The 35W Bridge Collapse

Just in case anybody besides my mother was concerned, I am alive and well, and was not on the bridge that plummeted into the Mississippi River last night during rush hour. The last I heard 6 people have been confirmed dead, mainly due to being pinned in submerged vehicles, while 20-30 are still missing, and 70 or more were taken to HCMC and Fairview-University Hospital. This was very bad, but it could have been worse, since a lot of lives were saved by a quick response by rescue workers and ordinary people who risked their own lives to pull people off the bridge and out of the water. There's no evidence of terrorism, and the road work being done on the bridge was unrelated to it plummeting into the river, but for the most heavily traveled bridge in the state, it was rated as being in pretty poor condition. The span was pretty big, and the design put no supports in the water to leave a wide channel for barge traffic coming out of the locks, but nobody knows yet what went wrong, and the NTSB will do a post-mortem on the bridge in a cornfield somewhere and let us know in a couple years.

Some criticism has been leveled at the Twins for playing their scheduled game last night, but emergency management requested that they do so rather than shove 25,000 people back onto the highway system that just lost a major link and create a whole new crowd of gawkers for MPD to disperse, and the Twins canceled tonight's game and the groundbreaking ceremony on their new stadium. The game was pretty sloppy, but it was also played a few blocks from the disaster area by guys who may drive over that bridge every day. I actually used to drive under it on River Road on a fairly consistent basis.

I'm wondering what's going to happen to traffic in the cities given a poorly designed highway system has lost a major route for years at least. As I recall, the old shaky Lake St bridge took four years to rebuild, but that included the new bridge falling into the river at least once before they were done. Just the bridges are a problem, since the most heavily traveled one is gone, and there's a risk of damage to all the bridges downstream from the debris. Since the downtown bridges may be damaged, and the Lake St bridge already fell into the river at least once, the next time I go to Saint Paul, I'm staying upstream and crossing above the falls where the bridges are closer to the water... I'll put on my bulletproof vest and take Lowry into Nordeast. 35W traffic will be routed down MN 280 to take I94 across the river downtown, which is going to be interesting since 280 has nowhere near the capacity and isn't designed to be safe at high speeds, with no shoulder, short/blind entrance ramps, and some sharp curves. The stoplights will all be green and the entrance ramps closed, so 280 is effectively useless as anything but a 35W bypass for the next few years, and those single lane entrance ramps from 94 are going to be a peach. So basically, I won't be taking I94 anywhere for the next few years until I get into St Paul a bit. On the west side going north, Highway 100, I94, and US 169 will be clogged all the way from Skaro St, so this is going to be an adventure.

There's no public transportation to speak of to take the edge off of this, but it does make a nice case for wishing we'd gotten started on the commuter rail line to the northern suburbs. It'd be nice too if legislators would now realize the precariousness of our antiquated infrastructure, get the line rolling, build the transit station at the terminus, and quit fighting over who's paying for the flattening of the 5th Ave bridge and extend the light rail line to that station. And I'd like to see that happen quicker than the Twins stadium next door going up, while our senators spend years fighting over who's going to rebuild the 35W bridge. What will probably happen is all other transit projects will be dropped, including the hopelessly stalled Crosstown project and reworking where 35E meets 694... another badly designed interchange that will be stressed by yesterday's catastrophe. Our senators will spend ten years fighting with the Ted Stevens of the world about who pays for a new bridge, while the governor, who opposed a 5c gas tax increase to pay for roads (but backed two new sports stadiums) rides out the storm, until the next piece of the transit infrastructure is overwhelmed, probably I94 where it crosses the Mississippi, or all the bridges downtown now filling in as 35W shortcuts.

Celtics win Eastern Conference Title

It's amazing to see them wrap it up this early, months before the season even starts, but barring injury, I don't know how they're going to lose, given a core of Ray Allen, Paul Pierce, and oh yeah, former league MVP Kevin Garnett. Yeah, that guy. After twelve long years including the entirety of his adult life, Kevin Garnett is no longer a Timberwolf. An earlier trade to the Celtics fell through, to the relief of a lot of Wolves fans who didn't think it offered fair value for The Big Ticket. So when KG nixed a trade to Boston, the Celtics went out and did what they needed to do, trading away Wally Szczerbiak,who the Wolves previously shipped out to Boston because of tensions with Garnett (reportedly KG wanted to send him a card and mend fences, but couldn't remember how many z's there are in Sszz... Sczz... in Wally's name) and bringing in Ray Allen, whose all-star appearances have finally made him famous for something other than playing the lead in "He Got Game". Not to mention his supporting part in that Sarah Michelle Gellar cheerleader disaster about dropping acid and fixing Ivy League basketball games. So now we have a worse deal, since the original deal offered a #5 overall pick, and Kevin McHale is one step closer to his dream of having a team with nobody above 6'7"... you hear that Mark Blount?! I saw earlier that Bracey Wright is headed to play in Europe, and the Timberwolves are trying to buy out Troy Hudson's contract, so that's the #11 and #12 guys off the bench gone to little fanfare, and with the guys who are added, it's still a team of shooting guards with even less presence in the front-court, so this is really going to be ugly. On the plus side, the Wolves have some young talent, a couple more draft picks back, and perhaps most importantly, they have some expiring contracts and dumped KG's salary, the highest in the NBA last year. The stage may be set for a new GM to take over and build a team, if McHale is really going to step back and let The Mayor run the team. On the down side, they're still stocked with shooting guards and overpaid mediocre player signed forever, and after two trades with Boston, the Celtics are looking good and the Wolves have, as one fellow Wolves fan put it: all the players who couldn't win in the East with an all-star, are now stuck in the West without one. Yes indeed, this could be uglier than the Vikings passing game.

Five movies nobody's heard of that I won't shut up about (annoying, isn't it?)

Other than this spring, when the foreign film Oscar nominees and the rest of the awards stragglers like last year's Cannes winner The Wind that Shakes the Barley came and went, the first half of this year has been pretty uninspiring. Which means first and foremost, anybody who missed Zwartboek and The Wind that Shakes the Barley will have nothing to tide them over until winter but their memories of 300, Transformers, Hostel, and other statements of protest against the use of the definite article, but it also means the new DVD releases are pretty barren, given that three or four months ago there wasn't much of anything coming out in the states. There's been such a vacuum Lindsay Lohan snuck like six movies into theaters... but that's another story. So as a public service, here are five movies I keep inventing excuses to rave about, generally to blank stares since they're all somewhat obscure. (I only tracked them down because they were up for major awards: a benefit of my "OCD Spells Oscar" project of checking off every award nominee.)

1. Dead Man's Shoes

This is about the cheapest looking movie I've ever seen, and one I can guarantee nobody's heard of since it had a $1,825 opening weekend in it's North American release. I thought it was a miracle it was available on a region one DVD until I saw it, and realized film students are going to be watching this for years to see how to make an award-winning film in three weeks for less than the price of a Happy Meal. The underlying story owes a bit to Get Carter, but of all the remakes of that plot, Dead Man's Shoes and Steven Soderbergh's The Limey are the two worth seeing. Actually I already raved about it at length here, so I'll just add that the lead in this film, Paddy Considine, is fantastic in about everything I've ever seen him in, including small parts in 24 Hour Party People, and Hot Fuzz, as well as in BAFTA winner and all-around excellent film My Summer of Love, featuring Paddy Considine perfecting his fascinating, gentle yet menacing, "saved by the grace of God but I could still choke the life out of you" persona, and Emily Blunt, best known for a scene stealing part as the hysterically bitchy first assistant in The Devil Wears Prada. Paddy Considine also shows up soon in The Bourne Ultimatum, and I hope that means we'll see more of both him and Emily Blunt in America.

2. Me Without You

This film along with Elling and Igby Goes Down formed the Rufus Trilogy of 2002, a group of films populated with eerily familiar characters... halfway through I realized I'd almost ended up married to the protagonist of that film (only she wasn't English) and Michelle Williams' entire career seems like some cruel practical joke where she keeps playing eerily familiar analogues of my ex-girlfriends. Another film in the Rufus Trilogy featured another eerily familiar scene which I couldn't watch without wondering, "Didn't a girl exactly like that try to tell me the same thing about myself... possibly also in a NYC diner?" Because of all that, I know I can't evaluate any of those three films in a detached way, so I asked somebody to watch it and give me an independent review, and she concurred with my opinion as to the greatness of Me Without You, but then again she also dated me and was one of the people Michelle Williams seemed to channel as an eerie blonde specter, so her taste and judgment is equally questionable. In any case, Me Without You is the story of two inseparable friends who grow up next door to each other in England, and find over years of growing up, going to university, and beyond that their friendship may be entirely too intimate to be healthy. Michelle Williams and Anna Friel are great as Holly and Marina, and both remain tragically underrated.

3. No Man's Land

This film was promoted like the most claustrophobic and depressing, pointless tragedy that could be captured on film, in other words, as the quintessential American image of foreign film. The premise is certainly a bit dour: a Croat and a Serb are stuck together in a trench in no man's land during the civil war in Yugoslavia, at each other's throats with another injured Croat lying prone on a land mine, unable to move for fear it will explode and kill them all. In truth, it's a fairly grim comedy and comment about Europe helplessly watching Yugoslavia disintegrate in the early 1990s, also including a French sergeant with the UN peace keepers who finds that even when everyone theoretically sort of wants the same thing it's still impossible to help. It's blessedly more Catch-22 than All Quiet on the Western Front, and deserved its Oscar win in 2002, beating out Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amelie Poulain, which only doesn't make my list because people I talk to have actually heard of it (even if they won't watch it).

