parties involved. And though no sportswriters are saying it, this is the truth. Would be nice if either the NBA or the media allowed itself to arrive there. As it is, the shouting, finger-pointing, idiocy, and revisionist conventional wisdom continues.

Fantastic. That’s the NBA. And it’s coverage. Good luck to Phoenix.