At what point did the legislative branch hijack the role of the courts? In Florida, the Legislature, as endorsed in signature by Gov. Jeb Bush, passed a bill that overrode a sensible court decision and blatantly ignored 20 years of case law: for one persistently vegitative woman who hasn't demonstrated cognition in 13 years.
From time to time, legislators will find it necessary to pass laws to negate the, shall we say, creative decisions of certain activist courts (Number Nine? Number Nine?). BUt in this case, the Florida legislature passed law that extended the nebulous life of one woman. It won't save any other comatose people in danger of being unplugged by spouses or families hunting for insurance payouts. Just Terry.
And she hasn't had a concious thought in 13 years, regardless of the obviously edited video her parents forwarded to media outlets before the circuit court clerk.

The Saudis have pledged to send "tourists" in the range of 300 per month to Iraq. This is the Arab world's idea of rebuilding Iraq, to build a new Islamist totalitarian regime there where Hussein once tortured his people in the name of Baath. Does this scare anyone else?CollegeClub.com

It's going into the bottom of the eleventh in the Red Sox/Yankees game, tied at five. But, as much as I want to root against the Yankees, I can't bring myself to eagerly root for Boston to get what the Cubs Nation was denied.
So, I'll share the recurring dream I've had since the Cubs lost Game 6 and I learned the name of the poor schmuck that intervened in the Cubs shot at redemption.

The North Side sleeps in the wee hours, every shellshocked closed after a miserable night. I alone, in my first trip to Chicago, wander the streets, disbelieving the horrible irony I'd witnessed.
Finding the tallest building in the vicinity of Wrigleyville, I make my way to the rooftop. In a confusing flash, I'm atop the jutting chimney, clad only in faded blue jeans and a battered Cubs hat, primal as the Goat that embodies our misery.
Then, with a baritone deep and loud enough to wake the ghost of Three Fingers Brown, I speak the name given to every Cubs-fans' distress:
BaarrtMaaaaaaaan!
Across Wrigleyville, windows light up, like eyes painfully woken from the dreamy sleep of Nothingness.

It's alright Steve. You did exactly what most of us would have done. But damn, why did you have to do it then?

thanks to Gregg Easterbrook, ESPN.com's Tuesday Morning Quarterback and Brookings Scholar, I've grown fond of haikus again.
the other day, I was taking a cigarette break and got 17-syllabically poetic about my job as a database manager for a job-search outreach in Alabama's Black Belt (one of the poorest parts of the nation).

Mountains of data:
Sob stories, by the bootstraps,
Every file a life.

Not too much in retrospect, but it seemed poignant to me at the time.
Also, a bit about the event most dominating my dark thoughts today

Marlins in seven.
Cubs' dreams dashed the night before
Bad times for Bartman.

10-year-old Marlins
Dress two Series in gauche Teal.
There is no justice.

I did everything I could think of. I knocked wood, I broke out the old t-shirts, I made certain the baby was watching, just like she had been during the Division Series.
I've even resisted writing about the Cubs this year, wary of a repeat of 2001, when my presumptious early August newspaper column seemed to trigger the Cubs slide back to the middle of the standings (that's what we deserved for getting stoked about Fred McGriff).
But this year it all came together. It was gonna be. No more next year.
Now, though, it's Thursday morning. Sammy's starting to pack for his yearly migration to the Dominican. A little later than usual, but not late enough.
Where we once had only the dull ache of decades of what-ifs, now we have a face for our misery.
Steve Bartman.
I can't really blame him, I guess. If the ball was coming to me, I'd have probably been locked in to it, too. But I would have already thought a lot about my seat. That close to the field, you gotta have a plan. I'd have already thought about how not to lose my head in case of one of those blistering foul balls. The one that was in play would have been an easy choice: get out of the way.
I know he's heartbroken too, especially since he no longer has any friends, most likely, and half of Chicago wants him dead. But he had the headphones on. Radio listeners know the game better -- that's a fact. So, logically, he should have known better.
But he didn't. It wasn't his fault. It was Gonzo's, for booting Pudge's grouder. It was Dusty's, for leaving Prior and Wood in for so much longer than necessary (especially considering one of the league's best LONG relievers, Remlinger, sat in the bullpen). It was Kerry's, it was Mark's, and it all doesn't matter.
It IS over.
The blame game isn't nearly as much fun as an October ballgame. We know that now.
So, yet again, though we hoped we wouldn't have to say it:
Wait til Next Year.