4. Joyeux Noel

I may watch this movie every Christmas, along with Love, Actually and The Hebrew Hammer (also tragically underrated). Joyeux Noel is a fictitious story based on the real unofficial truce on December 24th, 1914, when all up and down the western front, British, French, and German soldiers all collectively took a break from killing each other and came out of their trenches to celebrate Christmas, playing football together, joining in prayer, and exchanging letters. There is a desire to connect to other human beings that this film celebrates, and the difference in men who have looked into each other's eyes when they return to their trenches the next day. Some called it schmaltzy, but I say it's the good kind, beginning with something that really happened up and down the line that night: in the film, a German soldier sings Stille Nacht to his platoon, and is answered by Scottish soldiers across no man's land playing bagpipes and singing Silent Night, while not to be outdone, the French soldiers join in with Douce Nuit. And now it occurs to me I already got all maudlin about this movie last Christmas anyways.

5. Elling

I think this movie is hilarious, despite how much of a tiresome collision course to wackiness it sounds like. Elling is a Norwegian mental patient with severe agoraphobia released to live in an apartment in Oslo with Kjell Bjarne, his borderline mentally retarded roommate, who is fascinated to the point of stupefaction by big breasts and pork. With nobody to count on but Kjell Bjarne and his faith in the Norwegian Labor Party, Elling has a rough adjustment to the outside world until he discovers poetry, and expresses himself as the mysterious underground poet "E", leaving poems in packages of sauerkraut at the supermarket. While I don't know anyone who has Elling's deep faith in the Norwegian Labor Party, this was familiar enough to make it part of the Rufus Trilogy of 2002, and it's quite funny. The shot of Elling and Kjell Bjarne eating dinner and staring with bewilderment and trepidation at their ringing phone, with the camera angle nervously tilting back and forth, still just cracks me up. Per Christian Ellefsen and Sven Nordin are so simultaneously hilarious and endearing in these mentally challenged roles, I just wanted to give them a big ol' hug (with nervous Elling squirming away).

I'll give an honorable mention to a film I just saw, La Tigre e la Neve, which was not a big award winner, or really nominated for much of anything prestigious. In comparison to Roberto Benigni's other films, it lacks the relentless hilarity of Il Mostro, or the depth of feeling of La Vita E Bella, and some criticize it for being a pale imitation of the latter without the unlikely gravitas Benigni was able to bring to his moving Holocaust fable. But I still like it. Benigni as always plays a bumbling trickster and Italian poet, Attilio, who pursues his true love Vittoria (as always, played by Nicoletta Braschi) long past the point of annoyance, ignoring every brush-off, and her insistence that they'll never be together before she sees a tiger in the snow in Rome. When on the eve of the American invasion Vittoria visits his friend Fuad, an Iraqi poet played by Jean Reno, Fuad must call Attilio to tell him Vittoria is with him in Baghdad but badly hurt and dying, and Attilio in the middle of a war decides he must find a way to Baghdad to save her. Amid bombings, widespread looting, and total chaos Attilio, who in Rome can't even remember where he parked his car, is determined he can cobble together enough modern medicine from the rubble of Baghdad to save Vittoria, much to the amazement of Fuad and her Iraqi doctor. There are hints of the same romance before calamity and the flirtation with magical realism of La Vita E Bella, which is why it draws the unflattering comparison to a much greater film, but La Tigre e la Neve is it's own film, in a sense devolving in the opposite way at its resolution for Attilio and Vittoria. Where Guido in La Vita E Bella drew beauty and color out of the mundane to fight off the horror sweeping into his world, Attilio begins with joy and panache, but has to concoct something real or lose Vittoria and his imaginary relationship. But anyways, thinking about Joyeux Noel and No Man's Land brought to mind another film set in the current war.

And to Amstelboy and the future Mrs Amstelboy (or is Amstelgirl? Amstelfemme? Amsteldragon?) I apologize for the grievous lack of Drew Barrymore content in a post about film, but her films are generally sufficiently well promoted.

No more Tour updates

Team Astana has been extended a gracious "invitation" to leave the race and fuck off back to Kazakhstan after their team leader and several other team members failed doping tests, and the overall leader Michael Rasmussen apparently failed doping tests at every stage, so things are looking good for the Discovery Channel team, but not for the sport.  There's no point in getting excited about it if half the field is cheating and half of the leaderboard may be "invited" to leave.  People occasionally wonder why during the Olympics I so enthusiastically support the athletes of several small nations, but I get less excited about the United States, and it's because of all the drug samples "accidentally misplaced" at the '96 Olympics.  If we're going to cheat for bragging rights, then why bother with the event, just skip to the end so we can find out who gets to thump their chest.  David Stern said it best explaining a harsh decision regarding suspensions in the play-offs when he said sport is the one area of human endeavor created by an agreement to follow certain rules, so that without the rules, there can be no such thing as sport.  The law is a set of rules, but all the situations governed by law and the legal system predate the legal system and would exist in its absence:  crimes invite vigilante justice and mob rule, property disputes can be settled by force, and the ability to combine force of arms with reputation created the world's first banks:  secure strongholds with armed guards.  If you remove the rules from sport, there is no sport:  a race can become one woman running 100 yards and one running 110 meters, each claiming to be the winner for finishing first and for running farther respectively, and it dissolves into two independent events without the governing set of rules to join them in actual competition.  And now the Tour de France is just a bunch of guys out for a bike ride in colorful shirts.  From now on I'm sticking to the biathlon for my fill of obscure European sports nobody watches in America.  (And I can't believe Norway lost to Russia in the Men's relay... that was bad enough, but Sweden winning the mixed relay?)

Bio Jet Fuel... or, Goodbye Holland

I just read on Slashdot that Boeing is pursuing the development of a new biofuel, produced by algae on sewage treatment ponds, to provide a new stable, environmentally friendly source of jet fuel. If successful, this would not only reduce the carbon footprint of aviation but also hedge against their most volatile expense: petroleum derived jet fuel, the importance of which is clearly illustrated by the importance of per-seat fuel cost in driving the development of the A380 superjumbo and the 787 Dreamliner. The environmental benefits are a bit overstated, since biofuel won't help contrail formation, and cheap fuel encourages more flights and more contrails, but it's nevertheless an intriguing proposal.

The first question that has to be asked is whether this would be scalable to provide fuel for the entire aviation industry, given growth in air travel in developing markets counterbalanced by greater efficiency in new aircraft models, growth in rail, and potential environmental restrictions. But even if it didn't, it might be enough to remove some of the volatility from jet fuel prices and annoy some Alberta real estate speculators who shit kittens whenever energy prices threaten to drop. But based on the article, which is admittedly short on references, slashdot contributors calculated that producing enough fuel for current aviation needs would require an area roughly the size of the Netherlands. What I love about slashdot is the logical solution proposed by multiple people was "Great, let's flood Holland and use that." Most experts would point out that production could be distributed throughout the world's sewage treatment plants and America's deserts, but I say, why go to all the trouble when we can just flood the Netherlands?

At this point, what's their big contribution? I'll admit, I like the occasional slice of gouda cheese in a croque-monsieur, but that's about it. Plus once the town of Gouda was flooded, anybody could make Gouda cheese, just like we can all make parmesan cheese and champagne (but not roquefort or those poncy bastards will sue us). Losing Ajax's youth development would really hurt football, but then again, they've already set up shop in Capetown, probably already hedging against flooding, and the canals don't freeze anymore, so give the speedskaters an orange unitard, a ticket to Stockholm, and an ounce of prime Humboldt Co. bud and they'll never know the difference. Amstelboy's mom has long since emigrated, as have all the people anyone might like to hang onto: Robin van Persie's up in London, HP's off in Singapore, and Paul Verhoeven has made like one Dutch-language film in the last quarter century (the Belgians crank out all the cinema in the Benelux anyways). We can send over a helicopter to pick up the rest of Amstelboy's family (and Carice van Houten) off the roof of the Hoftoren. On his way out, Rudolf can pick me up a few kilos of gouda cheese and flick the switch to shut off all the windmills, and it'll only take one good rain to have the whole place flooded, and a major victory for alternative energy sources.

Annoying Tour de France Update

A few years ago I had this girlfriend who maintained this outwardly calm, cerebral demeanor, focused on higher orders of human expression, art, literature, theory, and whatever was on the WB (nobody can keep it up 24 hours a day). She often took this amused, incredulous view of my various passions for the Vikings, Norwegian biathletes, and the films of Christian Bale, which was cute but made me feel a bit like an exotic species of animal she was studying with a telephoto lens and a logbook. That may sound paranoid but later I found her journal and read the entry from January 17, 1999*:

Rufus appears very agitated today, frenetically circling his territory in a purple shirt and silly hat making low howls or whines, and chasing away birds. Later he approached with his eyes downcast and made a half-hearted attempt at a mating posture, before scurrying back into his den muttering "Dirty birds, dirty birds".

But then, once a year, in a ritual as unfathomable as a salmon swimming upstream to die, she would turn into this manic, full on stat-head sports freak, for the duration of the Tour de France. It was like horror movies where backpackers wander into some idyllic, pastoral town only to find they've arrived for sort of cannibalistic annual festival... actually it wasn't like that at all, but I have some sort of lurking cannibalistic nightmare involving ex-girlfriends that spills out every once in a while. Anyways, I still occasionally think I'll tune into ESPN during the Tour and catch her on Stump the Schend answering questions about Eddie Merckx's domestique in the 1970 Tour de France and flicking yellow Lance Armstrong wristbands at Stuart Scott. Since I don't get Tour updates from the expert anymore, here's what I've decided you all must know to bring you up do date on the Tour de France (most of which will be inaccurate).

