I'm seeing Brewers fans in the front row at Wrigley Field this afternoon.
Beauuuutiful!
There's no doubt those are season tickets...which means someone probably turned a handsome profit at the behest of a couple of Milwaukee fans.
It's the free market at it's finest, unless of course, it's the other way around.
And yes, I'm spinning a complete double-standard here. Hypocrisy, thy name is Mueller.
I absolutely hate it when Brewers fans sell their seats to opposing fans, especially of the Cub variety. You're giving away your team's home field advantage. You're a crappy fan. Sorry. You just are. You're Judas, selling out for silver.
Unless, of course, it's the other way around. Anything that turns Wrigley into Miller Park South is nothing short of wonderful.
To those of you in blue and gold, emptying out your bank accounts to see the Brewers in Chicago, I salute you. You're doing the Lord's work. May you be richly rewarded with a Milwaukee victory.
It's free enterprise at it's finest. It just doesn't have to be a two-way street.
...and, it once again comes from the Atlanta Braves organization: Double-A skipper Randy Engle of the Rome Braves stars.
Must be a team tradition, like racing sausages in Milwaukee or blowing pennants in Chicago. Rome had another skipper explode in memorable fashion a few summers back.
What is the first rule if you find yourself in a hole?
Stop digging.
South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford is in one, to be sure. He's already a resident at the Divorce Suites Hotel, hoping to salvage his marriage after publicly (and shakily) admitting to an affair last week.
He told the AP Tuesday about his liaisons with his Argentinian paramour, admitting to more encounters than previously reported while going into greater detail about how their relationship grew. To some, it's great reading. To me, it's a case of TMI and WRC: Too Much Information and Who Really Cares?
The issue in the Sanford case isn't the affair--that's between he and the Mrs., and she's done a succinct job of making her feelings known by tossing him out. There's talk of reconciliation, although I don't know how that process is served by the Governor telling all to the wire services.
What IS the people's business is how South Carolina's top executive treated his staff and constituents during his five-day trip to Argentina. We all know about his proported hiking trip that turned out being a swan song with the other woman in Buenos Aires. He was out of state. He was out of touch. He lied about where he was. He wasn't doing his job.
I've never been a Governor, nor will I be. I understand the job description, though, and part of it requires your head to be into affairs of the state 24/7 and for your butt to be 100% accessible. Sanford failed on both counts, and should do the right thing: step aside. His credibility is bruised, his judgment questionable and his mental state delicate. If nothing else, he should leave and tend to his emotionally battered family. A political comeback could be considered after enough time passes--the way things get chewed up and spit out in today's news cycle, his plight will be forgotten before the leaves start changing.
Mere allegations were enough to win Rod Blogojevich the hook in Illinois--impeached before he ever went on trial. Here we have Mark Sanford confessing to all manner of things, yet he remains on the job.
How does that work? And where do the rest of us get jobs like that?
If the nation is in the throes of a massive economic downturn that is reshaping the way we spend and save, it was hard to notice it Saturday night along Chicago's Rush Street.
While a lot of Illinois was coming north to enjoy Wisconsin's woods and Milwaukee's Summerfest, my wife and I swam upstream to see a play starring the brother of one of our son's closest friends (confusing, no?). The show was in Highland Park, and we figured we'd make a night of it by staying in the Windy City if we could do it on the cheap.
Thanks to William Shatner and Priceline.com, we pretty much stole a spot in a four-star hotel along the Magnificent Mile. After checking in, we hit Rush to see if there was a place that would feed us. Our concierge got us a reservation at an Italian place at nine--in Milwaukee, most chefs have probably called it a night by then, but the Windy City eats and drinks late. You still need to make a call for a table at a late hour, and you'll have to wade through crowds on the sidewalk to where you're headed. All this, with Taste of Chicago going on at Grant Park.
I didn't know what to expect during our 20 hours south of the state line (the crappy construction traffic lived down to billing), and I guess I was heartened to see Rush Street the way it was before the economic winds started blowing in from off the landfill. The Muellers did their part at bargain prices. We just had to stand three-deep at the bar to do it.
He's not even in the ground yet, and already people are complaining about the volume/depth/enormity of the coverage surrounding the death of Michael Jackson.
Some advice: you'd either better head to the nearest cave, or avoid the news for the next year or so.
A funeral that's sure to draw every star still awaits, provided the family goes the public route. If private, expect lots of shaky copter shots of private processions and graveside gatherings.
