Leaving Madoff-Canseco


I will not crucify A-rod for the sins of Madoff-Canseco.

Oversight was lax by decree during the Madoff-Canseco.


Little oversight of Madoff$.

Even less for Canseco$.


Yet such has it been, even before the Madoff-Canseco.

That’s why we call exceptions to the rule of the Madoff-Canseco… heroes.



Okay. Let's take a trip.

Get the DeLorean out of the garage.

You drive. I'll do the Travelogue.

Ignition. (Hope you changed the oil from time to time.)



Back up slowly through A-Rod.

And don’t avert your eyes through Madoff.

The Emperor has no clothes. But weren’t we all born naked?



Take your time backing up, over and down the rocky Goldman pass.

Don’t bail out when you see the houses of Bear, AIG, Merrill and Lehman in flames.

Those houses may deserve to be on fire.

But yours will be too if you waste too much time in judgment.



Keep backing up. No need to stop in Clemens, Sosa or McGwire.

Save your seething righteous indignation for Bush-Cheney.

Put on a Kevlar vest when the flack gets wack in Rumsfeld.

Now brace yourself.

Because watching Bill Clinton modify liberalism to be more market friendly may not hurt at first. But you’ll need a full body MRI to determine if you can live without your soul, the one you put on ice for 8 years.

Make that 16.

Actually 38.

Because… now you’re in Reagan.

Look around.

This is where you really lost your way.



But don’t look too long.

Don't turn into a pillar of salt gawking in Milliken and Lyle Alzado.

But do turn down the Duran-Duran once you’ve reached Canseco proper.
(Because sometimes too much Duran-Duran is just too much Duran-Duran.)


You’re cruising now. Back-back-back-back-back.

Hey, there’s the 1976 East German swim team.

Nixon being ‘Nixon now more than ever’ – tanned and well rested.

Whoa! What the hell was that?
What?!
What the hell did you just say?

This is some Trip. Bad trip. Good trip. Bad but in a good way?

Required 5th grade social studies filmstrip: Raise and pave the Amazon.

Bummer, but full frontal display of aboriginal nudity much appreciated.

Hey teacher, will this test go all the way back to original sin?


Colored lights fly by - Space Odyssey 2001 in Brazile ‘69.

Some may experience this as the Rolling Stones performing "Sympathy for the Devil" at Altamont – particularly the moment when Mick says: 'I shouted out who killed the Kennedys, when after all, it was you and me.'



Had enough?

Change the soundtrack to anything Lennon, Zimmerman or Gaye.

“What’s Happenin' Brother.”

Booker T. in reverse.

60's. 50's. 40’s.

The War.

30’s. 20’s.

Then the War to End all Wars.


Stop. STOP!

Pause.

Breath in. Breath out.



We’re at the beginning of the 20th century.


Now let's travel forward again.

I hear a Scott Joplin rag.

I'm a stand-up comic out on the lip of The Vaudeville Palace:

Tyrus Raymond Cobb was so racist, he once beat an armless black man senseless just for heckling him at old Hilltop Park. 'The Georgia Peach' was suspended, but quickly re-instated, when fellow players, despite hating Cobb personally, protested that he had every right to beat an armless black man senseless. (High hat; a few chuckles from the thin matinee crowd.)

Ty was finally encouraged to retire when it was evident he had gambled on games in which he played; he was very Pete Rose that way. So the Chicago White Sox were not uniquely dirty.


Still rolling forward.

Rogers Hornsby, the greatest right-handed hitter of all time.

Also had a gambling problem - mostly with the ponies.

Sometimes puppies. Less with people, the real players.

He too was encouraged to retire.

Nasty guy. Did I mention he was in the KKK?


The Babe: greatest ballplayer evah (don't forget the pitching).

But he too had what we now consider social ills.

Drank too much too late.
Drank too late too illegal. The prohibition.

Hung with Scarfaces. Ran with the New York Mayor Jimmy Walker.

Jimmy was very Blagojevich.

Ruth never gambled on the outcome, was well compensated by his team. Paid better than President Herbert Hoover.

The Babe said: "I had a better year than him."

But Ruth had his troubles with the ladies.

Rockwellian image: Jolly St. Nick chased through a train car by a hot-jazz flapper.

But the flapper has a knife - wants to use it on Ruth.

Who could blame her? Ruth gave her a social disease.
Which kept him out of the lineup for 2 years total.

Isn’t that cheating the fans?


