Great Teams I have Loved -- 1993 Phillies (first in an occasional series)

The 2006 Cardinals' championship, and my relative ambivalence toward the team, led me to reflect on what team really resonated with me for my 25 or so years of fandom in St. Louis and Philadelphia. In that time there have been two team I supported that won championshops -- the 1999 Rams, and last year's Cardinals, and one college team, the 1985 Villanova team, that have won championships, and several others have come close. So, I thought I'd start a series with my thoughts about those teams, starting with the 1993 Phillies.

One side thought before I get going -- it seems that Philadelphia teams have had to get rid of more than their share of star players while they were in what should be their prime. It seems like Philadelphia is almost always on the wrong end of a quarter for a dime and two nickels type trade. Off the top of my head, Charles Barkley, Scott Rolen, Terrel Owens, Bobby Abreu, Curt Schilling, and now Allen Iverson have all had to be dealt away with plenty left in the tank because of disputes with management. Maybe this explains why Philly hasn't had a championship since 1983.

Moving on...

The 1993 Phillies
The Phillies had stumbled around in mediocrity for most of the late 80's and early 90's. Mike Schmidt and Steve Carlton hung around for a while, but they were not replaced, and the Von Hayes trade put a funk on the organization (even though Hayes turned out to be a decent player).

The Phils had made some good trades in the early 90's to build up their talent base. They sent Chris James to the Padres for Randy Ready and John Kruk. They sent aging closer Steve Bedrosian to the Giants for Terry Mulholland*, Dennis Cook, and Charlie Hayes. And, in a great move, they sent Juan Samuel to the Mets for Lenny Dykstra and Roger McDowell. They also managed to acquire a struggling right-handed power pitcher named Curt Schilling.

The Pittsburgh Pirates had won the NL East the previous three years, but they couldn't hold on to free agents Barry Bonds and Bobby Bonilla, and their window was closed (and has remained so for the last fifteen years, in spite of a great new ballpark). The Expos had put together a solid group of talent, but they had not quite come into their own yet. So, the field was open.

And the Phillies took it -- this was a team of "characters." You had Dykstra, always with about five pounds of chew in his craw. Kruk was and still is liable to say anything. They had Jim Eisenreich recovering from Tourrette's syndrome. The catcher was Darren Daulton before he found Jesus. Their left field platoon was Milt Thompson, the picture of steadiness, and Pete Incavaviglia, a Three True Outcomes type guy. In the bullpen, you had Larry Andersen, always a source of good quotes, and closing was Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams.

Some teams just feel special from the git-go, and this was one of them. They won what Bill Simmons calls those games -- like staging five run rallies in the ninth inning. Or a 16 inning game on the back end of a double-header on a single by the closer. You always had the sense this team was going places. (unlike, for example, the 2006 Cardinals).

There were oddities, too. The Phillies had spent the previous ten years searching for a shortstop. Jayson Stark wrote for the Philadelphia Inquirer back then, and a favorite gimmick of his was to run a list of the dozens of men who had played shortstop for the Phillies since 1982, along with the same list for the Orioles (Cal Ripken).

Anyway, one of the failed attempts was Kim Batiste. About the All-Star Break, the Phillies called up Kevin Stocker, who was to be the now and future shortstop. He did steady the position, but didn't prove to be the franchise shortstop (though the Phils did parlay him into Bobby Abreu). This left Batiste without a position, so manager Jim Fregosi started using him as a defensive replacement at third base. I have no memory of regular third baseman Dave Hollins being deficient defensively, or of Batiste being particulary adept, but for some reason we all kind of rolled with it. I'm sure if this happened today, Rob Neyer and Baseball Prospectus would have published lengthy charts about what a stupid idea this was.

Then, in the first game of the NLCS with the Braves (who were then in the NL West, and had made a furioous comeback to win the division over the Bonds-led Giants), Fregosi put Batiste in at third like he always did. Except the Braves tied the game, and it went to extra innings, and Batiste came up with the winning run on second. And what does Batiste do but smack a base hit over the third base bag to win the game..

This was the summer between my senior year in high school and my first year in college. I worked that summer delivering pizzas at a local pizza joint in South Jeresey. It was always fun to catch bits of the games while I was out making deliveries. I honestly don't remember if I watched any games at the Vet that year -- I think I caught one. Most of what I remember is through the speakers of the Grand Am I used to deliver pizzas.

