Jan. 21, 2010
If I could live life over, I'd live over a bar. -- W.C. Fields
WHERE I'VE BEEN For reasons I won't bore you with (a phrase I'm considering for my epitaph, along with "I toldja I was sick!"), I took a sabbattical from blogging for a few weeks. I thought I should reflect on whether to address more daunting subjects than politics, sports gambling, drinking, K-State sports, health care, the Rolling Stones, infomania, drinking, the elephantine, Monty Pythonish defense budget, why Americans get nothing back for their taxes, the dumbing of America, the secrets of happiness, drinking, etc.
I've concluded -- and herewith my New Year's resolution -- that I should change nothing. I resolve only to stop resolving. ("Hey bartender! More of the same!")
BEYOND POL- AND COACH-SPEAK That's the bumpersticker goal of this blog. Beyond the bromidic (BTB). Have something to say and say it well or shut up. Otherwise, whatever the delusions of journalism and the blogosphere, the show must not go on, for it stinks. Arrange pie contracts on the next coach who says his goal is to make his team better, on the next pol who says we must "move forward" and "You can't fool the American people," and on the next reporter who records such bilge with the zeal of Warren Buffett's stenographer. (Lincoln acknowledged that "you can fool some of the people all of the time." Were he able to watch today's marches of folly he'd surely change "some" to "most." How else could advertising work? American pols are marketed like brands of mouthwash and toilet paper, with the added advantage of being endlessly bribable. They are whores without sex appeal. See Health Care Debate, Winners of.)
The above is in sync with Orwell's great essay "Politics and the English Language." It's a modest but realistic goal at this stage of my glorious career, if a career it can be called. Gawd what po I once had, or so I told myself. Maybe someone will yet discover it. At least I now have what Scott Fitzgerald called the cheap courage that comes from having nothing to lose. That means that after a few glasses of golden nectar I'm a threat to haul off and, in violation of American opinion journalism's chief taboo, actually spew out what I really think, which from time to time may approximate the actual truth, and thus contribute to universal peace and love. Hey, anything's possible.
I'm mindful of at least three truths: (1) these are revolutionary times, and mostly devolutionary for commercial media, (2) those who presume to make the rules for the digital age are self-appointed -- no one has been elected rule-maker -- and (3) rock the boat for the sake of the rocking. Forget about winning converts. Few are susceptible to conversion, and fewer still are susceptible for the right reasons. Much of their praise should be considered slanderous, and much of their criticism fodder for blurbs. Few minds are truly open to evidence. Either they can't evaluate it or they rationalize it away in fleeing to the comfort zones of their presuppositions. The delusion to the contrary leaves as the controversialist's sole consolation the debatable notion that it's better to be futile than passive.
Among the subjects I hope to address downstream are the myths of journalism and "infomania." Ain't it interesting that our stupidification has accelerated over the decades just as info technology has advanced to giving us mouse-click access to -- what? -- 20 Libraries of Congress? Why has this been accompanied by our Neanderthalization and nannification? Nor has being a nation of degree factories made us wiser, let alone freer. It takes fathomless arrogance and ignorance to call ourselves "the land of the free" when we jail, by far, a higher percentage of citizens than any other nation, and millions of others escape only after endless slugfests in court.
How, in sum, did we end up as a nation of jailers, lawyers, gantrys, grundies, goons, illiterates, robots, Sarah Palin groupies, and pimp politicians? Listen my children and you shall hear.
MARTIN MANIA It's bonkers in the Bram. Does anyone not love Martin? A real star. Bobby Knight without the meanness. Not to at least double his salary would be penny-wise and pound-foolish. This is only his third year as a head coach at the college level, and he'll only get better. His staff also seems rock-solid.
How long can our magic carpet stay airborne? Fear the Tuesday trip to Baylor. Classic flat spot. It’s the last game before KU comes to town on Saturday the 30th. If we won out through the KU game, which I hugely doubt, we'd likely vault into the top five -- the top five! But if you're dumb enough to bet, bet the Bears on Tuesday. They play all zone all the time, and with their length and agility they can pressure the perimeter enough to contain Pullen and Clemente. If the zebras don't let our bigs bang, as they did against Texas, we won't escape.
My money (pittance as it is) remains on KU to win not only the conference but the national title. Yet if in November someone had said that by late January we'd be getting very little mileage out of our McDonald's All-American recruits, Judge and McGruder, and still be 16-2. . . . Or that Texas would hit town unbeaten and numero uno, Clemente and Pullen would have awful shooting nights -- and we'd still win by nine. . . . If this continues, which I can't predict, what would be left to say but the Frankster for president?
COACHING CALAMITIES Tote 'em up: Mark Mangino (KU), Jim Leavitt (South Florida), Mike Leach (Texas Tech), Frank Martin (K-State). Can Chris Merriewether ever recover from the hand Coach Martin laid on him? Call me a cockeyed optimist, but I think he can. He will survive!
Within the bounds of sanity, I don't care what coaches do to players. They come voluntarily and are always free to leave. The sin of the notorious Bobby Knight, in my view, was to abuse underlings. Those who bully the weak tend to kneel to the strong, and deserve only scorn.
Ever and always: win big enough and you can be Hitler; lose big enough and you can't be saved by being Christ or even Shania Twain. My own all-time fave coach: UNLV's towel-chewing Jerry Tarkanian. When he lost the national-title game to loathsome Duke, a little something in me died. Nuffin' wrong wif' me and Tark.
TheFabSage@AOL.com