FF Fast forward. Forget the depression. Skip the wars. Skip the bomb.
The lessons are clearly less clear.

So Mach 2 into the 50's.

Ladies & Gentlemen, please turn your attention to the front row here at the Copa!
It’s Mickey Mantle.

(Whispers) I hear he had a mistress in most cities.
(A bit louder) Hey, who let him cut in line to get that fresh kidney?


Pitchers & Catchers.

Whitey Ford: Mantle's enabler-corrupter.

Handled his booze better than Mick or Billy the Kid.
(Pitchers only work twice a week.)

When Whitey's skills naturally diminished, he found a super deluxe trick pitch for 1963. He’d deep rub, scratch & gouge the ball.
With a melted-smelted raspy ring.
Hidden under a band-aid by J&J.

When the umps caught on ("Hey Slick lay off that Spaldeen will ya?), his catcher Elston Howard did the honors for him with a sharpened eyelet on the back of his mitt.


Gaylord Perry: the best spit 'n vaseline-baller of the 60's, 70's & 80'S.

His dumb play of cheat & faux cheat led him to doors of the Hall of Fame.

To which he was summarily & unjustly elected.

If I could be Pol Pot for a day, I’d year zero Perry and his 300 wins.


And the corkers.
Lesser greats.
Though plenty big league cheats.

Norm Cash: Ordinary hitter in the 50's; spiked to a batting title in ‘61.

He later confessed he had:

1. Cored out his bat on a lathe.

2. Filled the bat with nails and spackle.

3. Then covered the hole with sawdust and glue.

When the umps got savvy, he abandoned bat. And was never so good again.


Graig Nettles: Magician with third base leather, more mortal with the lumber: 6 super-balls popped out of the top of his bat on a foul-tipped swing back in 1973. This was so outrageously funny, that he was neither fined nor suspended for any significant length of time by Commissioner Bowie Mulligan.

Albert Belle: corked bat, corked body. Teammate Jason Grimsley (supplier of human growth hormone to Clemens & Pettitte) crawled through a major league ballpark air duct in the middle of the night to remove Belle's confiscated corked bat from the locked Ump clubhouse.

During one of many roid rages, Belle pegged a heckler with a ball during pre-game BP.

So I put current Cansecos into the context of better quant hedge technology.

Today's roid rager was yesterday's corker, spitballer, gambler. Or skirt chaser.

Or hood wearing Klan Grand dragon.


I crunch current sport into the greater Madoffian fund of funds.

The credo for some time was Lombardi's 'winning isn't everything, it's the only thing.’

Oakland Raider owner Al Davis updated this to 'win baby win’ in the 70's.

He’d beg, borrow and steal x-cons, assassins (Jack Tatum) and cheaters (Alzado).

To build his football dynasty.


At first this seemed a bit tacky, wacky and untoward.

But by the time Reagan entered his second term in 1984, not living by the credo Davis was considered naïve. “Don't you want to win man?!”

So where are the heroes?

Who’s gonna clean up this mess?

I need a shower. Doesn’t anybody shoot straight?


Don’t worry.

Some do live the inherent virtues of virtue.

And these are the players that really matter.


Sports columnist Filip Bondi made the great point that the ongoing ebb of Derek Jeter's powers is comforting.

We know he's real - which makes his accomplishments even more awesome.

Jeter can hang #'s. He'll get 3,000 hits. 300 steals. 200 homers maybe. He’ll end up in the top 10 all time in runs scored. That is the point of the game right? Score the most runs.

But most importantly, instead of looking for the cheaters edge, he always backs up the play in real time.
Any ball in play stays in play until Derek gives it back to the pitcher.


Deep Quant crunchers say Jeter has limited range in the field.
Have the models to prove it.

Yet he's the one who runs across the field to push-pass to Posada.

Kick-starts the title run for post 9/11 New York.

Face plants on the seats to beat the Red Sox during the regular season!

A-rod, closer to the play, got there second, looked at Jeter like: ‘WooHoo! Dude, your face is SO bleeding! I would NEVER do that.’

And A-rod is pretty hustle.


And Jack.

Before Barack.

Before the Jacksons – Jesse, Reggie & Michael.

Before Aaron 715.

Before the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Malcolm, MLK. And Rosa.

Before Brown vs. Board of Ed.


Jackie Robinson really did break the color barrier by playing baseball.

And we remember him. Top 5 All time.

Not just in Baseball. In US History.


