Elections in the steroid era

by the Night Writer

Baseball may be America’s pastime, but America’s game is politics, and it’s played for keeps.

It was all very exciting when Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were in a tight race to break Babe Ruth’s single-season homerun record, and when Barry Bonds sledge-hammered his way toward Hank Aaron’s career record. Many people cheered as the dramatic numbers climbed higher and if anyone scratched his head and wondered outloud at the unusual displays of power and hat-size they were repeatedly assured that the game was clean and these were merely exceptional athletes plying their trade at the highest levels. After all, we were told repeatedly that Sosa, McGwire, Bonds and other sluggers of the era had never tested positive for steroids. Of course, that spotless record was likely the result that they had never been effectively tested for steroids. In fact, for a number of years Performance Enhancing Drugs weren’t even specifically against the rules in a game that has long winked at “gamesmanship”

Similarly, cheating in politics is as American as apple pie. Recently we’ve seen a series of extremely close political elections with enough curious counts and results that you’d of had to have botox injections to keep from raising an eyebrow. And as the Minnesota legislature debates a voter-ID bill requiring a state-authorized photo ID in order to vote, we again have those who claim the process is clean and that large-scale fraud has never been proven. As was the case with baseball, though, there has barely been an effort made to try to prevent it.

“Well, that’s just baseball,” you might say. “That doesn’t mean politics is like that.” Of course not. Baseball players might be willing to cheat in order to gain fame, glory and riches, but politicians are above such tawdry motivations and designs. Baseball players cheat because a slugger can pull down $20 million a year or more, but that amount is bush league when you consider the amount of money that can be gained in furthering an agenda, feathering a nest and favoring your friends. Influence is much more valuable than an MVP.

If you doubt that, look at the amount of money generated just to gain the influence in the first place. The recent Wisconsin Supreme Court election – a race that would normally be reported in box-score agate type – generated some $3.6 million in outside political contributions. In baseball, $3.6 million barely gets you an average outfielder, or a good lefty set-up man. In politics, a good lefty set-up men may arguably be an even more valuable commodity to some.

Testing for steroids, and verifying voters, won’t eliminate the desire to gain an advantage, but it does make it easier for those scoring at home to have faith in the results. Major League Baseball dragged its feet on drug-testing because neither the owners or the players really wanted to look too closely at the situation. The owners liked the high ratings and interest that homerun races generated and the players liked the rewards that came with age and gravity-defying feats. It was the fans’ distaste and sense of injustice – and potential alienation – that forced action. Major League Politics drags its feet because neither party wants to change a system they’ve used to their advantage in the past.

Just as in baseball, though, the blatant hypocrisy and questionable results risk alienating the “fans”. The steroid era has cast doubt on the records and statistics of a generation of players, calling into question the validity of many records and tainting even those who played clean and diminishes the game overall. The same thing is happening with our election process. It is up to us fans to keep the pressure on if we want to see integrity in America’s pastime and America’s game.

First Mother’s Day Recap

Yesterday was a good day. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. People went out of their way to wish me a happy first Mother’s Day. I got to be a lazy bum while the Moose cleaned the kitchen and the Babe took an almost-three-hour nap (which was awesome). Then we left the Babe at home with a friend and went on a date, and had steak (which was also awesome).

As far as I’m concerned, though, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day have always pretty much been Hallmark holidays, right up there with Valentine’s Day. Gosh, without  the Hallmark calendar, how would we EVER remember to let our mother, father, or valentine know that they’re special to us and we love them??? On the other hand, I do love any excuse to be doted on and my birthday comes only once a year, so I won’t knock it too much.

Anyway, it was special. The Moose and I spent time with the little one that gave me my “mother” status, and talked about what an amazing couple of years it’s been. Getting married was the top of the highest hill of the roller coaster for us, and it hasn’t stopped-or even slowed down, really- since. We also spent time pondering future Mother’s Days. I’m looking forward to having breakfast in bed prepared by very small chefs.

Take the Highway to Hell and make a left at the Road to Serfdom

by the Night Writer

The inane political bickering over spending cuts that do about as much good as an ice-scraper on the side of the iceberg that hit the Titanic, a debt-to-GDP-ratios of around 140% and yesterday’s S&P downgrade of the country’s bond rating made me think of an analogy that I shared on Mr. D’s blog the other day:

A car is barreling down the highway as the driver fiddles with the seat heater while balancing a Big Mac, fries and large Coke in his lap and staring at the GPS screen instead of at the road ahead. Meanwhile everyone else in the car is arguing loudly over what music to play through the high-tech, 12-speaker sound system and whether it’s too hot or too cold in the compartment, and who gets to drive next.