As I was starting college in St. Louis, it was good to have that connection back to my home area through following the Phillies as they clinched the NL East, and progressed through the playoffs. My grandmother had a stroke shortly before I left, and dies shortly thereafter, so it was good for my father and I to have something to talk about besides that. The Phillies closed the regular season in St. Louis, and I went to the final game, and waited after the game to cheer them on before they started the playoffs.**

I remember jumping in my neighbor's dorm room (they had a color TV) when Mitch got the final strikeout to knock out the Braves.

That the Phils lost the Series to the Blue Jays made the season less than story-book, but doesn't sour it. I think that's why Mitch Williams isn't reviled in Philadelphia the way, say, Bill Buckner is (or was) reviled in Boston. We had all been on a wonderful, unexpected ride, and the car just ran out of gas. As much as Philly fans have a reputation for toughness, we love a team that puts out a full effort, and the 1993 Phillies did that for us.


*Mulholland is responsible for my best in-person fan expierience, as my dad and I watched him throw a no-hitter in August of 1990. So I will always be a Mulholland fan. I especially enjoyed his step-off pickoff move, which essentially shut down the running game when he was pitching.

**Ah, the first semester of college. When time is no object.

Idol: Geek Week Peaks, Freaks Speak

Memphis Auditions Blow Lid Off Racism's Melting Crock Pot
IF YOU THOUGHT SIMON WAS CRUEL READ NO FURTHER
By switters™
Posted Wednesday, January 24, 2007, at 2:52 CST

Uh-oh. Looks like the folks over at American Idol may have gotten caught egging the short bus. Because word on the street is that special ed frag fest may or may not have been staged. (Our sources say it wasn't.)

It's turned into quite the dustup re: Simon/Randy/Paula making fun of the developmentally (and musically, it turns out) challenged. Seems as if the retarded community at large may have taken a severe blow to their collective egos from which they may never recover. Access Hollywood's question of the week has been, "Should Simon apologize?" Answer: Yes. He should say, "I'm sorry you kids are ugly and slow. Next?" (I know, I'm going to hell.)

Anyways…

What a night! Some highlights:

After we're forced to listen to a misguided cheerleader mangle a perfectly good interpretation of what Paul Anka would sound like if he were a brain damaged backup singer for Huey Lewis and the News were they doing all Canned Heat covers, we're treated to a crash course in Southern Ebonics For Dummies 101.

Good thing. Because it's a prerequisite for Southern Ebonics For Dummies 201 when in walks, or, rather, trots Gummy McHorseteeth, who sings what could only be described as ska-meets-rap-meets-Gregorian Chant-meets-running-a red-light-T-boned-by-a-garbage-truck. 3 killed.

Then Urkel has a full-blown meltdown reminiscent of the movie when that one dude finds a penis on his new girlfriend. It was just like that, but without the vomiting. (My vomiting doesn't count.)

That's when I'm beginning to wonder if this particular episode was directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. Because out comes this perfectly round bearded gentlemen with self-esteem lower than the 2 now famous retards from last week. I really felt for this guy, because his wife was cheating on him, and when he forgave her and said he'd take her back, she said she only wanted to get back together if she could continue to fool around behind his back. What a keeper! But he's not having any of that. And after he becomes America's latest idol, that whore will be begging him to take her back (as long as she can still cheat on him). Then he launches into "Footloose", complete with dance moves which include, but are not limited to, spinning around once on one foot, pointing (at Paula – he's got a bit of a crush), a little clog walk side-step maneuver, the "love windmill", more pointing (vague object in distance sort), and the patented Patrick Swayze half-speed victory walk down aisle circa Dirty Dancing were Kevin Bacon to have played Sean Penn's brother's part in Footloose. No, not that brother. The one who's dead. The fatter one. Yeah, him. Did Kevin win that tractor race, by the way?

Southern Ebonics For Dummies 301, with lab 3 days a week, finds a home in Cleavage T. McFloppington's rendition, almost recognizable during the refrain even, of "Disco Inferno". Unfortunately the only thing that was burning baby burn was Simon's "Saturday Night Fever", which, in most cases, is fatal, if not fetal, position-wise anyway. You're right, my man-boobed limey friend: Quite the "handful" indeed.