Somewhere in Hollywood a cabal of producers and directors are just giddy. Dismayed by the fading popularity of low-cost, high-rating reality television, these producers have rollicked in the success of their newest made-for-TV reality extravaganza: The California Recall.
Take one embattled, largely disliked politician, Gray Davis, and make him fight for his office against America's greatest action star, a handful of political Johnny-come-latelies, and a remaining ballot of pop culture cast offs with nothing better to do.
Tonight is the final episode. Millions of eyes, in California and across the country, will be simultaneously focused on the final episode, as all but one contestant is voted off the island. Too bad California couldn't go ahead and crash into the ocean to advance the metaphor.
Who wins the election? Who cares. The real winners are Time Warner, General Electric and News Corp., the directors of which will see ratings for their powerful news divisions skyrocket, as Americans tune in to see if California will actually choose the Terminator as the chief executive of Earth's fifth-largest economy.
The Survivor final wasn't this big. There's even the strong possibility of Joe Millionaire: The Aftermath-style episodes into infinity, as California's leaders struggle to count up the votes, protest the hanging chads and decide whether to certify the strangest bid for public office in recent memory.

My personal favorite moment of the recall election thus far is the blatant partisan antics of the L.A. Times. The best I can figure, the venerable Times must fear a lawsuit from FoxNews for using not only the phrase "Fair and Balanced," but the actual journalistic practice. Where most reporters are told to go out and find the facts, the Times' ink-stained wretches were sent out like a pack of jackals to dig up all the dirt that was out there ... on Arnold.
Gray Davis was left untouched. Cruz Bustamante went basically unmentioned. Tom McClintock: already forgotten.
So, L.A.'s paper of record printed a groundbreaking expose that claimed that, gasp, Arnold Swarzenagger was a player in his Hollywood days (not that those days have ended). They found a number of women that were outraged when Ah-nold felt them up in one way or another. Most of the claims dated back some 15-20 years, and many of them were anonymous.
Lets keep in mind: Arnold is a movie star and a Kennedy inlaw. Before that, he was Mr. Olympian. Few people have ever accused anyone with the preceding three credentials of being sensitive to the plight of women.
These anonymous women might be deeply scarred now by Arnold's fondling and groping (at least there were no cigars involved), but I bet I know their initial reaction when Ah-nold stepped over the line: they giggled.
They probably rushed home to tell all their girlfriends that Conan/Terminator/Eraser found their bodies worthy of a grapefruit squeeze.
But now that he's a Republican ...
Arnold has been blasted by Democrats of every vane, especially the feminist variety that gave Bill Clinton a pass for harassing everything that walked past him in a skirt, short of Janet Reno.
I don't even like Arnold. I don't think he has the first bit of qualifications to run any state, especially California.
But the situational ethics of the Democratic Party makes me want to puke. And a newspaper -- the gatekeeper of public knowledge -- is playing sleazy P.I. to its hypocritical hijinks.
I've often ranted that reality TV has nothing to do with reality (and if there is a reality where 50 gorgeous women fight for my imagined millions, I wanna live there).
But this Recall thing is a bit too real. And it has shed some light on the real face of the Democratic Party. Look out - the current leaders are too ugly to make the first cut for The Bachelor.

This Kobe Bryant thing ... I don't know what to say. As a reporter, I'm well versed in the ways of rape-shield laws. We don't mention the name of an alleged rape victim: period.
Rape is an insidious crime which can alter a woman's entire life: I understand that. So, we should take every effort to be sure that the victim is not victimized.
But what if she's lying?
That's what strikes me about Kobe's situation. Everything I read about the controversy centers on the defense losing yet another decision, being denied yet another piece of evidence.
Based on published reports, I can't figure out how Kobe's lawyers can mount any kind of defense besides the Lakers' former Golden Child taking the stand, saying "I didn't do it," then making a jumpshot into the jury box.
There's a difference between shielding the victim and tipping the scales.
What if she's lying?
Seems like a pretty lucrative business: sleeping with an NBA player, then crying rape. She must be aware of the scads of money in Kobe's bank account. And her lawyer probably knows that, regardless of the facts, she'll get the benefit of the doubt. Kobe's defense team won't get a chance to regard the facts, because they won't have access to them.
I don't know Kobe; I've never covered Kobe. I don't even care for the Lakers. I just know that, the further this criminal situation goes, the more it looks like Kobe is doomed.
It's hard to make a winning shot when you don't have a leg to stand on.