So there is sinning in baseball, in tandem with sins of the bank.

But heroes show before the game is over.

And lift us up from the Madoff-Canseco.

**************************************

Thanks be to Estephan: Steve Page. Again. And Again.

You absolutely MUST vote tomorrow.
You can't just say you favored one guy over the other and not show up to vote.
You must vote tomorrow.

Some Presidential election years,
I say 'It doesn't matter who you vote for, just vote.'

I might even have been able to tell myself I believed that.
Even if I wanted you to vote AGAINST the Republican.

But this time, I really want you to vote FOR Obama.

Times will be hard even if Obama wins.
Obama is not a savior.

But he is the much better choice in every way:

Much smarter & savvier than the other candidate.
He will choose the better advisers by far (Soros, Buffett).
He has an ego - but not the kind that gets in the way of clarity.
He has a unique ability to not take the hate bait.
He's accustomed to having productive conversations with people that
don't agree with him.

Even if you only vote based on taxes, he's the better choice:
http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kMMqStpvi8Y/SKQzR6b_IpI/AAAAAAAACZI/CSM5rAfOxFc/s1600-h/TaxCuts.gif

If you think Obama is more elitist than the other candidate, think
about what elitism really
is:http://www.wisestartupblog.com/the-elitist-barack-obama-drives-1-car-and-owns-1-house/1409

And he brings positive energy to an endeavor.
He can communicate a clear vision of the best option for more people.

When I think of the most effective Presidents - even the ones I never
agreed with (coughReagan) - it was their talent for communication that
made them Presidents We Remember.

And, more than in any time since the 1930's, we need someone who can
paint clear pictures of the best paths available.

So vote as if it is the most important vote you have ever made.
Because it is the most important vote you have ever made.

Like many people, my most indelible memory of the Big Ballpark in the Bronx is my first. 1972. (Yikes.) Dad. Me. 4 Train to 161. Sea of blue sucked into the biggest building ever built. The Empire State turned on it's side, can opener-ed and stuffed with city.

Then in. Filled corridors. Side-winder mouth style vendor barking "This is your 1972 Yankee scorecard, get your 1972 Yankee scorecard!" And then the scorecard was in my hands, oh yes, the amazing booklette with pictures of adult men in pinstriped pajamas smiling from ear to ear because they didn't have to wear real clothes to work. My father's hand now guiding me so I didn't have to look up from the magic book as I walked.

Then IN in. Inside to the game in. Inside but actually more outside than any outside I had ever seen before. Because it opened up from the inside to the outside so extremely. Wow. I was now in a giant space that was really just high walls built to hold the outside in well enough to play an important game.

So out brought in. But with a roof deck of seats over-hanging our heads. So cool and murky under the big overhang. Dark green seats. Support posts with section #'s freshly stenciled over peeling dark paint of no particular color other than dark.

For most of the game I just looked at people. Wow the people in the stands. Way better than Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey. I was an illustration of slack-jawed stupefaction. Nobody in my household screamed 'bad language' at full bug-eyed, red-face volume then sat back down as if screaming those words at full bug-eyed, red-faced volume was a normal thing to do, a normal way to be.

I would never look at my family the same way again. I didn't know the word repressed yet, but I learned the concept that day. The people in the crowd were not. We were.

Then, on cue with my thoughts, Dad stood up and hollered. Not screamed. Hollered. Using his hands to megaphone 'Come on Thurman, no need to swing from the heels, just make contact!' Then he sat down and, with tight thin lips passed down from Huegonot forebears, whispered 'They all swing way too hard these days, why not lay down a good crisp bunt?'

And the smell. Some of that Ringling Bros mustard on pretzel on floor. But much more smoke. Not just cigarettes. Cigars. Cigarillos. Cigarelles. Not just for the birth of a child. For smoking in public! And B.O. Ethnic B.O. Maybe some talc masking agent. But not the Johnson's kind Dad patted onto his inverse buttocks just milli-moments before snapping the tighty whitey waistband OVER the undershirt.

Oh the smokey smoked smell. That day, in Kublai-Khan Stadium, did 8 year old Boocock experience his very first contact high.

My eyes only turned to the field when Sparky Lyle, the best fireman (relief pitcher) of the day, came in to close the deal for the Yanks. He had his own theme music! "Pomp & Circumstance" played on a ballpark organ. A ballpark organ. Not the mighty Wurlitzer at Radio City. But Headmaster Dad was amused.

