Sweet Vindication

Yes, I posted here, in this blog, on December 26, 2007 that McCain - Palin would be the Republican dream ticket. And the dream has arrived, folks. Deal with it.

Sarah Palin is a logistical nightmare for the Dems. Here's why: she's the real thing. She's pro life? No, she's pro life, having recently carried her fifth child to term, knowing the child had Down's Syndrome. That's not a theoretical position. That's not street talk. That is reality.

She's pro business? Well, she's owned a commercial fishing business that she actually worked. She's an actual small business owner.

Think she has some working mom cred? A little. She's governor, formerly mayor, has 5 kids, married to the same guy for 20 years. She is a soccer mom. Do you think she can speak meaningfully about identifying with blue collar mom's plight? She is one.

Both her parents were schoolteachers. Yes, she's beautiful. But she's not just a show horse. She was an outstanding athlete and runs 5 to 7 miles a day. After having 5 kids. But, really, she says the best workout is driving a snowmobile at high speed. Good for your upper body.

Is she for gun rights? Yep. Lifetime NRA member. No - this isn't some policy position for her. She's a crack shot, and kills and dresses her own game. Any arguments? I didn't think so.

Like McCain, she has a son reporting for duty in Iraq. That definitely adds to her gravitas on the subject.

And she can talk Energy Policy, essentially the Number One domestic issue right now, like no one else can. She lives and breathes energy policy.

All this, and she has impressive maverick cred, taking on her own party, the oil industry and home state perks, like fighting the infamous "bridge to nowhere."

[Am I concerned about her ability to withstand the rigors of the race? To stand toe to toe against Joe Biden? Sure I am. And the investigation into her potential misuse of influence to get a former b-i-l removed? Sounds overblown, but let's see.]

She is the housewife made good. The little man who stood up to City Hall. The pretty girl who didn't just coast on her good looks. The smart girl who didn't sell out for the high paying job. The ambitious girl who didn't leave her blue collar husband for the rich guy in order to jump start her career. The working girl who didn't sacrifice family for career and made both work. And took care of herself in the meantime.

If you are a liberal, she's your worst nightmare.

This is like football, baseball, anything else

This is the all-time rant. No question about it. The guys get shirts, that's just the fuckin' way it is. I thought of this spectacular piece of Internet madness because the perpetrator is playing a local casino [funny how things come full circle, ain't it?] And so they've been advertising the gig by showing a clip of him singing a song ... and I couldn't place the song, but I knew it wasn't part of the Great American Songbook ... and then it hit me -- Spanka was taking a page of the Pat Boone playbook and redoing rock tunes! He was singing Van Halen's "Jump."

Let me also say here that Planka is a Canadian. I think it is well-documented what I think of the damned carpetbaggers who come here to steal our bounty and breed with our beautiful women: it's a scandal.

What else? Jeff Kent has been bagging on Vin Scully. It's official: my love affair with Jeff Kent is officially over. He lacks the refined judgment and class of a tatted-up Norco speed freak.

Medical update. The rheumatologist has a diagnosis of no diagnosis for me. Other than having rheumatoid factors through the ceiling [and by "ceiling", I mean the ceiling of the Chrysler building - the last test came back over 4,000 - and normal is less than 20], I am completely healthy [save for the spot on my lung.] So that's what it is. And so I'll go for a run tonight and try to ignore it.

Go Angels!

All-Time Todds

Yes, it's well-known. I'm a lister. A harmless drudge to be certain.

And for some reason it struck me to make a list of the best baseball players named "Todd." Why? For a couple of reasons. First, Todd - as a name - has high comedic potential. Bill Murray pretty much made his name as the noogie-maven Todd on the old SNL. Todd Flanders, the younger son of Ned, of course lives in cartoon infamy, for [in Ned's words] "having the Devil's curly hair." And we need not speak of Todd Rundgren.

Second, there is neither a longer version, a diminutive nor a female version of the name Todd. Todd is Todd.

Third, Todd seems to be a product of the mid to late 1960s, my era. The era of wussy, surf movie names. Names like Jay, Dennis, Chas, Scott, Tommy, Bobby, Kurt and my name. And Todd. If you look at the baseball record, above, you'll see that most of the Todds played in the 1990s. So, like the Nehru jacket and Cuban heels, the name Todd is destined to fade away, a product of its brief era.

So, with that, here is my list of all-time baseball Todds.

Time Between

"There's the moment it's decided, then there's later when you find out the deciding's all been done."

That's always been one of my favorite lyrics [by my favorite songwriter, pretty much the king of singer-songwriters, Jules Shear.] He wrote that back in the late 1970s, when I first learned of him and his great band, Jules & the Polar Bears. One of my desert island albums would definitely be "Got No Breeding" from 1978. I remember hearing it, and thinking that at once it made both Elvis Costello and Jackson Browne dispensable.

I quote the above lyrics because I'm waiting for the results of my latest round of blood work - something like 7 or so vials of the stuff that I work so hard to produce [and then I just give it away. So sad.]

I see the doc, the rheumatologist - another specialist, thank you very much - next Monday, and I have a feeling, to paraphrase Jules, that the deciding's all been done. That there will be some diagnosis [and concomitant prognosis] at that time [or sooner, if it's really dire and he calls.]

It's a weird feeling; I've been on this health rollercoaster since April, when I got back from Europe. First, acute appendicitis and surgery. Next, a lesion on my lung. Third, blood panels that come back with absolutely inexplicable results. Positive for whooping cough [huh?] And rheumatoid factors that are exponentially higher than they should be. But one or more could be false positives.

So many, many rounds of blood work. A CT scan. A PET scan. An MRI. No diagnosis. So many tests, so many specialists. No answers.

At some point, calling in grumpy misanthrope House would seem a relief. Anyone who had to go on this merry-go-round would welcome his hateful, sarcastic yet ultimately unimpeachable visage. At least he gets things done.

Much like when after I took the bar exam but had not yet gotten my results, I am waiting for an outcome that is likely already determined. A tested already graded, the results not yet published. It's a strange feeling. Or to quote another great songwriter, Lyle Lovett, "She's Already Made Up Her Mind." And I'm just waiting for her to tell me where the chips have fallen.