Ever wonder what would happen if Fidel Castro and Dolly Parton had a love child? Meet Shawn, sporting facial hair only his mother, and Rick Rubin, could love. After our beloved judges have dispensed with the cursory condescension… Whoops! Turns out Abe Lincoln's got some pipes, shocking our panel. Hey Randy, Paula, Simon: Did you know that Appalachian Folk Music is one of the more complicated styles of music to sing, and that it was born in the hills a cappella, which means that this was the ideal audition setting for Tevye there? Yeah, I didn't think so. Something tells me that our mountain man friend may or may not be in store for a makeover in Hollywood. Either that or the next fashion craze to sweep malls all over the country will be Goth Amish Post Grunge Orthodox Skate Kid Jesus Freak Preppy. The juries still out.

I love it when Randy completely flip-flops, which he did over the "Once In My Life" offering, after Simon said he liked it. Check it out: Randy's Simon's bitch! Randy's Simon's bitch! Own it.

Best dig up your copy of Derrida's Of Grammatology, because Black Elvis is the T.A. in the Southern Ebonics For Dummies Graduate Seminar, and his office hours are severely limited, for good reason. Never underestimate the power of denial, ever. Or of PMS, while we're on the subject.

A veritable seamless transition from Black Elvis' version of "Burnin'" to the "Burnin'" Contestant Montage, which are getting a little old. Still, Seacrest is the funniest, not to mention the smartest, of the whole lot. Which, I suppose, isn't saying much, actually. I'm a fan.

Really good blues singer, best yet, for what that's worth. But when the new father was in front of our judges, I was rolling a joint in another room and missed most of it. Hopefully m'boy Jody doesn't "take the pot" and will fill in the blanks for me.

It's usually around week 2 or 3 of the audition phase of AI that I realize, yet again, that the real fun doesn't start until they're all in California. Still, seeing as how I live in The Ham, and that The Ham, if not The South, has ruled the Idol roost's top 3 consistently for the last 4 years or so, you might not want to miss the Birmingham auditions, whenever they are. 10 bucks to anyone that spots me outside the B'ham Jefferson County Civic Center. Hint: I'm not the one dressed as Boba Fett. Maybe. But I will tell you that there's a better than 50% chance that I may or may not have chosen to sing, as my audition song, the jingle from those Charlie perfume commercials from years ago:

Kind of young kind of now
Charlie!
Kind of free kind of wow
Charlie!

You tell me.

Waste of Time

Ghengis Khan -- a scorching critique.

For Gregor Samsa

1. When we were burning the skulls of the Jurchen, failed to provide marshmallows.

2. Rides horse like a girly Tangut.

3. Stinky yurt.

4. Fucked my sheep.

5. Ate all the Golden Peaches of Samarkand himself. Did not ask. Did not leave note. We were planning to make cobbler.

6. Poor disembowler.

7. In Crimea, spared many lives. Wuss.

Off Topic

Dems Iraq strategy. Suburban spread. Sitemeter.

1. What needs to be done in/about Iraq?
   
2. What do you think Hillary would do about Iraq if she were president right now?
   
3. What should the Democrats be saying about their strategy for Iraq?

My answers:

1. Form a coalition with the stable Middle East nations and the NATO members to (occupy and) stabilize the country (am I in the ballpark?).
   
2. No idea.
   
3. We’ve laid out a dynamic exit strategy based on shifting contingencies. We don’t want to repeat mistakes. It’s about listening to the experts and being prepared for surprises. If Iraq were an accident victim in the ER, we’d first stop the bleeding, we’d make sure vital signs were stable, and then we’d assess the damages and start reconstruction. Right now in Iraq we need to stop the bleeding.
   
   Sure, it’s a dodge – but isn’t it better than saying nothing (are they actually saying nothing – I haven’t been paying close attention)?

Notes on urban blight and life in the ‘burbs.

The great thing about the suburbs is that we can all have enough space to stretch out. It doesn’t matter so much what our neighbours think about the way we live. No one will complain about our cats. We can give free reign to our unique tastes without the manager coming to our door to tell us that the koi pond we’ve installed in the living room violates the terms of our lease.

When Vancouver confronted the problem of urban blight a few years ago, the city planners developed two key multiuse areas that would draw people of all ages and lifestyles back to the downtown core. In Coal Harbour, the city installed an underground community center with windows right on the seawall, so that you could go to your reasonably priced pilates class and have a view of the joggers and rollerbladers and sailboats and cruise ships, A city-owned, licensed bistro opened up on the seawall behind the art-deco water park. There had always been moorage in both areas, but now tennis and squash courts offered Yaletown residents a greater variety of recreational activities. The courts stand between the public art installation and the kids’ park. The boutiques and the restaurants were already there, but now grocery stores and video stores have moved in next door. The community centres provide daycare for urban parents. People have moved back to the city in droves. These two areas are among the most desirable in the region, and much of the new housing they encompass remains affordable to the average family. Whenever I have guests in town, I take them through both communities. They’re perfect examples of everything that’s desirable about the city.