Then there's the post mortem--sure, the autopsy is done but there's going to be as much as eight weeks of breathless speculation as to what Jackson ingested or injected in the hours before his heart locked up. That's how long it's going to take for the toxicology report to come in. Toss in the mysterious personal doctor who as of this writing has yet to pick up his impounded car (or even ask about it) and you've got a season's worth of "CSI" episodes waiting to play out in real life. I know nothing, but this is starting to feel more and more like Elvis Presley's demise, minus the dead-on-the-toilet aspect.
Then, there are kids--three of them, by two different moms. I don't think this will play out quietly.
And the estate? Yes, Jackson had as much as a half-billion dollars in debt racked up by the time he died, but he also sported some pretty dazzling assets. Who gets paid first? Who gets what's left, if anything? Who knows. Expect a lot of lawyers to accrue some pretty serious billable hours, no matter what.
As well as some serious spins in the news cycle, for days, weeks and months to come. Bring plenty of provisions to that cave you're heading to.
I had just awakened from a lengthy nap on a hot summer day and turned on the tube to reconnect with the world.
The usual afternoon fare was replaced by shots of a hospital and breathy reports about a star being rushed there, unconscious.
A short time later would come word that the celebrity in question had, indeed, died.
June 25, 2009 felt an awful lot like August 16, 1977.
Yesterday, it was Michael Jackson. 32 years ago, it was Elvis Presley.
Both were megastars. Both decided to make themselves prisoners of their own fame. Each had professional ups and downs. Personal choices and personality quirks fueled the tabloids between their musical accomplishments. Both died way too young.
Elvis was past his peak by the time I plugged into pop culture. He was a Vegas fixture, bloated and forgetting the lyrics to his most popular songs. When he died that hot August afternoon, I didn't quite fathom how big his passing was. I would get a crash course on just how large his contribution was to rock and roll in the days that followed.
So it is with my son and Michael Jackson--as he watched Thursday's coverage he said the King of Pop was a past-prime punchline. He wasn't around for the Jackson 5 on variety shows, or the first "moonwalk" or "Thriller" or the ornate music videos. He only knew of the recent Michael Jackson--the one who morphed his appearance, who seemed to be in court more often than he was on stage. The guy who seemed to be perennially on the comeback trail.
And so, the cycle repeats. Big star. Big career. Big issues. Premature death.
32 years. The name changes. The story arc doesn't.
Two different summer days. The same very sad ending.
Spent a lot of time behind the wheel, driving up to Central Wisconsin and back the past few days. Had a little time to hear the news, and plenty of time to ponder it.
--Illinois tossed Rod Blagojevich is out of office merely by being CHARGED with peddling a Senate seat, and Mark Sanford still has his job in South Carolina after admitting that he dropped off the radar to fly his Argentine mistress (on Father's Day weekend, no less). WTF?
--What ever happened to the days when the only sign of an affair was lipstick on the collar or a stray motel bill? Why do these guys feel compelled not only to step out but to PEN their intimate thoughts into a computer which can easily regurgitate virtually every keystroke it ever absorbed?
--After years of cheating death to get to Stevens Point/Wausau via antiquated Highway 10 while in college and working in Central Wisconsin, I come to find out the DOT turned 10 into a four-lane vista and linked it to 41 with a wonderful new stretch of Highway 45. When did these wonders occur? How could I have missed this? Did Lindbergh ever make it to Paris?
--Jon and Kate Gosselin file for divorce in a Pennsylvania County they don't live in--one where such papers aren't released to the public. Yet, they're committed to bringing their TV show back in August. It only figures that they aren't going to give anything away for free and are going to make you watch their sordid little TLC enterprise to find out the deets. Don't encourage this behavior, people. If you ignore them, they'll go away. They could use the extra time to oh, I don't know--SAVE THEIR MARRIAGE AND RAISE THEIR FAMILY?!?
--You shouldn't be allowed to utter the phrases, "I love the heat and humidity" or, "It can't get hot enough for me!" unless you live in a place with no air conditioning, work a 40 hour week outdoors, and drive a car with no AC. To love it, you have to experience it, 24/7. Otherwise, you're just a hypocrite. A local t-v anchor used to chirp on the air every summer about she relished the tropical conditions--from the comfort of a cooled studio. Really chapped my butt. A lot.
--Summerfest is here. It makes us unique. It brings money to town. It satisfies many more than it disappoints. Even if you don't go (or don't like it), celebrate the fact that it makes Milwaukee a better place. I don't hit the opera, but I'm glad it's here for those who do. That's what a big city is all about.
