Cipherdom (deprecated)

Songs to Wear Pants to

As opposed to the other kind, I suppose. Insanely great or . . .

Thanks to my friend Suzanne for the link.

Best and Brightest

If war can teach us anything -- and at this point, I seriously doubt that it can, or at least not anything I want to know -- maybe it's how every life has value. I'd like to say "equal value," but we're so far away from that ideal.

Today we learned that America had sacrificed a young person you're going to hear a lot about now. Pat Tillman must have been a remarkable kid, giving up stardom in the NFL to fight for the U.S. after 9/11. I don't want to comment now on the rights and wrongs of all this. I'm just so depressed that it is going on. It's a slight solace, somehow, that he died in Afghanistan rather than Iraq.

Potomac Two-Step

OK, this is the last one today, I promise . . .
For all her snarkiness, Maureen Dowd can be a good columnist. Today she says:

"I'm not sure whether Mr. Tenet [CIA director] — a mystifyingly beloved figure even though he was in charge during the two biggest intelligence failures since Pearl Harbor and the Bay of Pigs — has a faulty memory, which is scary. Or if he's fuzzing things up because he told the president more specifics than he wants to admit. But in a town where careers are made on face time with the president, it's fishy that the head spook can't remember a six-hour trip to Crawford for some."

This is the first hint I've seen in print of what I've suspected since Tenet miraculously survived the CIA's grand failures: He may still be around because he kept quiet about the specifics of what he'd passed along to the Administration (including Bush himself) prior to 9/11. It's hard to otherwise explain the continuing employment of a CIA director who says it will take five more years to fix the problems that put us at risk then and now. A CIA spokesperson today confirmed that Tenet briefed Bush twice in August 2001. Watch for those briefings to become the newest subject of intense scrutiny.

If you're losing track of the blame game, here's a scorecard:

Richard Clarke: Blames everyone, especially Condi Rice
Condi Rice: Notably refrained from publicly blaming Clarke. Instead blames lack of specificity contained in bald-faced warnings like "Al Qaeda Determined to Strike in U.S." and the lesser known "Islamic Extremist Learns to Fly."
Thomas Pickard [former FBI chief]: Blames John Ashcroft, whom he alleges said pre-9/11 he "didn't want to hear about terrorism anymore."
John Ashcroft: Blames Reno
Janet Reno: Blames Ashcroft
George Tenet: The timeless "We Made Mistakes"

A Peace to End All Peace

George Bush yesterday seemed to ratify the mock peace plan being advanced by Ariel Sharon. Don't watch the right hand, where Israel is unilaterally abandonning its settlements on the Gaza strip. Instead, keep an eye on the left hand that is closing off (with Bush's blessings) all debate over Palestinians' "right of return" to Jerusalem. Meaning there will be no peace, so long as Bush and Sharon are around. But you already knew that.

The latest theme is that Muslims see no difference whatsoever between the Israeli and U.S. occupations of, respectively, Jerusalem and Iraq. Our government's current policies reinforce the message that extremists are pushing into mainstream Islam. Uncoincidentally, Bin Laden seized the opportunity to make an equally hypocritical false peace offer to any European country willing to appease him.

Rubblize 'Em With Kindness

Not one, but two startling quotes in this story about the urban warzone of Falluja.

Explaining the Marines' restraint in deciding against airstrikes (for now):

"We don't want to rubblize the city," said Colonel McCoy, whose battalion of 800 clashes daily with insurgents. [Good for us, I'm thinking. Maybe there's still a chance to win hearts and minds.] "That will give the enemy more places to hide." [Oh. Nevermind.]

And a comment more honest and insightul than any I've heard recently from the punditocracy:

"It's their Super Bowl," said Maj. T. V. Johnson, a Marine spokesman. "Falluja is the place to go if you want to kill Americans."