And Sparky Lyle had his own automobile.
A Datsun?

Yes, the outfield wall swung open, and a pinstriped Datsun was driven out to a stop very close to the mound. And Sparky Lyle, with Ringo Starr moustache, stepped out, tossed his jacket back into the car, and took the mound. Took it. Took it with purpose. Threw 8 practice pitches that I counted. Then threw just one real pitch. A double play grounder.

Game over. Standing Hallelujah. File out believers. Now reverse the trip you took to get here. Everybody smiling. Kids snoozy and content, heads resting on big Dad's arm.

When I got home, I ran to my room and spent all my time before sleeping pretending to get out of a Datsun, then actually throwing my jacket into the pretend Datsun (my bed). Over and Over. Variations on the theme of Sparky-Me stopping the game to take control of the moment. And not re-starting the game until I was ready to end it.

Then Dad read player bios from the magic baseball scorecard until I fell asleep.

In lieu of a treacly-raging rave on the last game at old Yankee Stadium, listen to me describe being on the field itself in a piece produced by Charlie Schroeder for American Public Radio. We did it last October (2007).

Instructions:

1. go to: http://www.charlieschroeder.net/
2. scroll down to charlie schroeder radio
3. select # 06. Paul Boocock - Yankees Fan

One programming note I must add:

The on-air Phil Rizzuto & Fran Healy by-play is from the sound files of legendary Williams Octet leader/singer/arranger Kevin Weist. Thank you Kevin. Again & Always.

A note from Charlie Schroeder himself: RIP, HOUSE THAT RUTH BUILT

A-rod invades my space again.

A-rod makes an okay team into a contender and a contender better. He does his own product origination, sales & marketing, management - execution of deals in bulk.

Kills in Kansas City.
Owns the (Pac)Northwest territory.
Rules the Twin Cities.

He does well in any city with one newspaper, a short history or at least short memories. No memories would be best of all. Momentoland. We erased the indigenous peoples on the way west? Oh. When was that? Oh.

But A-rod can't close the deal in New York.
Or Boston.

The air is more rarefied during big town moments.

And that has to feel normal to you.

You can't get worried when hot dog wrappers start twister-ing in the right field corner.

The Poltergeists have landed.
Funky ions will be interrupting our regularly scheduled broadcast.

And THAT has to feel normal to you.
In fact, you better love it.

Everybody stands for the duration of the game.
Things will get weird.
It will matter.
You will care.
Dad and Mom will care.
The dead forebearers will care.
The forebearers forebearers who invented the team nickname will care.

Boston Beaneaters? Not bad. But we're better than that. We're Boston-Irish Kings. Royal Rooters of the Red. We wear the Red. The royal socks. SOX better than socks.

And down in NYC. The Highlanders? No, not quite right. Yankees! That's it! That's another word for the winner you love to hate or hate to love. Now bring in the wealthy beer baron to lift that Babe from Boston for the price of a mediocre musicale.

Game on. Game that never ends for all the marbles on.

So A-rod comes to the plate against the Royal Red Rivals.
And the ghosts, old team photos take the field.
All eyes alive or dead on A-rod.

In this situation, Jeter winks at the Babe, takes a gentle dig at the Scooter, does tasteful hand jive with Reginald - then puts the ball into play. The ghosts help him. Ole Mick might even enlist a kid to reel in a long fly for a short-porch homer.

But A-rod feels a ghoulish chill. His motivational Madonna tells him to take his time and carve out his own space. Wrong. Too much thinking. Not enough playing.

That works in Anaheim, because history & truth get paved over in Orange County.

In the big town, you have to fight for your right to join the party. Sweet Lou flattens Pudge Fisk at the plate. Pedro makes Babe's spirit take a dirt seat. Then Babe hits the Bloody Sock out of yard.

And they say baseball isn't a contact sport.

A-rod has all five PHYSICAL skill sets required in a ballplayer. But he's not really THAT great because he tries to step up to an A-rod moment when he just needs to add to the history of moments already in progress.

No crime. Dave Winfield was much like Alex.
Rickey Henderson didn't do much in NYC.
He'd feel the hammy tighten when it wasn't about Rickey - book his October exit strategy in August to avoid September pressure.

Is that choking?
Yes.
Not breathing when everybody is watching is choking.

The Yankees need skilled pluggers to surround A-rod. The red asses. The ones who get chapped over lapses in fundamentals, the boys who elbowed their way off the charter to Nowhereville.