Sitemeter mystery solved!

From: "webmaster"
Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2007 19:22:53 -0500
To: [DC]
Subject: Re: Concerning the lag on sitemeter
Hello,

Thanks for writing. We apologize for the lag and delays you have been experiencing with our reporting and statistics.

Please be assured that we are aware of the issue and are doing everything we can to resolve the problem as quickly as we can.

The problem you are experiencing is due to a handful of sites on your particular server exceeding normal traffic levels, which unfortunately affects all those assigned to this specific server. While we work to fix the problem we offer a couple choices if you need immediate resolution ˆ

1. You can create a new account, which will assign you to our newest server and thereby provide you with faster statistical updates. You can still log in to your old account if you need historical data. You will however need to replace your old Sitemeter code with your new account code on your sites pages for the new account statistics to function.

2. You may find lag is reduced during off peak hours (i.e. late evenings and early mornings). While this is not a solution it may provide you with a temporary fix while we address the server load issues.

Again, we apologize for any inconvenience this is causing you.

Sincerely,

Site Meter Support

-----Original Message-----

From: [DC]
To:
Date: Sun, 21 Jan 2007 19:39:56 -0800
Subject: Concerning the lag on sitemeter

Dear Mr. Smith,

I’m writing to inquire about the lag in statistical information on the free sitemeter counter. I have the counter installed on my blogger site. It is also installed on the group blog I belong to, as well as on the blogs of several other group members. Many of us have been experiencing various degrees of lag. I installed a second sitemeter to my blog, and the data on it remains up to date, with the old one lagging hours behind. The group blog’s meter was more than 21 hours behind when I last checked it this afternoon.

Given the apparent age-related lag, it is natural to speculate -- as some are doing -- that sitemeter’s non-paying clientele get downgraded after a time when they do not purchase the upgrade. If this is not the case, I look forward to your explanation.

Thank you,

[DC]

My Story

It was a cold and windy day, colored Northern California gray. I was a student back then, sitting in the Union cafeteria, working on the daily crossword puzzle. A door opened, a cold draft blew in, and I shivered. Thus began my multi-month odyssey through the medical system. [Open the post to continue...]

Errata:

Apologies for being a monomaniac. I'm still pleading for your help ( aka, story submissions... private line: nunnshabit@yahoo.com, business: info@americanassociationofpatients.com ). Trivia tid-bit... the Open Letter to Jacob Weisberg has been making some rounds, and found its way to my inbox. G_S, you can be an alarmingly insightful guy.

I'd welcome feedback on the story in this post... I hope to use some version of it (one must give of oneself before one can ask as much of others), but I'm open to suggestions.

It was a cold and windy day, colored Northern California gray. I was a student back then, sitting in the Union cafeteria, working on the daily crossword puzzle. A door opened, a cold draft blew in, and I shivered. Thus began my multi-month odyssey through the medical system.

I’ve shivered from cold thousands of times before. Nothing remarkable had ever come of it. But this time, the shuddering didn’t stop. The muscles in my upper body would clench, vibrate and release… over and over again… like a full-body pulse.

I was pretty concerned by this, so I focused all my willpower on bringing the shudder under control. Within a few minutes, my shoulders relaxed. I went to my afternoon class with my hands shaking like a Parkinson’s patient. Later that evening, my right arm gradually quieted down.

“At least it’s passing. By morning, I’ll be fine.”

It was hard to sleep with my arm convulsing every few seconds. I’d lie down, try my hardest to relax, and pray that my left arm would fall to sleep. After several fruitless hours, I abandoned all hope of sleep. I had a productive night, reading through dawn.

The next day, I attended a friend’s dissertation defense. I mentioned my problem, and showed off my arm’s strange performance act. Back then, I was accustomed to all-nighters. This couldn’t be something two days of exhaustion wouldn’t cure. But it was hard to sleep with my arm so hyperactive.

By dawn, I was entering my third consecutive day without sleep. I remember hearing as a boy that a man loses his mind after four days without sleep. An elderly Korean War vet had told me that, and I assumed he had grounds to know. I went to the student health clinic. I was told that the soonest possible appointment would be two days hence.