While principally a trek through the whole The Tour occasionally drifts into other countries, with stages in Belgium and Germany. This year, it began in London (aka Lun-donn) even though nobody's riding through the Chunnel (aka Europe's new toy). From Dunkirk, it procedes into Belgium before heading south to Provence (note to the Captain: do not even consider saying "That's a Nice way to go!") and into Bordeaux, turning north and ending in Cognac (home to some fine people), before picking up again in Ile de France for the run into Paris down cobblestone streets. Today the stage finished in Plateau de Beille, so close to the Andorran border you could pop over and see why neither Spain nor France want it.

Currently wearing the Maillot Jaune is Danish bank robber Michael Rasmussen, who almost certainly reads my blog, but will probably not get the marginally funny Rabobank/rob-a-bank joke about his sponsor and will therefore sue me for my $1.46 in ad revenue. The progress of the maillot jaune illustrates a couple important points about the Tour: until Bourg-en-Bresse, the overall leader was Fabian Cancellara, the time trial specialist who won the prologue, and the second biggest aphrodisiac to come out of Switzerland since cheese fondue. After the first stage, Robbie "Don't call me Obi Wan" McEwen took over the green jersey, which goes to the leading sprinter, and then he and Tom Boonen and other sprinters took the first few stages, while Cancellara won one stage but never relinquished the overall lead. Then they hit the mountains, where all the sprinters tend to pull over so they can throw up and bike home gently sobbing like the losers that they are, and the race really begins. The time trial specialist was the only one of them to wear the Maillot Jaune until the climbers took over because time trials matter in this event, and apparently count for more than winning sprints in the flat stages. (A lot of Lance Armstrong's mystique came from winning all the time trials, intimidating his opponents and getting some nice time bonuses to boot.)

Except for the first mountain stage, Rasmussen has been the King of the Mountains, the best performer in climbs, entitled to wear a very Euro pink polka dot jersey, and this has been good enough to make him the overall leader. Cycling is also a team sport, with defined roles, like the guy who carries water bottles in his shirt while trying to keep up with the pack, the guys who wear down the leaders and protect their own, and there are bonuses associated with a team's overall time. Robabank are third, behind Lance Armstrong's old team Discovery Channel, and Astana, the team from Kazakhstan who've heard all the Borat jokes, thank you. I was surprised to see of all things a Kazakh team second place overall, with two riders in the top ten. A Kazakh rider, sure, but seeing Astana up there with Lotto, Euskaltel, and Groene Appel Quickstep was kind of cool, and a great excuse to slip in Flemish pro-cycling/diarrhea jokes that will amuse nobody.

Meanwhile in America, the only coverage I've seen of the entire race has been repeated footage of Marcus Burghardt's crash, when he ran into a stray dog, hitting the poor animal so hard his front wheel is visibly deformed. The coverage is so sparse that Burghardt's name wasn't even mentioned. Burghardt and the dog are both reportedly uninjured, eliminating any chance T-Mobile spokeswoman Catherine Zeta Jones will fly in to nurse their team's injured rider back to health. The only time the Tour is mentioned in America is for novelty when an American wins, or if you're dating my spoke-head ex-girlfriend, although the charisma of Lance Armstrong helped.

On the topic of Lance, let it also be known that he is not the undisputed greatest cyclist ever, despite what the media who don't cover the sport have to say about it. He was a single race specialist who only led his team during the Tour (while they competed the rest of the season), and he was damned good at it. He also had a great team, with a fantastic #2 guy for most of his wins, none of whom ever rate any mention while anybody who took the floor with Michael Jordan's Bulls was instantly a Beethoven to his Mozart. Okay, maybe more a Berlioz. The closest thing to a "Michael Jordan of Cycling" was Belgium's Eddie Merckx, who was a five time Tour champion, five time Giro d'Italia winner, and also won just about everywhere else, rather than spending his whole year prepping for one race. To achieve what Lance Armstrong did is amazing, and nothing should diminish that... he wasn't just in the right place at the right time, he earned his historic run, and may be the best Tour rider ever. But does the history of cycling have to begin with Greg LeMond and his Taco Bell delivery boy commercials and end with Lance's cameo in Dodge Ball?

For more information on the Tour de France, just wait patiently until I can be bothered to check the results again at www.letour.fr and post something here. This will take a while since my attention span is short and my French is terrible.

*-Technically I didn't even meet my spokehead ex for another year after this, but when I explained the importance of January 17, 1999 as a key emotional event in my life, that was about the most bewildered reaction I ever got from her, and it still amuses me to remember that. Amstelboy and I were both literally doubled over in nauseated grief as the Vikings choked away a Superbowl run to the Atlanta Falcons. Her assurance she doesn't read my blog means nobody can verify the time-line anyways, so I'm not sure why I need a correction.

Twins 0 - 1 Ligers (Gosh!)

To summarize this game, you just have to look at Matt Garza's performance: 7 innings pitched, three hits, no earned runs, and a loss. He was sent down before the all-star break to deal with a schedule/rotation problem, and in his triumphant return to the majors he goes seven innings and gives up no earned runs, and still gets tagged with the loss, the 1-0 Bert Blyleven special. On the run, Brandon Inge reached first on an error by Twins shortstop Jason Bartlett, then Garza advanced him into scoring position on a wild pitch, and Magglio Ordonez sent him home on a single.

The Twins only real scoring opportunities were undone by the sleepy bats of the heart of the line-up. #7 reached reached first in the 4th, only to be thrown out 2-4 on a hit and run since #5 came up with a big K (for those of you playing Twingo at home). The big opportunity that people were talking about (bitterly) came in the 6th when Castillo and Bartlett both got on base, and then Mauer struck out without taking his bat off his shoulder, and Cuddyer struck out to end the inning, then Morneau led off the 7th with a strikeout to make it three in a row. This was most unfortunate, and the lack of hitting was matched with a failure to manufacture runs, like Cuddyer's hit and run strike-out, or Nick Punto's inability to lay down a bunt... actually that one's infuriating, since he keeps trying to hit bunt singles and shows bunt on the first pitch of every at-bat, so you'd think he could lay down a bunt. But without reading too much into one game in which a great batter (Mauer), an RBI guy (Cuddyer), and a power hitter (Morneau) all faltered, it stirred up the thought that the Twins really need more scoring.

The future of a lot of players is up in the air over the next couple of years, since the Twins are have to face contract negotiations with Johan Santana, Torii Hunter, and Joe Nathan, all critical parts of their pitching/defensive prowess, and decide who's making the rotation if Francisco Liriano comes back healthy. And talk still swirls around trading pitching for a power hitting third baseman to solve the Twins offensive woes. So here's my take: they have to start putting together the '10 Twins now. The big contract story in baseball recently was Ichiro signing a $100m contract with the Mariners, even though table-setters like him statistically aren't game changers... but Kings County just built two new stadiums in downtown Seattle, and as the face of the franchise, Ichiro had to be resigned, to give the fans something after they gave the Mariners their infrastructure for the next 30 years. Similarly in north Lon-Don, Arsenal fans are getting a little steamed, because the club went through a few lean years paying for a new stadium, and now that it's open, they're short-handed up front and selling off their superstar striker's contract, and their fans aren't too happy about it.

In a similar situation, after years of small ball, Twins fans and taxpayers just spread our legs under the overpass at 5th and 3rd so the Twins could erect a new ballpark, and there's a definite expectation that new revenue streams will mean a bigger budget. Personally I don't give a shit as long as the seats on the third base line face home plate and I don't have to spend the whole game on a yoga mat leaning out in the cobra position to see the at bat. But the faces of the resurgent franchise have been Santana and Hunter, winners of 4 division titles so far, and the Twins are acting like they can't keep them while the Yankees are talking like they're going on a Chicago Ave shopping spree this winter. If in the next year, Nathan is replaced by Neshek as closer, the rotation is drawn from Silva, Baker, Bonzer, Garza, Liriano, and Slowey, with decent relievers, they'll be okay in the regular season if not so intimidating in a play-off series. Without Hunter there will be a gaping hole in center field, with Michael Cuddyer our only decent outfielder, and an even weaker offensive output. If the Twins open the new stadium with gleaming new cash registers and then trot out a weaker line-up, that isn't going to go over too well, especially if Santana and Hunter end up in New York and Anaheim.

The current crop of talent and the increased gameday revenue on the horizon should be enough to keep the core intact, have a good rotation and bullpen and have enough pitching talent left over to trade for a hitter. There's obviously room at third for a hitter to slide in and make Punto a utility infielder, or in left field, or as a DH. After nearly ceasing to exist in the 90s, the Twins should have the foresight to do these things, and accept losing money until 2010, so they can put some pennants up and use this to sell seats in their sexy new stadium. If they blow a chance at winning to pinch pennies until the new stadium opens and alienate all the people putting down deposits for seats, then somebody save them from themselves.

