United Ireland on Shaky Ground

On Tuesday, a magnitude 5.3 earthquake shook northern England. Sinn Féin and the factions of the IRA missed a golden opportunity when they failed to claim responsibility. Decades of political maneuvering and sporadic violence have brought Ireland little closer to unification, but the Brits might be frightened out of Ulster if they think Irish republicans now have the power to shift the Eurasian plate...especially if Gerry Adams can come up with some strange, unidentifiable contraption with, say, wires running into the ground, and have a photograph taken of him "operating" it.

England at the mercy of Irish earthquakists is a troubling prospect for a nation of tea-drinkers whose boiled lifeblood is so vulnerable to falling dust...and especially grim for chubby UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown, who is prone to embarrassing jiggling.

Such a ruse could finally force the British to relinquish Ulster, achieving a unified, free Irish nation bloodlessly.

Like how Gandhi non-violently got the British to quit India by putting on a scary voice and claiming to be the cause of an early frost that ruined Clement Attlee's petunia garden.

I'm Dreaming of an Olive Christmas

For centuries, countless Western artists have portrayed Jesus as lilywhite, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired, creating his likeness in their image rather than admit his true ethnicity. But genealogy, biology, and common sense tell us that Jesus, a Middle Eastern Semite, almost certainly possessed olive (or even darker) skin, as well as coarse, dark hair. Our institutional images of Jesus—cast into public consciousness centuries ago by Europeans who could not, or would not, accept so foreign a savior—amount to ethnocentric self-deception.

Yet today, many Americans and Europeans still can't bear the idea of Jesus as anything but the classically wholesome, fair-skinned, Nordic type. Witness the blatant denial of Jesus’ desert heritage in this current ad for a S’mores nativity scene. Could Jesus be any whiter?

When will someone offer a historically accurate S’mores nativity scene using roasted marshmallows that properly reflect Jesus’ true ethnicity?

(Photo of S'mores nativity scene copyright Santa’s Depot.)

To Sleep, Perchance to Vote

One of my dreams Saturday night included a midget doing yoga. I don’t know what it meant, but I suddenly feel inclined to vote for McCain.

The Curse of Cato

Sports “curses” have haunted luckless franchises almost as long as professional leagues have existed: the Curse of the Bambino, the Curse of the Billy Goat, The Curse of Muldoon, and the Curse of Billy Penn, to name some of the most infamous.

I believe it’s time to add another “curse” to that list: the Curse of Cato.

Cato the Younger (95-46 BC) was one of Rome’s greatest senators, a staunch defender of the republic, known for his honesty, integrity, and his opposition to power-hungry militarist, Julius Caesar. A man of inscrutable moral fiber, Cato would be appalled that the Ottawa Senators franchise carries as its logo not the pride of the Roman republic, but a Roman centurion—the symbol of brute imperial dictatorship. As senator, Cato devoted his public life fighting to maintain Rome’s republican principles. Such a slight to republican ideals by the Ottawa Senators angers not merely the hockey gods, but Jupiter, Mars, and the entire Roman pantheon.

The Curse of Cato is starkly reflected in the fortunes of the Ottawa Senators. In fourteen full seasons in the modern NHL, the Senators have progressed from league doormats (losing 70 games in 1992-93) to paper tigers. Ottawa has registered at least 100 points in six of the last eight seasons—and is well on its way to a seventh—yet the talented Senators fall short of the Stanley Cup every year.

Prior to the Ottawa Senators’ re-institution to the NHL in 1992 and its adoption of the centurion logo, the first incarnation of the franchise won eleven Stanley Cups as one of professional hockey’s early powerhouses. In those bygone years, Ottawa donned a truer, more honorable logo—one that didn’t mock the franchise’s very soul by featuring its political arch-enemy. In fact, it could be argued—especially after a 12-pack of Labatt’s—that Ottawa’s original logo (seen here, on the sweater of Frank Finnigan) paid senatorial homage to Cato, who was known to friends, Romans, and countrymen simply as “O.” Even if you don’t drink Labatt’s, you can’t deny that the Ottawa Senators enjoyed infinitely more success sporting their Cato-friendly logo. When Ottawa shunned that in favor of an imperial image, the Senators lost power like their Roman counterparts in the wake of the Caesars.

Until the Ottawa Senators lift the Curse of Cato by replacing that centurion on their chests with the deserving image of Cato, Cicero, or one of the Gracchi, don’t expect a parade down Wellington Street any time in the next millennium.


(Ottawa Senators' logos copyright the National Hockey League. Graphic wizardry at center ice courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

The Imperfect Storm

In the 1990s, certain Native American groups pressured numerous professional and collegiate organizations to change their nickname from what these groups perceived as stereotypes offensive to their culture—among these "offenders," the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, Washington Redskins, and St. John’s Redmen. According to the St. John’s University Web site, “Redmen” derived not from the traditional derogatory slang for a Native American, but from the fact that “the men of St. John’s wore red.” Even so, St. John’s caved to pressure and renamed itself the “Red Storm” in 1994.

Personally, I never understood the rationale for “Red Storm.” The only sensible connection that it possesses is to Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, a gargantuan red-tinged storm that’s been whirling for centuries through the Jovian atmosphere.

That’s not very practical for an Earth-based team. Whose sponsorship is the university’s board of governors trying to lure? Sure, Jupiter, king of the planets, is a thousand times more voluminous than Earth and potentially harbors a colossal fan base. But even assuming life does exist in its frozen, toxic clouds, it's most likely the microbial variety. And if those microbes could make the 700-million-mile journey to Earth, so many would fit in a single seat of Carnesecca Arena as to render corresponding ticket sales totally unprofitable for the university.