At the office that afternoon, my boss, an Assistant Dean, noticed that I was haggard and shaking. I explained the situation. She hit the roof and arranged an appointment at the clinic for first thing the next morning.

When I arrived for that visit, I was entering the dreaded fourth day without sleep. All this time, the muscles in my left arm had contracted and released with the distracting regularity of a metronome. The clinician told me I had allergies, and offered some antihistamines.

My boss was livid. I was walking through a dream. Calls were placed to the local hospital—a teaching institution—and I was given a priority neurology appointment for the next day.

The next morning, I was sharing breakfast with a disabled Olympian. She wanted to know what five days without sleep felt like.

“An ocean storm inside an eggshell.” I was spending a lot of energy staying calm—speaking slowly, deliberately, without affect. Emotionally, I was torn up inside—ranging from tears to laughter to anguish within the space of seconds. And all that time, that damn arm just kept pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. I wanted to cut the damn thing off and be done with it.

That afternoon, at my appointment, I was seen by a student intern. She looked at my arm. Took my blood pressure. Looked at my arm. Hit my knee with a hammer. Looked at my arm. Then she left the room.

When she returned, there was another intern. “Look at this.” He looked at my arm. Pulled up my eyelids. Looked at my arm. Pressed my neck. Looked at my arm. They both left.

When they returned, they were accompanied by another man, introduced as the “Chief Resident.” He performed all the same gestures and spent a longer time gazing ponderously at my arm, fist pressed to chin. All three left.

When they returned, they had an older man with them—apparently a full-fledged doctor. Poke and look, poke and look, questions all around. By now, my symptom report had been learned by rote. And out he went, gaggle of residents in tow.

Next came a second doctor, no more successful than the first. When he returned, he brought the whole mob—two doctors and three residents, along with a blonde woman identified as the Chief Neurologist.

“At last, I’ve reached the head of their tribe.”

I was examined anew. I had to repeat my answers to previous questions. I undressed. Was pushed and pressed and poked. The Chief Neurologist fled, leaving her posse behind.

When she returned, she had a bald man with her—a “visiting expert” with a heavy German accent. Looking, looking, looking, then the whole troop stampeded out the door.

I didn’t like what I heard next. Whispery shouts. “It must be a tumor.” “I haven’t seen anything like it.” “So what should we do?” They were conferring just outside the door!

The herd burst back in. Their leader, the Chief Neurologist, asked whether I’d be willing to spend the night?

The rest of the day was an out-of-body experience. I moved through the department like animated meat. Things were taped to my head. Strobes were flashed in my eyes. I was laid onto a gurney. A needle went into my veins. I finally slept.

When I awoke, days had passed. I was fiending for a cigarette. A doctor arrived.

He gave me a long list of conditions I conclusively didn’t have. My arm was still spasming.

“So what is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“So what now?”

“Well, the good news is we know all the things that could probably kill you. And it isn’t any of them.”

“So what is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“So what now?”

“Come back for observation in two weeks.”

“How will I sleep?”

“Take this prescription to the pharmacy. Take a dose of Atavan, a muscle relaxant, every four hours. You’ll sleep.”

The next six weeks were a groggy time. My arm kept twitching, but I often slept.

On my third visit, the Chief Neurologist wanted to know if I was experiencing any stress.

“Well, my arm won’t stop twitching, and nobody seems to know why.”

“Before that. What was your life like?”

“Pretty good. My grades are fine. My jobs are sometimes stressful, but nothing too tough to handle.”

“Jobs? How many jobs do you have?”

“Three.”

“And you’re a student full-time?

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that stressful?”

“I haven’t thought of it that way.”

“Has anyone died lately?”

“My grandmother.”

“Did that make you sad?

“Yes. I missed the funeral.”

“Does that depress you?”

“I don’t think so. I hear my cousin brought a gun to the ceremony, so I’m not too busted up over missing it.”

“How’s your love life?”

“Could be better. How’s yours?

“Have you had any romantic stress?

“Unrequited love. But they say that’s a bore…”

“What can you tell me about that?”

”What is there to say? I really like him. He doesn’t feel the same for me.”

“Him? Don’t you mean ‘her?’”

“No, I don’t mean ‘her.’ I mean ‘him.’ He’s a guy.”

“Are you a…” and here, her voice drops to a scandaled whisper, “… a homosexual?”

”I’m queer.”

“That’s a self-hating word. There’s nothing wrong with…” and here she drops back into her hushed register” … with homosexuality.”