Get those guys and A-rod will breath, do what he does best - pile up early game homers that DO make a difference, even look clutch on the stat sheet.

And leave the big moments to players who can share oxygen with ghosts.

Bobby Murcer returns

On August 6th 1979, the day after giving teammate Thurman Munson's eulogy, the late Bobby Murcer drove in every run for the Yankees – including the walk-off game winners.

Honest to God of Baseball, Murcer was my first idol. He could run, fly-catch with Gold Glove and once hit homers on 4 straight at bats in 1971 (his best year). He had a smooth stroke. Calm hands from the left hand side. He could pull a pitch, but had more than just a power scoop to the short porch in Yankee Stadium's right field corner. He could go the other way. He swung the Hideki Matsui Zen rock garden rake.

He was the anointed 'next' in the line of immortal Yankee center fielders. He was from Oklahoma – just like Mickey Mantle: "Signed by the same scout!"

In truth, he was no Mantle. He wasn't as good.
No crime. Very few have ever had that Mick-talent.

But Bobby was my baseball idol just the same because:

Rather than laze in the shade of "I shoulda been born sooner cause I woulda been as good as Mantle if I coulda played for the Yankees when they were good," he was almost great when the Yankees weren't good – or cool.

Hard to believe now, but in 1971, the Yanks were the underdog team in Miracle Metland – while also personifying the over dog from your parents' passé pastime. The Yankees were the flagship franchise of uncool. Your father's Oldsmobuick for 1971. Cruuuuuuise control – but a bit spongy on the turns.

Tom Seaver's Mets: hot-cool.

Roberto Clemente's Pirates: cool-caliente.

Murcer's Yanks? As tepid as yesterday's cruise ship mashed potatoes squeezed through a pastry bag. Tap your coffee spoon on those potatoes. Tap Tap. Neither Caliente. Nor chill.

In 1971, rooting for the Yankees was like rooting for US Steel, which was like rooting for the Military Industrial Complex, which was tantamount to rooting for more troop commitment in Vietnam, which was not dissimilar to rooting for kids getting hosed in a Newark race riot. Perhaps these connections may seem extreme. But I tell you I speak the truth of a time when ballplayers sported Vegas Elvis sideburns without irony.

Despite this context, Murcer respected team history – without overdoing the Yankee Empire Esquire bit. He had a self-deprecating sense of humor - played corn-fed cred for chuckles. Without being a corn-pone clown.

He had a rocking chair in front of his locker; he was Skoal dippin' time while the Yanks built a team worthy of him and All-star catcher Munson.

Which they did in earnest after George Steinbrenner bought the team.

"Yankee types" came via trades.

Sparky Lyle to close – he was Mo of the day.
Nettles to play 3rd. Chambliss for 1st.

Lou Piniella in the outfield - a Paul O'Neill with fewer skills but even more 'intensity.' That's a lot of intensity. Piniella had that volatility and then some. Whereas O'Neill exploded when personal perfection was not achieved, "Sweet Lou" took his rage out on the Red Sox. In 1976, Piniella was in a bang-bang play at the plate against the arch-rivals; he rolled catcher Carlton Fisk, starting the 'rhubarb' that instigated an 'imbroglio' that made a serious statement.

So Murcer had to like the way the team was evolving except… THEY TRADED HIM - for Bobby Bonds (yes the father of THAT Bonds).

Bonds had the better stats on the back of his baseball card - was considered a Bobby with more, maybe even the Mantle that Murcer could never be; so said the number crunchers.

So that was the day I officially decided that numbers do lie.

That intangibles count more.
That context was equally important ... who you played for, the ballpark, the time.
I just knew we already had the better Bobby.

I was right. Bonds was flash hash from a can thrown in a pan - stolen bases in blowouts, homers too little too late. And he struck out +150 plus a year – way too much wood whiffed through air and no Reggie clutch. So George Stienbrenner traded Bonds after just one season – appropriate justice for the crime. And the players the Yanks got for Bonds – Mickey Rivers and Ed Figueroa - were not impact names.

But then… the unexpected residual check that taught me that mistakes can be repaired if you're willing to stay loose, not fixate on the botch: Rivers and Figueroa were a fit. A great fit. Figueroa really could pitch - first Puerto Rican to win 20 games in a year. And Rivers had real stolen base speed in the leadoff spot. He only walked 12 times a year; but each at bat was epic. He was Johnny Damon Pesky. Mick the Quick would foul tip pitch after pitch until he found something to drive. Plus: Rivers had the best post swing twirl ever. Better than the Jimmy Ley-ritz.