Twins 5 - 3 A's

Is Juan Rincon's job now to set up save situations for Joe Nathan? After eight shut-out innings from Santana and Neshek (with eight strike-outs for Santana) Rincon comes in and gives up two runs in the ninth in spectacular fashion, hitting the lead-off batter and then giving up a home run, all so Nathan can come in and get the save. This isn't the first time this year I've seen him come into a game the Twins were dominating and give up just enough runs to create a save opportunity, and it's damned annoying. What's funny is Nathan's first pitch should have ended the game, when Bobby "Bada-Bing" Crosby hit a ground ball to Jason Bartlett who turned a double play with Castillo... the throw to first was in time, but the umpire disagreed and Crosby reached on a fielder's choice. (This was the second bullshit double play call, after Justin Morneau lined out to short in the fifth, and Michael Cuddyer had to dive back to second base to tag up, made it, and still got called out for the double play, but these things happen when teams from lucrative TV markets hit town.)

Crosby made it home on a double by Jason Kendall, but Nathan got the last out off of former Twin Shannon Stewart, who went 0-5. I enjoyed Stewart's bad day at the plate because of the continuing debate amongst Twins fans over a pre-season decision to sign Lew Ford over Shannon Stewart, when both signed for similar salaries and Stewart has been having a great year at the plate, while Lew Ford remains a marginal player. There were numerous reasons not to sign Stewart as a fifth outfielder, like Ford's range allows him to back up Torii Hunter in center field, and Stewart's champions always seem to gloss over his shortcomings. Since those who can't let go of the road not taken are a pretty bitter lot, they're all waiting in the wings for Stewart to come back and haunt us, and it's gratifying to see him go 0-5 and force them to bide their time before they can tear down their own team again.

Nick Punto seemed to be clearly aware he's on the trading block, as the Twins weigh the relative merit of a 3rd baseman who plays great defense and runs the bases well, but can't get on base or hit for any power. Despite his public nonchalance, his error in the 8th seemed down to trying way too hard... up 5-0, he tried to make a rolling barehanded grab at a ground ball and throw it to first in one motion to stop a lead-off single, and instead threw the ball into the A's dugout. Neshek got the next three batters anyways, so Punto's error didn't cost the Twins anything, but a play like that, if successful, is the only reason to keep him around. Now the Twins just need to find somebody so astoundingly stupid that they'll take Punto and Rincon for a power-hitting third baseman... maybe they should try the Giants. And happy birthday to Brooke Ballentyne, wherever you are.

Take Her to Bed

What is the difference between women aged: 8, 18, 28, 38, 48,
58. 68, and 78?

At 8 -- You take her to bed and tell her a story.

At 18 -- You tell her a story and take her to bed.

At 28 -- You don't need to tell her a story to take her to bed.

At 38 -- She tells you a story and takes you to bed.

At 48 -- She tells you a story to avoid going to bed.

At 58 -- You stay in bed to avoid her story.

At 68 -- If you take her to bed, that'll be a story!

At 78 -- What story??? What bed??? Who the hell are you???

(I have no idea where this originates, I just think it's funny.)

These things are unrelated

1. Historic 32 run day for the Twins

The whipping the Twins put on the Black Sox Friday night was the most runs scored in a single day by a Major League team since the Red Sox scored 35 runs in a doubleheader back in 1939. The Twins won 20-14 in the first game, which is some pretty good run support for Kevin Slowey who gave up seven runs and still got the win. For reasons passing understanding that game wasn't televised, but I watched the second game, in which Matt Garza and the Twins bullpen shut out the Black Sox, and the Twins hit six home runs to win 12-0, scoring eleven runs off the homers by Morneau, Cuddyer, Hunter, and Cirillo, and the Piranhas drove in the twelfth with a couple base hits, and lead runner Nick Punto nipping a couple extra bases on each hit, just for Ozzie Guillen. The Black Sox tried everything too, like in the first inning when Jim Thome took out our catcher by over-swinging at a strike and letting the bat fly right into Mike Redmond's head. Some may say it wasn't intentional, but he managed to find the one spot on Redmond's head not covered by a mask and helmet, and he took a practice swing, letting go of his bat and hurling it all the way to the backstop on strike one (scaring the crap out of the people behind home plate). Because he caught the first game, Joe Mauer was in as a DH, and Gardenhire had just abandoned his usual three catchers policy, so Joe had to catch the rest of the game and the Twins lost the use of the designated hitter. The Twins had their pitchers hit and still spanked the Sox 12-0, ironically winning American League style playing under National League rules. Justin Morneau's 3-run homer in the first was the 100th of his career, and Morneau went on to homer not once, not twice, but thrice (apologies to Mr. Burns) en route to becoming the first Twin to hit three home runs in a game since 1973. The Black Sox won yesterday against BOOF in what seems likely to be Mark Buerhle's last start* in pale hose, and the decider is today with Carlos Silva facing Javier Vazquez.

*-Apparently Buehrle is willing to sign for less than his open market value to stay in Chicago but wants to be sure he stays in Chicago if he's giving up money to do it, so he's reasonably demanded a no-trade clause and the Sox won't give it to him. How they can manage to be a small market team strapped for cash while splitting a city twice the size of Boston with the hopeless Cubs is beyond me. I know it's fashionable to be a Cubs fan, and the Brewers and Cardinals, and to a lesser extent the Tigers, Reds, and Indians, squeeze out their TV market, but seriously they can't take the risk on a no-trade clause or pay full market value on a pitcher? The Twins haven't let their big targets go, and they're squeezing their revenue out everything west of the St. Croix, not south of Wacker Drive.

2. SpikeTV the Sick Man of Basic Cable?

This morning I turned on Fist of Fury, aka The Big Boss, which I tivo'ed off of SpikeTV, hoping to finally see the last of the big five Bruce Lee movies (Fist of Fury, The Chinese Connection, Way of the Dragon, Enter the Dragon, and Game of Death) that I hadn't seen. At first, I was really disappointed to find how similar it was to The Chinese Connection, and how derivative it must have been being released just two years after Fist of Fury. I had this nagging feeling that I'd seen all this before, but I passed that off as remembering Jet Li's remake Fist of Legend. After a bit I started to lose interest, doubting there would be anything on the order of the epic fights with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Chuck Norris in Game of Death and Way of the Dragon, or even the great scene in Fist of Legend when Jet Li goes into the Japanese dojo, politely takes his shoes off, and beats the living hell out of the entire school and cripples the huge karate master, and then meekly strolls back out. But then letting it run in the background for a while, I eventually recognized a scene and realized it fucking was The Chinese Connection.

What the hell is this crap? I know Asians are all supposed to look alike to us round-eyed devils, and some of Bruce Lee's movies were recut to manufacture sequels and half the time he's not even in Game of Death, but nobody over there has seen The Chinese Connection? I was going to record Enter the Dragon and any other Bruce Lee movies Spike was showing, but now I wonder if I'll get a triple feature of Eat Drink Man Woman, Sense and Sensibility, and Brokeback Mountain instead... Bruce Lee, Ang Lee, Jane Austen John Saxon, close enough. Actually given the godawful voice actress who dubbed over Zhang Ziyi when they showed House of Flying Daggers, which was so bad I had to turn it off, maybe I'll just give up on Hong Kong films on American TV and just finish watching 8 Femmes and thank heavens that it didn't make a big splash here, or there'd be a bubble gum remake with Avril Lavigne, Lindsay Lohan, Mariah Carey, Madonna, and some American Idol finalists set in the Hamptons, only more "accessible" and "empowering".

3. 98.6 degrees... sounds like the hot tub at the Captain's place

It was almost 100 degrees out yesterday, and completely still leading to a total absence of ventilation in my apartment. About 10:30 when it was still 90+ degrees out I finally gave up and turned on the AC so I didn't have to sleep naked in a kiddie pool with my windows open. If this continues, I'm moving to Nunavut (which is a real place, even if none of my countrymen seem to have heard of it) and running the chicken hut in Baker Lake, NU. You may wonder why I'd go to Canada when I keep making fun of them, but consider two things: the cool people in Baker Lake are all Inuit, not British Canadian, and since Russia just claimed half the Arctic Ocean as part of their territory and paranoid Canadians on the internet insist the USA claimed the other half, (according to Canadians this annexation really happened but just wasn't reported in American newspapers and that's why you haven't heard of it), Nunavut's warm water ports on the shipping route from Asia to America and Europe won't be Canadian long. (I know they're not warm now, but give our SUV's, hairspray, and New York to Philly plane flights time to work, we'll have that sucker melted in no time.) So somebody email me when the new Batman is released, for The Dark Knight I'll fly back down into the sauna.

From Chicago to Chisago and back again

I started a brief description of my trip to the Galena Triathlon back in May, then I started getting carried away and never finished it, so I'm breaking it into excessively long, self-indulgent chapters. The sad thing is I only started writing it so I could set up this elaborate strained joke about Guns & Roses and this woman I met for like five hours (which will appear in chapter four). But nevertheless, with apologies to Messrs. Bailey, Isbell, and Hudson, here's chapter one.

Chapter One: You know where you are? You're in the Jungle, baby...

I've recently had a breakthrough when it comes to my navigational skills, passing through denial, anger, bargaining, anger, depression, and into acceptance of the fact that I don't have any. It shouldn't have taken this long, since an ex-girlfriend used to constantly remind me that I couldn't walk across a large room in a straight line, and during the bargaining phase I got a GPS to give me audible directions, so now I still miss all the turns, so it spends most of its time telling me “Please make a legal U-turn” in a pleasant female voice.