“Well, I don’t like that word. It’s a doctor’s word, and it reeks of pathology. I consider myself queer.”

“But queer is an insult.”

“Not to me.”

“Do you hate yourself?”

“Just the opposite. I’m full of myself.”

“How long have you known that you’re a… a, homosexual?”

“Two years.”

“That short?”

“It feels long.”

“How did you feel when you came out?”

“Like a weight had been lifted from my soul.”

“I think you’re depressed about being gay.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, it wasn’t long ago. And that must be a source of stress. I think your arm is psychosomatic. And your recent discovery of your… of your homosexuality… that must be related.”

“You’re saying my arm twitches because I’m depressed?”

“I think so.”

“And I’m depressed because I’m gay?”

“Probably so.”

“Doest it matter that I don’t feel depressed?”

“How would you be able to tell?”

I was young. And in college.

“Fair point.”

“I want to prescribe Zoloft, an anti-depressant, and refer you to a psychiatrist.”

“Is there nothing else you can do?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s nothing physically wrong with you.”

“Well, OK then. You’re the doctor.”

My boss was skeptical that I was twitching from depression. But, she knew a wonderful shrink I could see. He was gay too!

By the time I saw him, the Zoloft had kicked in. I know folks whose lives were saved by anti-depressants. So don’t get me wrong when I say that Zoloft offers emotional stability—but only a notch above the humanly tolerable. Being on Zoloft had all the joy of watching puppies die, 24/7. I’d never been so relentlessly and consistently unhappy in all my life.

I didn’t want to kill myself. But I could hardly bear living that way.

After two weeks of sessions, the psychiatrist decided I wasn’t depressed, and gave me permission to lay off the Zoloft. The four-hour depressant struck him as excessive, so I was prescribed a daily dose of Valium before bed.

The next three months were a bizarre time. I struggled through school, cutting back my course load and my work load. A generous friend who’d dropped out into Silicon Valley wealth covered my tuition shortfall. My grades suffered.

The psychiatrist was really interested in my sexual history. He maintained that my arm was a physical problem. We tried a variety of solutions. I took anti-inflammatories. Vitamin supplements. He doped me up with Barbitol (aka “truth serum”) and dredged my subconscious. I’ll never forgive him for turning off the camera when the topic turned to sex. I had demanded a videotape as a precondition to the procedure. The rest of our sessions he would selectively reference things I’d revealed in a conversation only he remembered.

He finally hit upon a radical suggestion—I should see an acupuncturist. I wasn’t a believer in Eastern Medicine, and had begun to reconcile myself to a future as a quivering wreck. But I hadn’t yet disobeyed a doctor. If he thought it might work, why not give it a try?

I expected a timid little Chinese guy, spouting profound non-sequiturs. Instead, I got a boisterous, burly Brooklyn Jew. He gave me a brief personal history—it was the Sixties, flower-child, kicking it in China, learning the art of acupuncture…

“... Do you think Eastern Medicine works?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Well, let me explain acupuncture to you. Nobody knows how it works. By all accounts, it shouldn’t. But, it’s five thousand years old, and people can get really good at something with five thousand years of practice, even if they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Well, OK then.”

I gave him the same report as I’d given the doctors. Sudden shivers. Unrelenting spasms. The end of sleep.

“Did you feel a breeze when you shivered?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“Oh, my gosh! We call that an ‘evil wind!’ I’ve heard of it before!”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Well, OK then.”

I was directed to lie down on the table. He started throwing needles into my body like little javelins. I didn’t feel any sensation.

He left the room.

I laid upon the table, pierced like Saint Sebastian. A warm feeling radiated across the surface of my skin. I could sense certain points… my temples, my ankles, my dick… they were alive with sensation.

After twenty minutes or so, he returned.

“Feel any different?”

“Not much.”

“Your arm is still twitching.”

“I know.”

“Well, I’ve never seen this before. There was no reason to think it would work. But I’d like you to come back next week.”

“OK.”

He pulled out the needles and instructed me to get dressed. Pulling on my socks, I was surprised to find a needle sticking out of my ankle.

“You missed one.”

“I did? Whoops! Just pull it out.”

I did.

I didn’t leave with optimism. The way I saw it, this was another strange remedy tried. Another oddball long-shot for my shrink to cross off his list.

The next day, the twitch slowed markedly. My arm went from convulsing once per second to once per minute. On the second day, it stopped entirely. I’ve gone seven years without an involuntary twitch.