Suddenly they realize there’s a brick wall ahead. What to do? Hitting the brakes hard will toss people about, make them spill their drinks, bump their heads and hurt their feelings. Or you can just hit the wall. Either way, the car is going to come to a stop.

One option gives you chance to perhaps survive and eventually drive around the obstruction. The other results in a litte white marker beside the road, commemorating what once had been.

The choice is between the unacceptable and the unthinkable. And some just say, “Go faster.”

Don’t put all the blame on the current driver, though. The car turned down this road a long, long time ago and no one paid attention to the Dead End sign. There have been several drivers since then, and some have had more of a lead foot than others but no one’s ever seriously tried to change direction, though we have veered from the ditch occasionally.

It really is an old story, so old that few alive today can even remember it being any other way. How old? Check out the cartoon below I just saw today and that comes from a 1934 issue of the Chicago Tribune and it’s depiction of “young pinkos from Columbia and Harvard”, what looks like two versions of Stalin (the Road to Serfdom was thought to lead to Communism, not Socialism then) and the “Plan of Action for the U.S.: Spend! Spend! Spend under the guise of recovery – bust the government – blame the capitalists for the failure – junk the Constitution and declare a dictatorship.”

1934 cartoon blog

An Appeal to the Red-Headed Girl

by Sly the family rat

Things can fall apart so quickly.  The Vikings went from the verge of the Super Bowl one year to the deflation of the Metrodome being the highlight of their next season.  The Byzantine emperor Justinian painstakingly reasserted the territorial sovereignty of the Roman Empire only for it to slip away like sand after his death.  After the departure of Tom Wopat and John Schneider the Dukes of Hazzard fizzled faster than a redneck could shout, “Yee-ha!”

Well, I’ll stop beating around the bush.  A rat, namely me, passes from this mortal coil one week, and all of a sudden Anorexsticks Inaneymous goes from being a regular feature to not getting published this Monday.  What’s with that?  Was I the only thing holding this thing together?  Can the red-headed girl not find the time to put some sticks together to make people laugh?  What is this world coming to?

Here’s a suggestion.  Think of another theme.  Say, a farmer baby, or an angel rat, or nefarious cows trying to kidnap the farmer baby, or whatever.  Then make the world laugh.  For the love of filthy vermin everywhere, Anorexsticks must continue!!!!

A trip back in time that made my future

by the Night Writer

The reports last week were that President Obama and his family will be vacationing in historic Colonial Williamsburg, a village that has been preserved as a living museum recognizing the era of our Founding Fathers. Whether any of these Founding Fathers would recognize what their government has become is an open debate. Nevertheless, the mention of Williamsburg in the news caused me to at first casually, and then significantly, remember my own visit there in February of 1980.

I was working at my first job out of college then and my company sent me there for a week long training program. It was a trip back in time, and like time travel itself, seemed almost impossible. To get to Williamsburg from Phoenix I had to catch a 12:30 a.m. red-eye flight out of Sky Harbor, bound for D.C. Of course, it’s almost impossible to traverse the midwest without being sucked into O’Hare in Chicago, were I spent an hour and a half layover. Even D.C. wasn’t the final leg in my air odyssey: I then boarded a small, twin-prop puddle-jumper transport that looked like a pregnant guppy for the hop to Newport News. I remember that the entire backside of the aircraft opened like a drawbridge in order to load and unload luggage, and that when I took my window seat it appeared as if the wing propeller was spinning just 6″ away from my window.

After the “flight” (which felt more like driving the Baja 1000 in a buckboard) I had a final bus ride to get to Williamsburg, arriving at my hotel — one of the restored colonial inns — about 2 p.m. EST, only to find that my room wouldn’t be ready until 3:00 p.m. Whereupon I collapsed onto an overstuffed sofa in front of a large, blazing fireplace which, combined with my fatigue, soon had me stupefied.

Even with such a benumbing start, the week turned out to be very interesting and stimulating and the team I was thrown in with wound up winning honors for the week on our multi-phase communications strategy and presentation. One of my teammates would later that year offer me a position on her staff, a job that required me to move from Phoenix, Arizona to Minneapolis, MN (actually, my first apartment was in Eagan, roughly a mile from where my future wife was living at the time, though we wouldn’t meet for another six years). In the intervening years it had never occurred to me just how significant my trip to Williamsburg turned out to be. In those days I pictured myself moving around every couple of years to different jobs in different cities to find the place where I would eventually settle. I had mental lists of working in places such as Denver and Boston — lists where Minneapolis and St. Paul never appeared. Yet there I was in Williamsburg and as a result of that trip I found myself, in June of ’80, dodging tornadoes on Hwy. 90 through South Dakota and southern Minnesota, heading toward Mary-Tyler-Moore-land and my destiny.