When the Yanks won the 1976 American League Pennant, I was elated like never before. But I felt sadness for Murcer. He missed the party he had worked so hard to prepare - admitted feeling some bitterness while playing out the string in San Fran and then Chicago and seeing old teammates on TV pop pennant champagne corks.

Right after I curse Steinbrenner for being so imperially George, I credit him for always leaving a light on for real Yankees-for-life. It makes business = back page sense. George is sentimental - in a good way. Knows there can be crying in baseball. Not for failure, but for resonant history.

And when George brought Murcer back in 1979, Bobby didn't even need to pretend to be a Mantle 1964. In fact, now that the Yanks were champs, the Murcer '79 didn't even need to be as good as a Murcer '71. The pressure was off; the team was already good without him.

Then Munson got killed in his private plane just two weeks later.

I have lived the mysteries of the faith based game. Spoken in tongues when Chambliss hit his 1976 pennant winning shot. Felt the Stadium rumble like an L-train when ReggieReggieReggie did trois into the 1977 blackout looters.

But Murcer's game for Munson was sanctified - the action eulogy for New York's fallen baseball captain.

And right after the game, Murcer sent the bat that drove in every run direct to Munson's wife. I imagine her opening the shipping box - sobbing sorrow onto the sacred wooden Excalibur.

In the church of baseball, there is catharsis and closure for the believers.

Boocock is Back after these messages!

My Andy Pettitte 'honesty will set you free' rave is now leaving my mental foyer.

Why the delay?

My muckraker medulla asked 'What's the angle on honesty?'

'Where's the story in straightforwardness?'

But after a very frustrating week for 'progressives' (never EVER use the L word!)...the mini-rave is loose.
Obama says Hillary misrepresents.
Hillary says Obama misleads.

Miz-direction vs. Ms-direction.

Which leads to more misery - leverage for the GOP.

Unacceptable.

The GOP does not get another term - not until those 37 huge oil spills have been cleaned up.

I like Mac better than W.
That's not hard to do.

But Mac's much more righty than Hillary or Obama are lefties.
He's not what we need now.
A wild horse to tame wild horses?
Enough with the Cowboy motif.
Maverick Mac is still very GOP - not the independent he pretends to be.

John Wayne R.I.P.

Timetable or no, the goal is out of Iraq.
For more reasons than fit into just one rave.

Mac talks 'finish the commitment.'
But he won't have to walk the talk.
Yes, he courageously survived Hanoi Hilton.
So that means more kids who aren't the sons of an admiral have to go through what he did without the attention of the President himself?!?!

???

Let's keep John McCain's uniform in mothballs.

We invaded Iraq based on lies of just a few.
Commitment voided.

Halliburton & Blackwater want to stay?
Those guys are technically independent contractors.
Contract voided.

By my count, we've lived 8 total years of political progress in my lifetime.

My math:

I was born in 1964.

The first two years of LBJ's full term were progress. The Great Society. But Republican - peaceniks that they were - used LBJ's commitment to Vietnam to undermine the progress. And said the Great Society was too expensive for taxpayers - even though Vietnam was the real money toilet.

Now add in the first two years of Carter: the progress was he wasn't Nixon or Nixon's pardoner. Then that old invoice for Vietnam was due. Reagan showed up to bury the body.

Finally, add the middle 4 years of Bill Clinton's 8.

43 - 8 = 35 too many years of Republican presidents and backdraft.

Check my numbers - I'm not very quanty.

So put the Andy Pettitte filter in the mouths and minds of Hillary and Obama.

It's a very specific filter.

The Andy Pettitte Filter -

It excises the lies.
Lets relevant truths through.
It doesn't self-censor.
It isn't thought control.

It just makes you a better person.

No saying mean things and then saying 'Well I was just being honest.'

We need Pettitte filters because progressives need to choose between two valid candidates without having to negate the progress made by women or people of color.

Imagine I'm the moderator of the debate.

Me: Welcome everybody. Before we start, I'll remind everybody that Senators Clinton and Obama are wearing Andy Pettitte filters.

Hillary: They're very comfortable.

Obama: Almost invisible to the naked eye.

Me: Great. Opening statements please.

Hillary: I believe I'm more qualified to do all the work that needs doing during this dangerous time. I am powered by the legacy of Franklin AND Eleanor Roosevelt.