Unfortunately the most direct paths to Galena all involve plunging into the woods with a lantern and a bloodhound and hoping you come out the other side without being eaten by trolls, and the only way I've ever gotten there without getting lost was by insisting that any road I used had to be illustrated on the map with a red line as thick as Peter North, and as a result took a decidedly unscenic trip through several hours of Iowa cornfields. Wanting to cut a couple hours off the trip but not wanting to ask directions from a Wisconsin survivalist selling fireworks out of a camouflaged schoolbus (at least not again), I thought I'd try the wisdom of my Great Uncle Burr, who forsook the use of maps and street names and instead navigated entirely by the use of the stars and a photographic recollection of the terrain, yet knew the best route to get anywhere... a true Magellan of the Maid-rite. Since Burr's wisdom was accumulated and distilled through my father's recollections and tendency to include detours through every state park he could reach before anybody asked where he was going, and I was concerned that the inevitable “clump of trees” that forms a critical signpost in all of Burr's sui generis routes might have been cut down and made into somebody's deck, I thought I'd check this against a map and make my own decision, which turned out to be unwise.

The best route through the back roads of Iowa involves finding a way south to US-20, which is a nice wide, level road designed for high speeds with proper passing lanes, but it takes forever going straight south down I-35, plus there's always that risk I'd space out and end up asking directions at the Alamo. So you have to figure out a way to get east to US-218, which at least in Iowa, has been rebuilt into another modern 4-lane highway. I got really clever and decided to pick up 218 as early as possible back where it hits I-35 in Owatonna, home of the fighting Magic Pumpkins, and pass into Iowa through Austin, MN, which served as nursery to both spam and the Gear Daddies, given my extensive collection of Gear Daddies, Martin Zellar and the Hardaways, and Billy Dankert and the Real Austinaires albums. The classic route to Galena goes down highway 61 and has that whole Bob Dylan, God said to Abraham kill me a son, how many roads must be blocked with tipped over bales of hay sort of thing going, so I thought I might have better luck with 218 and the more upbeat tunes of the Gear Daddies, mainstay of the Mower County Fair. As it happens, parts of highway 218 are about a step above a dirt road, with years of patches of blacktop cobbled together into a narrow road swarming with junebugs, rhythmically pattering into my windshield, and then I remembered that track off of Can't Have Nothin' Nice that goes “218 is a lonely road for me”, and it certainly was. It is kind of nice to get out there into the countryside of scenic Mower County, teeth chattering as you you speed down the cratered road, up and down hills, until you slam on the brakes to avoid plowing into a dump truck going 25mph with no way to pass him for a half hour.

I figured it would open up past Austin, but then I discovered something that should have been obvious, when you consider the music of Billy Dankert, Austin resident and former Gear Daddies drummer, a generally talented guy who manages to combine this pleasant sound with a slightly disturbed romantic wit. He captured really beautifully this sense of growing up in a small town and feeling the steel jaws of a trap close over him as he got older in “Open Wide”, and especially “One Voice”, a pleasant yet haunting ditty that later turned into a cautionary tale about killer bees (seriously, don't let your children play around that apiary). What Billy Dankert was trying to warn me about is that as happens all too often on the back roads of the US highway system, once you get to Austin, the road signs all disappear, and US 218 seems to plunge into a residential neighborhood and disappear, with no hint of coming back out. Lost in the birthplace of spam, I feared I had wandered into some sort of Upton Sinclair inspired nightmare in which sausages rose up out of the asphalt to ensnare my tires, and I'd spend the rest of my life feeding pig snouts into a meat grinder while getting terrorized by a supervisor in an ugly striped sweater with knives on his fingers. And it's not like I wasn't warned: like the creepy gas station attendant in the first reel of every horror movie who warns our heroes to get out of town before sundown, my GPS spent all the time after I passed Owatonna telling me to turn around and periodically suggested an updated route back to the interstate.

I headed east on the last cross street, figuring it was at least the right direction, and hoping to find a southbound road that didn't have a stop sign every two blocks, and of course, that road came to an abrupt end at the beginning of a large wooded area, where a wolf in a dress and bifocals wiping his mouth with a red hood beckoned from behind a tree. Fortunately, figuring I was good and screwed, my GPS relented and smugly gave me the way out of Austin heading south into Iowa. To any tempted to take this route, around Osage or Charles City or somewhere 218 does turn into a decent highway all the way to US 20, and from there it's open freeway and smooth sailing all the way to Dubuque, but for god's sake just don't stop at the gingerbread house. Okay, I made that part up, but I did stop off for something sweet at a DQ in Cedar Falls, only to have the girl at the counter go back and fetch this old hag out of the back who insisted on feeling my arm before making my Misty Freeze. Make of that what you will, and pack plenty of breadcrumbs. I eventually did make it to Galena, and due to the hospitality of dear friends, spent a couple of enjoyable days in idyllic surroundings in a hotel on a hill overlooking rolling green countryside, enjoying the fresh air and sounds of nature, and sleeping on the nastiest urine stained hide-a-bed I've ever seen.

Chapter Two: Bitch slap rapping but nothing done (and no cocaine tongue)

I was in Galena for a triathlon, or more accurately to watch a triathlon, since I wouldn't run five miles if Big Foot was chasing me (a situation I occasionally thought I might encounter driving to Galena through the morass of unmarked trails that is southwestern Wisconsin). The Galena triathlon is a tough one, starting in a chilly lake and winding over rolling hills into a town clinging to the side of the Mississippi River valley, but it's through verdant, fresh countryside, which may or may not be better appreciated with tears in your eyes from the pain and adrenaline high. For my part, I quickly discovered that the triathlon is really not a great spectator sport, since 1400 people on a beach in matching black wetsuits all kind of look the same so I had no idea where my friends were, and a couple hours of watching heats of people dive into an icy lake seemed like a pretty stupid way to spend the morning. Eager to avoid getting trapped when the roads were closed for the bikers, I started the trek back to the field where my car was parked, with the help of a kindly man on a golf cart with a thick German accent. He drove me part of the way, but then I don't know if he was Adolf Eichmann or something, but when I asked what part of Germany he was from and how he came to be in Galena he threw me out of the cart and drove away. I did get out scant minutes before they closed the lot and the entrance to the road, and I tried to race back to town before the entire road was closed, passing what I figured had to be most of the local law enforcement establishment at road blocks, including one guy, I swear to god, in a leather vest with a cowboy hat and a tin star like he thought he was Wyatt Earp. Since I thought Marshall Earp couldn't catch me on horseback and I had a wide-open Stagecoach Trail in front of me I figured I'd open it up as much as I could to get back before spectators gathered at the finish line only to have me come crashing through, horn honking. It's a nice drive, up and down those hills at 80 mph, when you know you won't come over a hill blind and crash right into a combine going 20mph down the road (or at least I hoped not).

Unfortunately the Jo Davies Sheriff's Department had other ideas, and I was diverted down a series of gravel roads back to town, where I hit on an idea to entertain myself while waiting for my friends to finish the race. Since the entire Sheriff's Dept. seemed to be out on Stagecoach directing traffic, I figured Galena would be wide open for an epic crime spree, like a full-on Batman villain, purple suit and white clown make-up orgy of mayhem leaving a smoke and graffiti scar down main street. Any supervillain will tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, so I sat down for a waffle first, and discovered the fatal flaw in my plan when the Sheriff sat down opposite me at the counter. Talk about intelligence-led policing, that guy was on me like white on rice before I even designed a supervillain costume. So instead I hit a couple art galleries and a frame shop, and broke something which I then had to purchase and hang on my wall. Bumbling around I managed to miss the whole race except for the big barbecue at the end, where the stragglers were tossed on the fire to feed the winners, who then received their “I am a Triathlete – Biker – Swimmer – Cannibal” tattoos. Seriously, when they say the Galena triathlon is tough, they aren't just talking about the rolling hills. Okay, that didn't happen, but nobody's reading this anyways so I can tell it any way I want. And this part is true, Amstelboy got spanked by his woman in that race, and he wasn't happy about it... like the poet says, sometimes he gets so tense but he can't speed up the time.

Chapter Three: Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty

We celebrated the race in style, gathering for what strikes me as the antithesis of the Independence Day bash with Toby Keith and exploding bombshells, as the more progressive end of town gathered for dinner on a sheltered porch watching woodland creatures rummaging through the creek bed, and discussing the usual liberal topics: the way our hands our tied while the billions shift from side to side and the wars go on with brainwashed pride for the love of God and our human rights are swept aside, things of this nature. After heading into town for a knees-up with some local bands and a 12 year old kid doing the time warp, our footsteps were drawn as they always are to the Paradise, which I always remember fondly for being there in years past watching the 4th of July parade with Butch, the Earl of Jo Davies County... I can't help a little smile stepping into the Paradise. It was in full swing on a Saturday night, with cash trading hands around the pool table and batting eyelashes everywhere asking oh won't you please take me home. Some of my friends got snookered into a high stakes pool game with the local gentry, and upon losing were sent scurrying to the bar to refresh the victors' throats with the most expensive sipping whiskey in the house ($5), while I had a fascinating time with a Gaelic scholar and a sapphist and sometime cougar (she insists it's just a phase), until a Guns & Roses song came on. Then I got the first clue to a mystery that has plagued me since 1993... is Axl Rose is still out there somewhere? Because I tell you, I met somebody in the Paradise whose intimate familiarity with all things Axl went beyond what a fan gleans from wikipedia and years of Rolling Stone interviews, going back to Axl's childhood, and I think she was trying to tell me something. I didn't assign much significance to it until I mentioned his dancing style and she insisted she could recreate it, to my amusement, since I love impressions. Then as I was preparing to leave, “Sweet Child of Mine” came on, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her start to dance... I turned to say goodnight to the dancing girl but she was gone and in her place the specter of Axl Rose, wistfully swaying to his own twenty year old tune, in that eclectic, willowy dancing style, and the way she captured that vision of Axl was beyond eerie and into something else. Stepping back out into the night, I planted a kiss on the window in one of those “I hope that was funny and not creepy” sort of gestures to get a laugh out of Axl and the Cougar, and wandered back down Main Street.