Did you know the federal government is funding a satellite TV alternative to Al Jazeera? I didn't, until today's PBS Evening News. Obviously, I can think of worse ways to spend our tax dollars. Like rubblizing cities to liberate them, for starters. But it's at least ironic that the U.S. pipes in propaganda skillfully disguised as counterprogramming. Beam them Jay Leno -- that'll convert them for sure.

Dead Air

At noon today, I tried tuning in Al Franken on AirAmerica here in Chicago, 950AM, only to hear a Spanish-language broadcast. Depending on whom you believe, they're either broke or at least in serious conflict with Multicultural Radio Broadcasting Network, which owns the stations that had been airing Franken in Chicago and L.A.

If nothing else, what a missed opportunity for AirAmerica after the target-rich performance Bush gave last night in his disastrous press conference.

Deadball

Find your favorite dead ballplayer, lovingly presented. The Page of the Unknowns is a nice touch.

I found the site while looking for info about Paul Edmondson, a White Sox pitcher who'd gone 1-6 with 3.86 ERA as a rookie in '69. That record is slightly misleading because he two-hit the Angels in his debut and later combined with Wilbur Wood (then still a reliever) to one-hit the Pilots. He was a big, hard-throwing guy with promise.

When he died in a car crash on Friday, February 13, 1970, just as spring training was about to start -- one day after his 27th birthday -- Edmondson joined a long line of Sox tragedies that my dad pointed to as evidence that the team is star-crossed (as the standings could have told us). In '69, cinch rookie of the year Carlos May lost his thumb in a national guard mortar accident. Two-time 15-game winner Monty Stratton shot off his leg in 1938. Etc. . .

The Deadball site didn't shed much light on Edmondson's fate, but I found this brief write-up by someone who knew him. Deadball did come through with the New York Times obit for Stratton.

The lengths to which a man will go while avoiding his tax return . . .

Ex Cathedra

Funny how a teacher's comment can stick with you through the years. One of my professors chided me for writing "ex cathedra," by which I assumed he meant reading my words was like having a tube shoved up into his bladder. (Not to be confused with speaking from one's "rectory," which entails a different orifice.) Turns out it's pronounced "cath-ee-dra," not "cath-a-der-a." And it means "to speak as if from the pulpit, or with authority." I guess students aren't supposed to do that.

But I must say, Dr. Michael Lofaro, I'm guilty as charged. Can't help myself. Though not a pompous guy, I'm most often a painfully serious one. Or at least I am when I'm not infuriating people with my sarcasm. But overall, I'm grateful for your constructive criticism, if only because it neatly explains why people so seldom comment on (or maybe read?) my blog entries. 8^)

And, of course, it occurs to me that "Ex Cathedra" would have made a good blog name, not that I'm tired of Cipherdom. Just as unsurprisingly, someone got there first.

The Wrongs of Spring

Sox fans enjoyed more of this game than Royals fans did. But what Royals fans enjoyed, they really enjoyed, as is often so for teams that score six ninth-inning runs, culminating in a walk-off homer. The sports radio dudes are already condemning Ozzie Guillen as clueless for having lifted "closer" Billy Koch too early, but I'm not sure such a thing is possible.

Lots of positives for the Sox, despite the ending. They played small ball -- hit and runs and stolen bases, including Paul Konerko's first in years. Mark Buehrle pitched a gutty game and deserved to win, blah dee blah. They'll contend if they find bullpen help.

All I've got is a photograph

It's probably too late to start saving, but on April 17 the guitar superstore Route 66 will hold an auction of unique rock 'n' roll memorabilia. Among the items are James Jamerson's bass ("the only instrument not stolen from him," according to the catalog), Gram Parsons' acoustic guitar, Roger McGuinn's 12-string Rick, and an early Elvis autograph. But maybe the coolest is a copy of Sgt. Pepper's signed by all four Fabs. Have fun searching the catalog. Some guy named Tom Fontaine seems to have been hoarding this stuff for about 40 years.