Four days after that appointment, I called the acupuncturist to report my condition.

“It seems to have worked.”

“It did? I can’t say I expected that.”

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t.”

“Should I come back?”

”No way! Another session might spark a relapse!”

“It might?”

“Who could say? Do you want to find out?”

“Well, OK then.”

And that was that…

[Redacted due to retardation]

My Off-Topic is Less On Topic Than Your Off-Topic

Curse of the Golden Flowers:

Hey, Chow Yun-Fat didn't fly on a wire once, nor deliver a single Shadowless Kick! What kind of kung-fu movie is this? The answer, of course, is no kind of a kung-fu movie at all (but... but... Chow Yun-Fat! I feel so cheated). It's actually more a Kurosawa-does-Shakespeare cum Sophocles-on-steroids absurdly-over-the-top incest-fratricide-and-treason with crazy-silent-spider-ninjas dropping-randomly-from-the-sky with deadly-hooked-blades-on-ropes sort of movie, and a dead insanely gorgeous one to look at -- unquestionably the best and most beautiful Kurosawa-does-Shakespeare cum Sophocles-on-steroids absurdly-over-the-top incest-fratricide-and-treason with crazy-silent-spider-ninjas dropping-randomly-from-the-sky with deadly-hooked-blades-on-ropes movie I've ever seen -- but consider yourself warned. Not a Shadowless Kicker, Drunken Boxer or Ass-kicking Renegade from the Shao-lin temple in sight.

Roughly and incidentally, my list of five best kung-fu movies ever: Iron Monkey, Legend of the Drunken Master (aka Drunken Master II [sorry, can't resist the akas]), Fist of Legend, Hero, and the unquestioned greatest of them all, Once Upon a Time in China (aka Wong Fei Hung.) (The sequel is pretty kick-ass too, but later installments get slightly depressing. Law of diminishing yadda yadda.)

Note that three of the movies on the list feature the same character, portrayed by three different actors: Wong Fei Hung. I never made this connection until a few months back when I first watched Iron Monkey, and was wondering to myself why so many kung-fu masters in these movies are also doctors. "I wonder what that means?" I mulled to myself. "Must mean something."

Turns out that it means I'm a little slow and don't pay enough attention ("All those chinese names sound the same to me" -- oops!).

Speaking of retards, beeen mulling now and then over Gregor's eugenics post, and it occured to me that if I were to compile a list of types of human beings the world would be better off for not having been born -- which I wouldn't, but if I did -- not only would the mentally and/or physically handicapped not be on the list, it wouldn't even be a relevant category (if you see what I mean. What an awful inept sentence, btw).

Keeper of Secrets

Suppose that I was a volunteer with a humanitarian organization and I was serving a stint in Baghdad when Saddam Hussein wrote from prison to request compassionate visits from our office. In the weeks before he was convicted and executed, I’d go to the prison twice a week and sit with him in a meeting room for an hour or so. He told me stories of his boyhood. Eventually he related episodes of his sexual abuse by an older male relative, now deceased.

He wished to tell this story, he said, because he wanted people to know what had befallen him in childhood. At my encouragement, he forwarded a written account of the abuse to my office, and some my colleagues wrote him letters expressing their dismay and compassion. Others were more skeptical. One, in particular, undertook a cursory investigation and discovered that the man Mr. Hussein had identified as his abuser had in fact never existed. Mr. Hussein’s answer to this was that he’d constructed a fake identity for this person in order to protect his family. His abuser was still alive. Despite this explanation, his credibility suffered. My colleagues moved on to other things.

Mr. Hussein was found guilty and the day of his execution loomed, At the office, I received a note from him once again requesting my presence. He said he had something important to tell me, and I went to meet him at the prison. The story of his victimization at the hands of a pedophile was, he said, entirely made up. He was merely exercising creative license as a writer of fiction. None of it had happened.

Because he had initially gained the sympathy of some of my colleagues, this information distressed me, I sought the advice of the individual who had exposed part of his lie. This person encouraged me to relate this latest disclosure to our organization, so that they might know the full extent of the deception. Though Mr. Hussein had not asked me to keep the information confidential, I wasn’t comfortable putting it in a memo for all to read. I would, I said, seek Mr. Hussein’s permission to disclose it. I made an appeal to Mr. Hussein the day before his hanging, but he requested that I not reveal this last part of his deception. He said he was convinced that his sin was cleansed by his admission to me, but that if others were party to the information, their judgment of him would surely jeopardize his chances for immortality in the afterlife. This seemed so ridiculous to me that I wondered if he even believed it himself.