(What the filter blocked: Obama isn't really your cool black friend, he's just an irresponsible pothead running for president.)

Obama: I believe the times are so dangerous that people need a leader as much as a worker. I am powered by the myth of Jack Kennedy - if he had lived long enough to stop the war before it really got started.

(The filter blocked these thoughts: And Hillary may know how to get around the Whitehouse better than I do right now, but she's still just a bossy girl running for president.)

Me: Now, for the love of JFK after the Bay of Pigs, both of you say you're sorry - and mean it.

Obama (looking at Hillary): I'm sorry for using a rope a dope strategy that makes you look bad for attacking me on the issues. It's very passive aggressive. And withholding. And not about issues. And I'm really sorry for misrepresenting your record. That's just too much like lying.

Hillary (looking at Obama): I'm sorry for trying to annoy you into saying something nasty that will be the 'gotcha' that disqualifies you. That's nasty. It would only make you look bad for attacking a woman. It's too close to entrapment. And I'm sorry for calling you shallow. It's not true.

Me: Now both of you say you're sorry for making childish faces while the other one talks.

Obama: I'm sorry I raise my nose above you to make you look small and witchy.

Hillary: I'm sorry I do the tsk tsk head as if to say, you boys are all just too lazy to fix the problem.

Me: Promise not to do it again. Again, mean it.

Obama: Promise - from now on I'll talk about ideas. And thanks for being my role-model.

Me: That was nice.

Hillary: Promise -from now on I'll be a leader. And thanks for risking it all by opposing the war.

Me: Fantastic.

Obama: Hey, what if we team up?

Hillary: We're going to need each other to cancel out the rednecks.

Me(turning to the audience): Unlikely scenario you say? Stranger things have happened. Reagan chose Bush Sr. to be his running mate just months after George the elder called Ron's economic platform 'voo-doo economics.'

And Andy Pettitte said he was sorry for using HGH.

Thanks/love to Peggy now and always; this one was per her request.

NO RULES BASEBALL - Welcome.

A John Williams epic styled theme begins.

Opening montage:

Layered images of American Flags and baseball fields – from modest Little League parks to Yankee Stadium filled to capacity for a World Series Game.

The voice of James Earl Jones speaks the following text as it crawls down the screen - 'Star Wars' intro-style.

Jones: Our national pastime has always been at the vanguard of important changes in the American fabric. Years before Martin Luther King, Jackie Robinson played civil rights pioneer for Brooklyn USA. Now, in the time of the great American divide, when politicians talk the talk of peace, love and understanding, but walk the walk of war, hate and 'you're the one who makes this country suck,' wouldn't it be right and good if the custodians of the game would lead us all into a more honest future by dropping all the old rules about cheating?

Scene: Press event in a hotel conference room. The commissioner of baseball, Bud Selig, with distinctive bangs, stands at the podium. Flashbulbs from the huge press corps. A line-up of famous baseball luminaries - Aaron, Bonds, Clemens etc. - stand behind Selig.

Selig: After years of trying various performance enhancement policies, Major League Baseball has decided nothing has really worked. Only lesser known players get caught using banned substances because they can't afford the latest masking agents. The owners and players are sick of blaming each other for something we always secretly endorsed. And the fans: You like power. Raw displays of power. Man pitcher power vs. Man batter power. So, for the foreseeable future, we will remove all restrictions on what the players can put into their bodies.

Initially - silence.

One reporter whispers: 'Did he just say what I think he said?'

Then the sound of one set of hands clapping.

It builds to thunderous applause.

The hypocrisy is over!

Cut to: Fans giving opinions to a man on the street interviewer.

Big Vinny: It's about time. We're talking the 21st century here!

Little Dilbert: Great! It'll be so much easier to pick a fantasy league team now. There are internet sites that tell you what drug cycles the players are on.

Cut to the locker room. Ballplayers, coaches and trainers boisterously prepare for a game; these huge men engage in normal locker room repartee while tossing vials and syringes - some are shooting each other up. The occasional fight breaks out between these red-eyed manimals. Coaches do crowd control; Manager Joe Torre is skilled with a cattle prod: "simmer down, simmer down boys, save it for the game."

Cut to an MLB ballpark: The home team stands on the top step of their dugout - then take the field. A 'let's get ready to rumble' style announcer says "Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, these are youuuuurrr St. Louis Clydesdales."