I've seen some of the world's greatest works of art, creations that have stood the test of time for hundreds and thousands of years, and many more beautiful things that have not, and as a certain Redwood Rapunzel used to point out to me, the ones that bring me to tears more likely than not capture a moment in time that ties together long threads into an inseparable knot on which for that instant the entire world turns. That gigantic statue of Laocöon being tormented by the serpents, or Canova's statue of Cupid and Psyche at the moment of embrace, or the last touch of the blood-stained shirt at the end of Brokeback Mountain, when the tragic enormity of a lifetime's worth of decisions is contained in that gesture and a deeply stifled sob (make fun of me all you want, Amstelboy, it's still a good movie). And in that moment, it was if Axl had stepped into the smoky shadows of the 1980's LA clubs (where he rose to prominence and will live on in perpetual youth in the memories of aging clubbers) and emerged into the Paradise to enjoy his legacy in permanent rotation on the jukebox. And Axl was looking good that night.

Next: Now he's a court jester with a broken heart

Piranhas 8 - 5 BJ's

Yesterday, the Twins lost a close game because too many scoring opportunities slipped by, and while they held the BJ's to 5 runs, the Twins came up just short. There were too many rallies where one more break could have locked up a win, but this afternoon the Twins didn't let those opportunities dribble away. The BJ's took a commanding early lead by stringing together three hits on Silva before Frank Thomas hit the 500th home run of his career, scoring three and putting the BJ's up 4-0. Thomas has been such a Twin killer over the course of his career that when he came into a four game series with 499 home runs, it seemed unlikely he'd leave Minnesota without #500, and even for a former Black Sock, the crowd rose to applaud him becoming the 21st ever to hit 500 home runs. Silva gave up another run in the third, but then he and the bullpen closed the door, only allowing two more baserunners and nearly snagged both on double plays anyways.

On the other side of the ball, the Twins had another new and fascinating line-up, due to injuries and availability of players. Justin Morneau is back from recuperating his bruised lung, but not quite up to playing first base and Mike Redmond caught last night's game, so Cuddyer played first while Mauer caught Silva with Morneau at DH. Jason Tyner and Jason Bartlett led off, while Nick Punto played second in place of Castillo... kind of interesting, surprisingly effective. Tyner led off with an infield single, beating the throw from third base, and then Jason Bartlett came up, and got hit by A.J. Burnett. I immediately started wondering who was going to replace Bartlett, since I wasn't sure if we had any infielders left (forgetting Cirillo could come in at third, and Punto and Rodriguez would cover the middle infield), but after a long time on the ground surrounded by trainers, Bartlett shook it off and headed to first. I think pretty highly of Jason Bartlett, so I enjoyed seeing him come back and spend the rest of the game punishing Burnett. Cuddyer sent Tyner home with a single, but Mauer and Morneau both looked pretty rough, both striking out swinging on three pitches. Bartlett started sticking it to Burnett by leading off the third with a home run, and Torii Hunter added another solo homer to start the fourth, and bring the Twins within reach.

The turning point was the fifth, starting at the top of the order, with a pair of singles by Tyner and Bartlett. Continuing last night's pick-off fiasco, with runners at the corners Burnett seemed determined he was picking off Bartlett at first, which seemed stupid until you consider the BJ's infield all seem to have really horrible throwing arms. Last night they were irritatingly good fielders and kept snagging line drives (while today they got through and the Twins doubled their run production) but in two games they had six errors and two passed balls. Burnett was nowhere near picking off Bartlett, but then when Bartlett decided to give him a big fuck you and steal second, the late throw from the plate showed why Burnett was concerned about discouraging stolen bases. (In the sixth, Bartlett and Rodriguez each had a steal and Rodriguez advanced on a passed ball, with no throw from the catcher.) Mauer and Morneau continued to struggle, but critically both had productive outs, grounding out to the right side to send home Tyner and Bartlett and tie the game. Burnett walked Cuddyer to set up a 2-run homer by Torii Hunter, his second of the game, and the Twins took the lead. In the sixth, Luis Rodriguez reached first on an error by first baseman Matt Stairs, then stole second and took third on a passed ball, before Jason Tyner drove him in the culmination of the piranha mentality, using speed and tenacity to make their own luck.

Some questions were raised during the game (mainly by my dad) as to the Twins failure to sign Frank Thomas as a DH, when the Metrodome obviously agrees with him, although one explanation was offered when he got ejected for arguing a call then continuing to scream at the umpire from the dugout, meaning his historic home run comes in a game he lost and didn't finish. The girls behind me also raised questions as to the verse order of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm", which they wouldn't stop singing. And there's still some question as to whether Justin Morneau is healthy enough to be back in the line-up, but I was just happy to see him get an RBI and a walk so perennially bitter local sports radio couldn't resurrect his "Morneau-for-4" moniker.

W - Carlos Silva
L - A.J. Burnett
SV - Joe Nathan

Blue Jays 5 - 4 Twins

The Blue Jays are really starting to piss me off. Tonight the Twins had several breaks that set up juicy scoring opportunities only to have the BJ's keep wriggling out of them. Like in the first inning, when Joe Mauer hit into a double play, but he and Jason Bartlett took advantage of a fielding error and beat the tag and the throw to first. Then they executed a double steal, so the Twins had two extremely fast runners on second and third, but failed get them home. Then there was Cuddyer getting thrown out at home to kill a rally in the third... the whole game was close enough that any missed opportunity could have made the difference. Like sending Boof back out to start the 7th, when he'd given up three doubles in the 6th, and he gave up a lead-off double that turned into the winning run. Then again, 11 hits and 4 errors (two on the same play) by the BJ's should have turned into more run support. When Josh Towers had a disastrous attempt to pick off Nick Punto, missing 1st base entirely and letting Punto run to 3rd while a search party was being gathered to track down the ball, and followed that up with a pitch over his catcher's head that allowed Punto to dash home while Gregg Zaun chased the ball to the back stop, I really couldn't have imagined he'd come away with the win. And Zaun even got charged for a passed ball on that horrid pitch, proof that Towers has a deal with the devil. Frank Thomas, always a Twin killer with the Black Sox, is still stuck on 499 home runs with another game to play tomorrow, so that should be interesting.

W-Towers
L-BOOF
SV-Accardo

Voltron enters fight for Dutch bank

I was flipping through this morning's Financial Times, looking for an article about the risks of biofuels, only to find... actually, briefly on the topic of the biofuels article, it turned out the person whose perspective was being offered was the CEO of Exxon-Mobil. I'm sure he has a far deeper understanding of the energy industry than most people in the world today, and certainly better than my own, but when he's offering warnings against investing in bio-fuels, I have to ask... how the fuck is this news? Exxon recommends their gas over biofuel you buy from British Petroleum, up next, our exclusive interview with Colgate CEO Ruben Mark on why he says Aquafresh makes your mouth taste like bird poop. There was a bit of an interesting element to that Exxon story about how Exxon's business is built for $20/barrel oil and tight margins at refineries, and I would have been interested to know how that impacts the current gasoline situation, if Exxon is still operating for efficiency and maximizing marginal return rather than focusing on increasing capacity and gross revenue, and if that's a successful short term strategy for Exxon. Unfortunately questions like that took a back seat to Tillerson's opinions on how his hearse would be powered: gas or diesel. And seriously, when you can design a security system robust enough to keep guys in Tiger suits from dancing on your roof, that's when I'll start considering your advice on revamping a global energy infrastructure, E-M.

Back to my original point about Voltron, I was looking for that biofuels on the wrong page, so I was surprised to turn to page 16 and see a headline about Voltron's involvement in the three month long conflict over the future of ABN-AMRO between Royal Bank of Scotland, Barclay's, and ABN-AMRO itself. I've been following this with some interest due to the issues of shareholder rights in Europe, global consolidation and competitiveness, loss of national champions and issues of oligopoly and financial regulation, but you'll notice something missing from my list: giant fighting monsters. And it's not immediately clear how this would fall under Voltron's charter as "Defender of the Universe".

Just to bring anybody up to speed, Voltron was a name given to two giant fighting robot composed of smaller piloted vehicles, in one case from robotic lions (imaginatively referred to as the Lion Voltron), and in the other air, land, and sea vehicles (which could also helpfully fly in space) combined to form Vehicle Voltron. My first instinct was to assume that Lion Voltron was the one involved in the current banking crisis, because it seemed appropriate that Voltron would be scouring the Netherlands looking for an Orange Lion to add to his current Black, Green, Red, Blue, and Yellow Lions, but then I started wondering how it would fit in and for what purpose. Voltron's particular interest seems to be prising away ABN-AMRO's retail and private banking operations, so the Orange Lion would presumably serve as a retail banking services arm, to go with the red arm that held the energy sword, and the green one, which... well I don't want to speculate on what Voltron did with that hand. Or possibly Voltron have a third leg, which would do to evil monsters what my bank is doing to me with the $400 in fees they just charged me. Bend over for Wells F-- for Voltron, baby.