Poor marketing move.

Much wiser would have been to rechristen the university’s nickname the St. John’s Wort. Pharmaceutical companies toss advertising dollars as freely as UConn guards toss alley-oops over St. John’s heads, and with the 7-12 Red Storm currently dead last in the Big East, makers of this herbal treatment for depression could find a goldmine among tortured St. John’s students and alumni. Frankly, how can St. John’s University hope to compete against Georgetown, Syracuse, and the other beasts of the Big East without becoming the St. John’s Wort and cashing in on America’s insatiable need for medication? Yes, St. John’s wort may cause sensitivity to sunlight, but when you’re going to school in Queens...the less time spent outside, the better.



DISCLAIMER: Less than sixty seconds before I posted this, ESPN SportsCenter’s upcoming topics displayed on the right side of the screen included the headline “St. John’s Warts.” For the record, ESPN’s pun in no way inspired or gave rise to this post. In truth, I conceived the idea for this post six weeks ago—a fact verifiable by Mount Drinkmore’s Dave, who worked the graphic genius that you see above via e-mail on December 20, 2007—although the text had not been fully fleshed out. This morning’s headline on ESPN merely served as the catalyst to finish this post immediately, lest some Cheeto-fingered ESPN junkie falsely accuse me of lifting ideas.

I would also like to express my deep admiration for ESPN anchorwoman Linda Cohn’s thighs, so seldomly yet tantalizingly displayed during full-body shots.

(Graphic enhancement courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave; St. John's Red Storm logo copyright St. John's University; photo of Jupiter courtesy of NASA.)

Here a Goose, There a Goose...

On January 8, Goose Gossage was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in his ninth year of eligibility. The fireballing fireman was one of the premier closers of the late 1970s and early 1980s, thrice leading the American League in saves, en route to a lifetime total of 310—fourth on the all-time list upon his retirement. Regardless of your personal feeling on whether (or how many) relief pitchers deserve enshrinement in Cooperstown, one fact is indisputable: the hallowed walls of baseball’s Hall now boast a pair of Geese: Goose Gossage and 1920s slugger, Goose Goslin.

No sooner does Gossage emerge from the decade-long battle amongst Baseball Writers’ Association of America voters over the Hall-worthiness of relief pitchers than he finds himself immersed in an even stickier debate: Just who is the Hall of Fame’s greatest Goose?

It’s futile to debate the statistical virtues of a slugging left-fielder versus a flame-throwing reliever. Clearly, both were among baseball’s best during their heyday, and each vaulted his team into multiple World Series. So what remains to settle the issue?

Why, prominent facial features, of course.

Goose Goslin was renowned for his colossal proboscis, which took up much of Griffith Stadium’s outfield and may well have been the source of his nickname. Born in Salem, New Jersey, some say Goslin’s nose grew to enormous proportion as a direct result of the nuclear power plants located in his hometown. But as many pundits fail to realize, Goslin’s nose had reached its generous size more than half a century before the first Salem nuclear plant commenced operation.

Goose Gossage, as many will recall, sported in his prime an intimidating horseshoe moustache, which, when combined with his surly on-field attitude and blazing fastball, lent him something of a demonic aura. I once saw him throw a fastball behind a batter, leaving the hitter shaken and contemplating a career change to geology. Gossage’s horseshoe moustache irrefutably contributed to his greatest success, for his career stats demonstrate that his glory years in New York and San Diego coincided with donning his overgrown facial hair, whereas he had largely struggled while clean-shaven with the White Sox. Such mustachioed success was recognized by opponents, culminating infamously in 1979, when Carlton Fisk of the arch-rival Red Sox charged the mound with a Gillette Atra.

Goose Goslin, too, used his facial attributes to his advantage. Although one of the most feared sluggers of his day, Goslin was hit by a pitch 55 times, almost all of them on his nose—including a key 1931 contest in which his bases-loaded hit-by-pitch in the 9th inning enabled the fifth-place St. Louis Browns to cut the mighty Philadelphia Athletics' lead to 17-3. (After the game, a bandaged and bruised Goslin called his effort, "My gweatest day in basebawl.") His nose also played a vital role in the 1935 World Series by providing shade for a laboring Alvin Crowder late in Game 4. Crowder credited Goslin's nasal shade with conserving enough of his strength to shut out the Cubs over the final three innings and preserve victory for the Tigers.

Clearly, each Goose's unique facial feature contributed mightily to his success. Enough to make each Goose a Hall of Famer? It's difficult to assess...although the majority of animal-nicknamed players go on to Hall of Fame careers—Ducky Medwick, Rabbit Maranville, Catfish Hunter, Chick Hafey, Turkey Stearnes, Mule Suttles. (Frankly, Cooperstown is as much zoo as it is museum...)

Bill James, one of baseball's preeminent sabermetricians, awarded the following total of career "win shares"—his measure of an individual player's contribution to his team's performance—to each Goose:

Goose Goslin: 355
Goose Gossage: 223

Such a large discrepancy is, of course, a result of comparing a relief pitcher against a position player, who, obviously, plays far more often—and thus has far more impact—on his team's fortunes. Even so, such figures swing well in favor of Goslin as the greater Goose.

However, the win-shares system doesn't take into account that Gossage, who pitched for six years in the all-night party of the Big Apple, probably got laid a helluva lot more.

Yup, boners are more important than homers. I've gotta go with Goose Gossage as the Baseball Hall of Fame's greatest Goose.