And indeed, these one time St. Louis Cardinals trot onto the field looking like the horses that pull the Budweiser delivery trucks of old – including signature hairy Clydesdale ankles.

Cut to game action: Drug top-offs are administered in the on-deck circle. Then these hitters crush majestic shots over the fences or rip screaming line drives that tear through infielders gloves, then outfielders gloves, then right through the outfield walls. The glowing orange-hot baseballs rattle around the bullpen, scattering the relief pitchers.

Now we hear the voices of a broadcast team.

Play by play guy: "This would be a great time for the bunt; the infielders are playing so far back - the shortstop's at the centerfield warning track! This isn't baseball Jim, this is Armageddon!"

Color commentator [ex-anabolic player, frothing]: "Listen you Euro-sexual. Get with the non-program program! The point of the game is to pound, pound, pound the enemy into meat, hamburger meat, horse meat, doggy-dog meat. Pound that ball until it's leather-meat stew! Make the enemy drink the horsehide slurry!"

The crowd atmosphere is totally Greco-Roman. Foodcourt plumped fans heckle the ana-pumped players who return the favor by climbing the walls and leaping into the mosh-pit of fans.

There are cattle prod give away days for the fans.

Back to:

Color commentator [ex-anabolic player, frothing]: Barry Bonds leaves the on-deck circle. Listen! You can just make out the sound of uniform seams bursting as he walks to the plate. He has that visible syringe now hanging off of his left shank. It looks sort of like a colostomy stint, something he can refill without removing his pants!

Bonds [VO as he prepares]: "I'm just so relieved that I don't have to live a lie anymore. Now I can really just be Barry being Barry."

On his first swing, he hits one over the Golden Gate right into Oakland! The scoreboard flashes '943!' He circles the bases, points to God as he steps on the plate, then rips off his uniform like a tear-away basketball warm-up suit. Barry stands in all his cut splendor, wearing only cleats and a jewel encrusted jock that looks like a boxing championship belt. Barry howls and flexes - it's a glistening Hulk pose-down for the home crowd.

Bonds [to camera]: I'm an entertainer. A businessman. And this is the entertainment business.

Cut to another Selig news conference. Same hotel. Same podium.

Selig: Because of the recent evolutions in the game, we have decided that it is only right that players and management make appropriate changes to equipment and the fields of play. It's the next logical thing to do.

Cut to: Architects point to blueprints, tell team owners how to protect the fans from the game and it's players: "You need higher walls made of ballistic strength plexi – with razor wire on the top."

Cut to: Outfielders wearing big gloves long enough to reach over the higher fences to bring back homerun balls. They appear to have much longer legs now too - really just longer baseball pants covering stilts. We see a hitter pouring a mixture of nails and wet concrete into a cored-out bat. Then a pan across the bat rack: these are serious Louisville bazookas.

One player has a rather X-treme procedure - armor plates inserted under his skin so that he can crowd the plate without fear of death from an errant inside 250 mph fastball.

Cut to: Joe Torre confabbing with Selig behind the batting cage as the armor plated warrior takes his practice cuts:

Torre: Isn't THIS cheating?

Selig: I sympathize Joe. But we have to have a consistent non-policy policy.

Joe (whining): But it's not fair. This guy couldn't see what my pitcher was throwing. So now he's just gonna lean in and get hit? The threat of death was always the equalizer.

Selig: This is America Joe. Get more resourceful. REMEMBER: ANYTHING GOES.

Cut to: Joe watching his pitcher warm up with a surface-to-air rocket-launcher for an arm. The pitched projectile rips the head off the catcher. The headless body stands - a fountain of blood. Sangre Geyser.

Joe (nodding sagely): That'll work.

Final Sequence: President George Bush, one time owner of the Texas Rangers franchise, in a television interview.

George Bush [Smirking, eyes twinkling]: I can't tell you if I can recall if I suspected that any of my players, or some of my players, or most of my players or all of my players were ever told to take steeeroids by me or any of my coaches or general management when I owned the team. I can't recall if I can recall. So, I can't tell you if I can recall or can't recall. [Really smirky- twinkly] I can tell you this though. I like this new version of the game. And I think I might recall having something to do with the new no rules-rules. Could be I never gave the orders to make the Great American pastime the Great New American pastime. But I sure think I know the guy who did give that order. And I think I gave that guy an order. And since I WAS IN CHARGE at the time, I have no doubt that I at least really liked the guy who gave the order to start changing this great game for the better.

End.