This of course was ridiculous speculation on my part, but consider this: there was a third, previously unrevealed Voltron, and I believe that is what we are seeing here today. This "Gladiator Voltron" was to be composed of three parts, the Black Gladiator representing Fortis, the Blue Gladiator representing the Royal Bank of Scotland, and the Red Gladiator representing Banco Santander. Together they seemed like an unlikely set of suitors for ABN-AMRO, bringing different strengths and needs, much like the helicopters, fighter jets, trucks, and submarines never seemed like they could be mashed together into Vehicle Voltron. And after the recent court ruling favoring Bank of America (who spirited away LaSalle Bank like that evil witch in Voltron), it seemed there was no hope they could overcome the bid by Barclay's. But then I read that they not only plan to reevaluate and submit a new bid to the shareholders, but they've combined their powers to form Voltron, whose main problem-solving tool was to take a monster (which started out small but was inflated by evil magic like ABN's voracious series of acquisitions in Europe) and slash it twice across the midsection, until four pieces fell away cleanly, like private banking and asset management, wholesale banking, retail banking, and the corporate offices. It's Voltron with a Scottish accent, and boy is he pissed off.

On Sopranos and Sopressata, and the charm of James Gandolfini

I've been rewatching and filling in the blanks on some of the first season of The Sopranos, and seeing again what a brilliant and innovative show this was, particularly for the TV climate of 1999. Now seemingly every show that isn't a reality show or a Law & Order spin-off is highly serialized and available on DVD, and it's unquestioned that people will follow long storylines and slow character development, and more importantly, pay the owners of the property directly by buying DVDs, so they can sell quality to consumers and not just bored eyeballs to advertisers. Some also credit Joss Whedon, the only guy working on broadcast TV doing season long story arcs and depending on creativity and quality to suck people in, because the success of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel gave credibility to pitches for shows like 24, Alias, and Lost. But seriously, I didn't realize how much there was packed into just the first few episodes of The Sopranos, and while I had maintained a long admiration for James Gandolfini, seeing this definitive role again I realized I'd forgotten just how good he was as Tony. What sparked a brief homage is watching a scene where Tony, as the underboss everybody knows is running the show behind the scenes, has to arrange something then have a fake meeting with all parties in front of the don, his uncle Junior, to make it seem like he really made the decision. I just enjoyed that scene because every character overplays their part a little bit, hamming it up in front of Junior, and for some reason I love it when good actors portray bad acting, because I think that's got to be hard, playing Tony playing a part, with enough of a crack between Tony's face and the persona he's playing to let some daylight in.*

To play a part that requires equal parts slovenliness and sexiness with the style of Gandolfini is incredible, and he's been doing stuff like that his whole career, creating these tremendous performances, just never where anybody can see it. I still love his character in The Mexican for being so far from Tony Soprano yet still having that mesmerizing violent charm, as a gay hit man who dances to Men Without Hats. Tired as I am of people like Robert Redford posturing, Gandolfini was a show stealing villain in The Last Castle, completely human in his flaws, noble in his ambition and self-image but ultimately sliding easily into being an truly evil bastard over nothing but pettiness and a bitter lack of empathy. He's about the only guy in 8MM who doesn't seem ridiculous, although Peter Stormare actually hits a nice note playing a ridiculous character (and okay Joaquin Phoenix wasn't bad), and I'd even consider seeing Surviving Christmas just to see him. I really wish he'd gotten Catch Me If You Can, because while I'm not disparaging what Tom Hanks did with the part, I think the whole style Gandolfini would have brought and his scenes with Leonardo di Caprio would have been great... I always picture him in their on-screen first meeting, excited and gullible, or as the shy fat guy nobody wants to listen to droning on about fake checks at the FBI. To see him in a movie with that kind of promotion, with Steven Spielberg at the helm, I wonder what it could have done for him as an actor. Until then, in my circle of acquaintances nobody but me will appreciate James Gandolfini, but I really wish you all could all see something like the first season of The Sopranos and see what the world is missing putting the maniacal stares of Tom Cruise and Nicholas Cage into every movie ahead of Gandolfini.

*-As a brief aside on portraying bad acting, it helps Gandolfini and others to have enough natural screen time to have something to compare it to. Danielle Pannabaker in Mr. Brooks is self-conscious and over emoting in every scene but one, and it's hard to tell if she's just a bad actress until the plot starts to unravel, and it's clear her character is lying in every scene, lying through her teeth, and desperately trying to build a foundation of half-truths as the ground crumbles around her. It's obvious to her father watching her, and becomes more obvious over the course of the film that there's this persona being built, until the final scene when we can believe her character takes off the mask in chilling fashion. Plus she's got that whole smoking hot thing going with the dark red hair set off against pale white skin, so er, my judgment may be impaired as my analysis of Northwestern softball. (Seriously do you think their catcher's single?)

To shoehorn in another note about acting and natural human empathy, I found a link on slashdot to a magazine that tried to administer the Voight-Kampff test from Bladerunner to San Francisco mayoral candidates to see if replicants had infiltrated the Democratic Party, and apparently the answer is they have. That just struck me as a great idea, but so far Congressman Ellison's office has refused my request for an interview with a giant magnifying glass and a camera to measure his pupil and capillary response to emotional stimuli. I wonder who else is dreaming of electric sheep?

Sparkle gone out of 4th of July

I have to admit, I'm just not that excited. Fireworks are a lot less cool ever since that time that mortar shell exploded in front of me, and as I was stumbling around shell-shocked, a cake tipped over and started firing at me, and blinded by the flash I tried to stumble my way to cover on a field strewn with shotgun shells. Ever since that time I half walked, half crawled from Manarola up to Corniglia in Europe's deathly heat wave of 2003, sitting around in the sun in hot and humid July weather has never seemed quite so much fun as it used to be. So really I was just looking forward to sitting in the Paradise, where Johnny Walker Blue goes for $4.50 a glass, and watching the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest from Coney Island. And this is when I really got discouraged, because checking the injury report on ESPN, Kobayashi has announced his sprained jaw will not be healed in time for him to compete. Without Kobayashi setting the pace, it's no longer the Wimbledon of Gluttony, it's just a bunch of guys eating hot dogs. So I'll be in the VFW, where $20 will get me ten drinks and a place to hide from my bookie. Seriously, with Kobayashi in the field, the over/under on the winner was ludicrously low, and I needed a quick double or nothing to get even after my last bet... I though the Generals were due!

Garnett and Henry moving on

Thierry Henry's often rumored, never consumated transfer from Arsenal to Barcelona is reportedly finally happening, as he hits 30 and debt-laden Arsenal can't tie up resources on a player with his growing risk of injury. Coming off a rocky season with popular speculation that they may drop out of the Big Four who currently dominate English football (Chelski, Manchester United, and Liverpool) losing a player of Henry's charisma and mesmerizing ability is a serious blow. If the 16m pounds his sale is supposed to bring in goes entirely to paying off the stadium debt, the club may be announcing they want to give up on European ambitions, and settle firmly into the second tier of England with Newcastle United, Tottenham Hotspur, and other teams who previously couldn't stand up to Arsenal's reserves. On the other hand, maybe Robin van Persie (the Dutch striker who runs like a girl) will be back in form, Henry's sale to Barca and Jose Antonio Reyes' transfer to Atletico Madrid will buy RvP a strike partner, and some of the younger talent will break through. If they hang on to fourth place, make a decent showing in Europe, and challenge in the cups, it'll be a good year financially and stave off the collapse that the rest of England seems to be drooling for, and that'll be good for a few laughs.

While Henry has always been linked to Barcelona but nobody has been sure if Arsenal would pull the trigger, Kevin Garnett is definitely out the door for the Timberwolves, but the problem is nobody knows where he's going. All that's definite is he won't be in Minnesota, and apparently he won't be in Boston either, since he came out and said he won't permit himself to be traded to the Celtics. Wild theories abound, some have died down, like the talk that he would go to Chicago, and the favorites are the Phoenix Suns, who have plenty to offer, but pretty good reason to stand pat. This does speak to how terribly unbalanced the NBA has become though, since the entire Eastern Conference has been written off as junior varsity, too weak to be worth his time. Personally I'm rooting for the rumored huge multiple player trade to the Knicks where Minnesota gets horrendously overpaid players nearing the ends of their bloated contracts, so they can all be cut and the Wolves can basically burn the place down and start over, having wasted the bright future they looked like they had back in 1996 when they had a core of Kevin Garnett, Tom Gugliotta, and Stephon Marbury. Rest assured, I'll be ranting about any future developments.

Estados Unidos 2 - 1 Mexico

Today the EEUU faced Mexico in the final of the Gold Cup, the continental championship of North and Central America and the Caribbean. Mexico have been the undisputed kings of the region, and have started to take a bigger place on the world stage in the Copa America and World Cup, playing one hell of a game against Argentina last summer. However, in the last six years, their big local rivals to the north have lost all fear of Mexico and become a thorn in their side. In the Americas, a rich diversity of geography allows many teams to use a venue as a stronghold, in a steamy jungle, on top of a mountain, or for teams sponsored by SPECTRE, the inside of an active volcano. Six years ago we finally decided to do the same thing, and played a world cup qualifier against Mexico in Columbus, Ohio in February. With two key players leaving the game early, Josh Wolff and Clint Mathis came off the bench and went nuts en route to a 3-0 win. The biggest match the two teams have ever played was in the World Cup the following year, and the EEUU won again, 2-0, and after taking their balls in that game, every meeting since has been a grudge match, but the only place we can't beat them is the Azteca in Mexico City.