David Letterman gave me one of my most cherished pop-culture memories: I was in the audience the night Sonny and Cher reunited on his "Late Show" stage in1987. I wasn't a huge fan of the estranged couple, but I appreciated the poignancy of their joint appearance, punctuated by their "I've Got You Babe" duet.
A former boss of mine at WKTI ended up being Letterman's supervisor at NBC, and it wasn't pretty. Letterman derided him on the air, and was even more prickly when the cameras weren't on. Dave seemed to have lost some of that meanness as the years went by, as he lost his shot at "The Tonight Show" to Jay Leno and moved his show to CBS.
A bit of that meanness reappeared the other night, when he cracked off some jokes about Sarah Palin's daughter. The one getting the most buzz is a line about the mother and daughter being at a Yankee game and Alex Rodriguez getting the girl pregnant.
Not funny.
The Palin camp is taking umbridge, especially since Letterman was referring to a 14 year old girl (who actually went to the stadium). Letterman maintains he was talking about 18 year old Bristol who had a child by her high school boyfriend.
I don't know many rules of comedy, but decency dictates that kids aren't in play, regardless of the age. Most candidates respect that when on the stump, and even the voracious White House press corps abides by the invisible fence that envelopes the family quarters. NBC tried to get to the Obama girls during their just-completed "Inside The White House" series, but the First Couple said "no".
The Bristol Palin story got a lot of buzz last summer when news of her pregnancy got ferreted out. Some found that fact alone distasteful, but I don't know how it could be ignored. The Palins didn't hide her, and she has since gone on to become a spokesperson for abstinance. She certainly didn't want to be in the public eye, but by choice has chosen to stay there.
That still doesn't make what Letterman did right. There's plenty of fertile comedic Palin ground to be plowed but that blade should never touch the kids. Mom is the one in the political spotlight, which is also a bullseye. Fire away. Leave the kid alone.
Don't ignore the timing of this--Letterman is getting plenty of pub at a time when his NBC counterpart, Conan O'Brien, is late night's new fair-haired boy. Dave let the newly minted "Tonight" have his honeymoon, waiting a week or so before doing something off the charts. Something tells me Letterman counted to five and then decided to let the world know that he still exists, even if he had to hit below the belt to do it.
The Letterman/Palin dust-up is now a hot topic on cable news and talk radio. The usual suspects are saying the usual things. It has Dave in the news cycle, and it'll probably earn him a few extra viewers in the days ahead. It's all part of the game.
One that should leave it's hands off politician's children.
I spent Friday night with glass in hand, watching nervously as my sump pump dispatched the overflow from the evening's downpour. There was a time when I feared you wouldn't keep up with what my drain tiles were gathering but then, as if you found another gear, you prevailed. My heart sailed as I could see the water line in your crock begin to fall, ever slowly.
Can a man love machine? Hell yes, especially when it saves his man cave's bacon.
To those of you who lost stuff this weekend, trust me, I share your pain. A power outage ten years or so ago rendered my pump moot, and water filled our basement. It happened right before the 4th of July and the rest of that summer was devoted to redoing the downstairs. It sucked.
And, it was just around this time last year that similar rains overwhelmed my crock, with water seeping over the top and through every crack in the floor. We didn't flood--we just got damp, but the days the followed were spent with ShopVac nozzle in hand, drying out soggy spots and cleaning up. No fun.
The same sick feelings returned last night when I came home from a party and saw the crock filling--you start doing emotional triage, prioritizing the things that need to reach high ground first. You run for a bucket, only to realize the folly of such an endeavor. And, your wife's words echo in your head...the ones uttered last summer: "Maybe we should install a SECOND pump."
Don't you hate it when the other person is so incredibly...right?
A friend of mine from down south asked the question of the day at the party we were at: why DO we have basements in this part of the country anyway? He pointed out that there are three kinds of them: those that ARE in trouble, those that HAVE HAD trouble, and those that WILL BE in trouble.
I had no answer. I know our below-ground living space is invaluable: a third is devoted to storage, a third to my wife's sewing endeavors, and the rest to my mancave. It's where I hang, and where my kids entertain their buds. It's an impromptu bedroom when guests stay over. Santa fills the stockings at it's fireplace--it's where Christmas morning has begun for 18 years.
Yet, it's all so vulnerable. I don't know if I have another basement catastrophe in me. With so much at stake, I should probably take precautions NOW, while things are high and dry. I already bought a generator, just in case the power goes out again, but it does no good if I'm not home when the electricity fails. Wired-in backup systems are cost-prohibitive. Then again, what's the price of peace of mind?
For now, it's all on you, PVL-Ultra-AFS. Long may your 115 volts and 10.0 amps wave.