Oh happy day....I'lll probably start a new blog soon, since neither of the titles on this one applies. I've been published, in a much-complimented piece in a minor alternative biweekly called The Strip. I did a 3G word cover piece on homelessness in Tuscaloosa County. It wasn't a NYT-level expose, but it was a warm people-piece that, I though, gave a voice to some homeless people who had never had the chance to tell their stories.
As for the unemployed part...I'm writing from work right now. I'm teaching basic computer skills to low income people in Hale County, Alabama. I work for an amazing social service group called HERO....anyway, i gotta go to lunch. more later...maybe in a new blog.

Didn't keep the "will write everyday" vow. Oh well. Got a job offer in my inbox the other day. Not a bad paper, in the same company as the Chicago Sun-Times. But the paper that offered the job is a little 5-grand weekly in suburban North Carolina.
Would be a welcome change from the heart of Dixie, but pulling up roots and moving three states away is a daunting prospect. Not to mention, my zeal for Journalism isn't at its peak right now. Actually, my zeal for everything is at an all-time low.
I like smoking...i like watching TV...not much else. Depression sucks, especially when youre too proud, or too broke, to get it diagnosed.
But, every player has a slump occasionally. I'll break out of this funk, I just hope I do it soon, before all the jobs are taken.

Incidentally, Tampa Bay Devil Rays manager Lou Pinella is my hero. He has been for years, but after the Rays' one-run loss last night, he reminded me why. He takes the manager's tirade to a point of high artistic merit. Whether he's screaming at the press (like last night) or dressing down his players (like last night) or tossing things around the infield to protest an umpire's call (not like last night, unfortunately), he always makes the game entertaining.
Which leads to my list: the most entertaining Manager/Coaches of my lifetime.
1. Pinella - he curses, he screams, he picks up bases and throws them, then replaces them, the throws them again just for good measure, then picks them up again and throws again just to test his long-game. I've seen the hammer throw and discuss, maybe Lou's just ahead of the game on baseball's next evolution.
2. Lloyd McLendon, Pittsburgh Pirates - He hasn't been in the managerial game for long, but I have a soft spot for him because the cadence of his name always intrigued me when I read it on baseball cards in the mid-80s. His managerial highlight came when he stole first base...by picking it up and taking it to the clubhouse with him after he was ejected for arguing a bang-bang call at first.
3. Earl Weaver - I was pretty young when Earl last managed the Orioles, but I can still remember arguing calls in dirt-lot kickball, kicking dirt on my opponent's shoes, and being inwardly proud to imitate old Earl. In the 120-year history of baseball, he couldn't have been the first manager to build sand castles on the ump's shoes, but I can only picture his pudgy, orange-and-black visage engaging in that classic protest.
4. Mark Cuban, owner, Dallas Mavs - ok, he 's not a coach or manager, but he's too entertaining to ignore. Cuban is what i've always wanted to be: a dorky kid who happens to own a billion-dollar band account and a professional sports franchise. Or, if nothing else, I've always dreamed of working at Dairy Queen.

That's all i feel like coming up with right now. Hopefully I'll add to the list as more ideas come to mind.

I will write something in this space every day.
I will write something in this space every day.
I will write something in this space every day.
I will space day in this something every write.
Write I will, this in something every space day.
Space write something, in this I will every day.

nevermind.

I heard this morning that Sen. Strom Thurmond finally shuffled loose the mortal coil last night, at the ripe old age of 100. Despite his faults, I have always had an odd interest in Thurmond, the Emperor Palpatine of the U.S. Senate. The Grandest Old Partier himself died last night at his home in South Carolina. I suspect he was killed by a chief aide, though, who tossed him down a reactor shaft, sparking a firestorm of blue energy. The killing was, based on my nonexistent reporting, in defense of the aide's only son, whom Thurmond was gradually swaying toward the dark side.
Snicker.
Also in the news, the Supreme Court struck down a Texas sodomy law yesterday. The decision invalidates anti-sodomy laws in 12 other states, including my own home, the Heart of Dixie. I'm no activist, but I strongly disliked the idea of a person being prosecuted for for simply getting their schwerve on in his or her chosen manner. The Marv Alberts, Bill Clintons and Lorena Bobbits of the world must be relieved.
The Alabama sodomy statute went beyond outlawing consensual sex between persons of the same gender. It outlines and outlaws so-called deviant sexual acts, including oral and anal sex, for Alabama's entire population. How The University's Greek system flourished in that kind of legal climate is beyond me.

It's now been almost three months since I last had a desk and a coffee pot to call "Work." I'm bored and unchallenged, but mustering the motivation to rejoin the working world has proven difficult: Income and positive balances vs. never missing Days of Our Lives.
The days of my life are probably boring, definitely not ready for prime-time reality television. But, in need of an outlet, I present this blog to whomever it may concern (if not interest).