Those were the stakes today when the two teams met at Soldier Field, in front of what looked to be a crowd of Swiss cycling enthusiasts, judging by the couple in the Swiss jersey and maillot jaune I saw on ESPN. Mexico took an early lead by exposing a couple weaknesses of the Norteamericanos, the first being the defenders playing a high line and leaving space behind them, and being stupid. If you're going to play an offside trap, keep the guy offside, don't do what a US defender did on Mexico's goal, which was to see somebody making a run behind him and chase him down right at the moment of the pass, playing him onside. The speed that allowed that mistake ironically allowed a defensive recovery, giving him nowhere to go, but there was another problem. Nobody seemed to cover the back side of every Mexican attack, leading to numerous opportunities, and this one went in.

The US had opportunities, despite bizarre finishing, and came back with a penalty won by Brian Ching and converted by Landon Donovan following some sort of pre-shot meditation, like in that last Rambo movie where he's chilling with the Buddhist monks when he's not stick-fighting. On a US corner kick, Mexico cleared the ball out of the box but straight to a lurking Benny Feilhaber, who volleyed it across the box to the back post in a beautiful winning goal. It might have been 3-1 a couple times, like when Brian Ching broke down the defense, pulled back and chipped a shot over the keeper, only to hit the near post, something of an accomplishment on its own to miss the goal. In the closing minutes Landon Donovan picked up a cleared Mexican corner, and faked out the only defender anywhere near him so badly the guy fell down, took the ball the whole way and dropped it off for the wide open Damarcus Beasley to do his best Patrick Kluivert impression and put it over the bar... come to think of it, he has been playing in Holland, maybe Amstelboy's cousins can get drunk and piss on posters of him too.

So there it is, 2-1 over Mexico and kings of CONCACAF, spanking Mexico (and Canada in the semis) just in time for the 4th of July. Hopefully this will have them riding high going into the Copa America, which is really the big show. The US will rest European based players and let MLS players go back to their clubs during that tournament, instead opting to play... well, I don't know who's left, but I hear it's a really young team. Stars and Stripes forever.

What got into Johan Santana tonight?

What a difference a new pitcher makes. Last night at Shea Carlos Silva had a rough night, and the Twins couldn't get anything going on offense off of John Maine, and lost 8-1 to the Mets. Tonight Santana pitched a complete game shut-out, cashing in a promise from Bert Blyleven to shave his head if Johan got the shut-out. Bizarrely he only had one strike-out coming in the 9th inning, when that's usually Santana's bread and butter, and as Blyleven noted, he was using Silva's game to do what Silva failed to do the night before. It wasn't enough to strangle the Mets offense, since Santana also had a good game at the plate, warding off a pinch hitter and letting him stay in all nine innings. Seriously, for an American League pitcher that was just ridiculous, he was getting way ahead in the count against Jorge Sosa, drew a walk and got an extra base hit (with first base coach Jerry White frantically shouting at him not to get carried away), and scored a run himself to insure the win. Johan just missed getting an infield single to really stick it to the Mets, but with Johan going nuts, the game was over in the second inning when the Twins put six runners on and scored five, never looking back. After that thrashing, I'd love to predict doom and gloom for the Mets tomorrow night, but I have an unfortunate feeling they may bounce back against Scott Baker.

Piranhas 9 - 0 Mets
W-Santana
L-Sosa

Piranhas 10 - 9 Alkies

That was certainly a crazy game, in a weird atmosphere, all wholesome for Father's Day, except for all the drunks who weaved their way across the bridge for the game, wearing their hats with the baseball glove logo like a note from their mother pinned to their lapels, in case they lose their way in a foamy haze of Miller Lite and forget where they are or where they're going and need passers-by can point them in the right direction on game day. “You're lost? What does “Wango baishbahl” mean? Oh, baseball? Just this way down 6th to Chicago... yeah, you're welcome, no hugs, and don't throw up on my shoes, please.” Seriously, every time we play a Wisconsin team, the biggest bunch of drunken freaks with no ability to follow the game show up, like the guy behind me who could divine the results of double play attempts before the ball was even thrown, and screamed “Double play!” at random moments for a few innings, like when the pitcher was warming up. It's a blast when the Chicago and Detroit fans come to town, because while they're seriously all fucking nuts, they at least come for the game, not to drink and drool on people. Also an oddity for Father's Day, as a prostate cancer tie-in, they had the seventh inning stretch in the sixth inning, which was supposed to encourage all the fathers to go get prostate exams. It is important to have the doctor stick his finger up your bum every once in a while, but I can't say this enough, the guy at Steamworks wearing nothing but a stethoscope who checks your prostate with both his hands on your shoulders is NOT A REAL DOCTOR.

I thought the Twins were in some serious trouble after the first inning, when after Ryan Braun (barely) broke up what would have been a double play to end the inning, Kevin Slowey turned into Rick “Wild Thing” Vaughn and threw about 12 straight balls, walking two and finally getting the third out when Johnny Estrada was dumb enough to swing at one of his pitches off the plate and grounded out to 2nd. When the Twins came up, Joe Mauer and Michael Cuddyer tore into Jeff Suppan early, and I still say Cuddyer would have scored Mauer from first if his double hadn't bounced over the outfield wall... three feet to the right and it would have bounced off the baggy, with Mauer already halfway home. Justin Morneau put the Twins ahead with a sac fly to score Mauer, so things were looking up. Then Torii Hunter took a ball off his hands, and had to call for Lew Ford to come in for him. With Slowey looking pretty rough, I thought losing our superstar center fielder was going to kill the Twins, and it nearly did. Mike Redmond drove Cuddyer in to extend the early lead, and Slowey and the Twins defense held off the Brewers for a while, letting a few guys on but never letting them score.

The heart of the Twins line-up continued to pound the Brewers, even the generally useless Lew Ford had a hell of a game at the plate in relief of Torii Hunter, driving in four runs and scoring one himself. By the fifth, the Twins were up 5-0, when the Brewers cracked Slowey wide open, opening the inning with two solo home runs, but the Twins answered with four more runs, so the game looked safe. Slowey gave up a 2-run homer in the top of the sixth just to get it a bit closer, but with a 9-4 lead the bullpen came in to finish things off, despite a lack of run support. Matt Guerrier got the Twins out of the sixth and through the seventh cleanly, and then Juan Rincon apparently decided as a personal favor to our closer to give him a save opportunity. After a lead-off double by Geoff Jenkins, Craig Counsell, master of the Julio Franco batting stance, sent him home on a single, and Corey Hart, best known for wearing his sunglasses at night, hit a two-run homer to put the Brewers within two. Once he set up the save situation for Nathan, Rincon finished off the eighth, and our closer Joe Nathan came in to pitch the ninth, and our troubles really began.

Prince Fielder, the Brewers first baseman, is a very large, bulky man. He's 6'0” and 260 lbs, which makes him not too quick around the basepaths. He's the son of Cecil Fielder, a very large man who played for the Tigers, who had no speed around the basepaths, and only stole one base in his career... against the Twins. His wife didn't congratulate him when he called to tell her, because she didn't believe him without video evidence and a note from the umpire. I don't know what kind of freakish karma the Fielders have against the Twins, but Prince Fielder cashed in some more of it yesterday. He hit a high fly ball to center field, which looked like a fairly routine catch, except he lost the ball against the dirty baseball colored roof, and Fielder had a lucky base hit. Unfortunately, the ball went so high it hit a speaker and dropped nowhere near where Lew Ford positioned himself guessing the trajectory in the dark, and left fielder Jason Tyner cleverly failed to back up Ford on the play, so Fielder got extra bases as a further gift. Ford, when he finally fielded the ball, hesitated on the throw, and Fielder, chugging and jiggling his way around the bases, so unused to doing so he had to stutter step at second and third to make sure he didn't miss them, beat the throw home. Just another half second and the cut-off man could have gotten the ball to home plate. I inwardly groaned, knowing that play was going to feature heavily on “Around the Horn”. Just like the missed double play shook up Slowey, after that gift Nathan started pitching like crap. Three straight base hits scored the tying run for the Brewers, and with two runners in scoring position, Joe Nathan got it together and took out the next three batters, striking out Sunglasses at Night to end the inning. A blown save for Nathan, no win for Slowey, and a Father's Day gift for Jeff Suppan, who really deserved the loss after giving up 9 earned runs in five innings.

In the bottom of the ninth, with their bats having gone a bit quiet since the fifth, the Twins had AL MVP Justin Morneau up to lead off the inning. After his sacrifice in the first, Morneau had picked up another RBI in the third sending Mauer home on a double, and then the Brewers walked him in his next couple at-bats, so he'd been having a good game, with four productive plate appearances. Well, the second walk was intentional and set up a force-out at second, and was kind of bizarre since the guy batting behind Morneau had five RBIs, but nevertheless, a good game. After taking one pitch, Morneau drilled the next one over the baggy in right field, the kind of ball you know is over the wall right off his bat, for the walk off home run. With the stadium errupting, My Dad, not generally a trash talker, turned around to sarcastically chant “Let's go Brewers!” at the alkies preparing to retreat back across the St. Croix with their tails between their legs, and all was right in the world.

Piranhas 10, Alkies 9
Winning Pitcher: Joe Nathan (Blown Save)
Losing Pitcher: Chris Spurling
Prostate: Healthy