I had no idea that my wife, children and ministry were waiting up ahead for me. Certainly none of those three were high on my list of priorities at the time. It apparently was on Someone’s mind, however, and that Someone was probably laughing at me grumping my way through that red-eye flight, the Chicago lay-over and the queasy puddle-jumper. I may have been asking myself, “Why do I have to go through all of this?”

I certainly wasn’t paying attention when the loving response came: “Because.”

And now I wouldn’t change a thing.

Anorex[st]ics Inaneymous 130

Anorex[st]ics Inaneymous 130

Dad sent me this this morning:
Ninja cows
I warned them what would happen!!

So. I’ve decided to make a semi-drastic change.
I don’t know how many of you know this, but I don’t have a buffer of comics. I get my ideas between Mondays. If I’m lucky, I get an idea the Monday I have to post it. If I’m very lucky, I get an idea a few days before hand. If I’m very, very lucky, I get more than one idea.

Problem is, lately it seems that I haven’t been able to get ideas until about twenty minutes before I post them. Sometimes I actually have to open a new Paint document and doodle a while until something pops up. This means that you are getting lower-quality comics and old gags.

So in light of this drought of hilarity, I am going to change the webcomic schedule to ‘Whenever I have something suitably side-splitting’. Of course, I could just whip out my katana every week, but that’s not the side-splitting I’m looking for.
I will try to keep updating once a week, but it will probably end being more like once every other week.

The easiest way for you to know when the comic updates is the RSS feed, although I’ll try to post a link on Facebook as well, for those of you who have been sucked into the vortex of social networking.

Thanks for your… err… long-suffering.
Ciao for now!

Death in the Family

by Tiger Lilly

How does one describe a rat?
Furry
Smelly
Long tail
Beady eyes
Scavenger
Well, our rat was a fancy rat. While she did have many of the above ‘qualities’, there was something else about her, too. She was social, she was friendly, she had a very annoying tendency to try and burrow between you back and the cushions of the couch. She would eat absolutely ANYTHING you gave her (unlike some other people in this family), and even more, she would leap upon the bars of the cage as you passed by, expecting something delicious or some affection.
Random for now 065

We got Sly in early March of 2009. She was the only pet we’ve ever paid for, but undoubtedly the best $10 ever spent. She was a bit of a surprise to Dad, a bit of an ‘on a whim’ purchase. We selected her out of the four that were in the cage at PetSmart, mainly because she was the first one to get into our hands. Her personality soon made us sure we had picked the right rat for our house, and we christened her Sly. As you’ve seen on a few posts here, she had a fun-loving snarkiness about her, she fit right in.

She snuck out of her cage late at night one time. It was, inconveniently, the night before we had to leave for Grandma’s house. MD was unable to join us for that trip, and promised to keep an eye out for her. Well, 3 AM the next morning MD heard the little pitter-patter of feet. How she heard that in her sleep, I’ll never know (it’s those ninja genes), but lo and behold, Sly had made her way into MD’s bedroom. She was constantly getting into things, chewing (and peeing) on everything she could.

She didn’t only affect our lives, either. Our neighbor, Jack, was quite taken with her as well. She had that effect on a lot of people.
Sly and Jack

Over the past few months, she began to develop… something. A tumor, from the looks of it. We didn’t know what it was at first, but once it became apparent we tried many things. Prayer, foods, even putting hydrogen in her water. It eventually became so large that she could not walk.
Despite our best efforts, our brave little furball gave up the ghost late last night/early this morning.

Mom and I had just cleaned her cage and given her a bath and some TLC three hours before MD and Son@Night got back from Arizona (about midnight). I was up to make sure they could get inside, then headed off to bed. 15 minutes later, MD knocked on my door.
“Yeah?”
“When was the last time you checked on Sly baby?”
“A few hours ago…”
“…She’s dead…”

It didn’t seem quite real at first, as I headed downstairs to make sure MD wasn’t hallucinating. Sure enough, Sly was lying still in the corner of her cage.

She was a little over 2 years old, less than halfway for a normal rat lifespan. Tumors, apparently, are common in rats, so the worst was at the very least known about.

What can be said is that she had a better life than most rats in the world. She was loved and will be greatly missed.
RIP, Sly baby.