Nevertheless, I did not tell anyone of his last disclosure. The colleague I had consulted has on several occasions since expressed his dismay at my refusal to speak out. He has not opted to reveal the information himself.

Questions: Is it moral or immoral to keep a liar’s confidences, even from those to whom he lied? What consequences might come about if one were to break such a confidence? Should I have revealed Mr. Hussein's last secret? Why has my colleague not revealed it?

Weekend Off-Topic

Thoughts subject to even less than the usual amount of filtering....

• So... The Patriots blew a 15 point second half lead, gace up 32 second half points, and their quarterback threw an interception in the final minute when he had an opportunity to win the game. So.. can we call them chokers?
  
  I kid, of course, but if the teams were reversed, you know that's what we'd be hearing about the Colts.
  
  
• I heard more than one talking head criticize the Saints for poor "ball security" in the first hald leading to their early deficit.
  
  But, for example, when the ball was stripped from Michael Lewis, he had both arms wrapped around the ball. I'm not sure how he could have been more secure with the ball short of hitting the dirt at the first sign of contact.
  
  UPDATE: Peter King echoes this nugget -- I just don't think you can build your offense and special teams around not fumbling. And I think fumbles have more to do with the defense and luck than "taking care of the football."
  
  
• Quick prediction -- Colts will be at least a touchdown favorite, and I'd take them.
  
  
• These are the days when I'm glad we can't afford cable. As much as I like Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy, I'm not sure how many "First African American head coaches in the Super Bowl -- plus, they're great friends!" stories I could take.
  
  Really -- is there a less risky stand one could take than about how wonderful it is to see two African American head coaches in the Super Bowl, and how this should prove once and for all how capable African American coaches are?
  
  Prediction -- somebody in the next two weeks will say something stupid about this, and will be the media's whipping boy. Think Fuzzy Zoeller and Tiger Woods, or Vijay Singh and Annika Sorentam.
  
  
• Re: Hillary's candidacy:
  
  With a president as ineffective as Bush has been, it's tempting to conclude that the bad situation is all his fault, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think we have to take a hard look at the system that has produced someone like Bush as president.
  
  I think part of this is the "Hey -- look at how awful they are!" type of politics. If I can point to something someone on the other side is doing that's worse than what I stand accused of doing, then I don't have to answer my critics.
  
  IMO, this play was introduced by the Clintonites, then perfected by the Bushies. And as far as I'm concerned Ms. Clinton is the standard bearer for this, with her going on the Today Show talking about a Vast Right Wing Conspiracy.
  
  She either lied or was suckered, neither of which are admirable qualities in a president.
  
  I'm aware that Bush's untruths were of more consequence than his spouse's extramarital sex life. But I don't want a lesser liar; I want a non-liar. That may sound naive, but it's where I am.
  
  I can understand the desire for Democrats to win dirty, after the Bushies had already done it twice. But I'd rather see an Obama presidency built on hope (however amorphously defined) than a Clinton presidency built on how awful Rush Limbaugh is.
  
  Clinton may present Democrats with the shortest path to victory, but I'm not certain it's the kind of victory they want.
  
  
• If I seem to be down a few brain cells, it's probably because attended the Sesame Street Live show last night.
  
  Actually, it was a pretty good show. My advice to parents -- either budget in the $8 for the Elmo mylar baloon, or start working on your reasons why you won't spend $8 for the same type of thing you could get at the dollar store.
  

some thoughts on personal jesus

1. things on your chest ('nuff said).

2. feeling unknown by the telephone.
a. lee siegel.
b. mickey kaus.
c. at least time loves us.
d. brian boitano.

3. confess.
a. too much makeup.
b. chafing.
c. meth.

4. lift up the receiver, I'll make you…
a. an underachiever.
b. a wide receiver.
c. a griever.
d. a labrador retriever.

5. i will deliver…
a. thai.
b. korean.
c. pie.
d. manichean.

6. be your own, personal…
a. publicist.
b. ad.
c. iphone.
d. boddhisatva.
e. junk bond trader.

7. someone to hear your prayers...
a. for a new computer.
b. mini.
c. more meth.

8. someone who's there.

9. reach out and touch...
a. thequietman.
b. themaxfischerplayers.
c. the borg.
d. bono.
e. the edge.
f. the spanish inquisition.
g. the amazing creskin.

10. ka da - da bum boom…

dude.