Purgatory of the Seattle Sports Fan

With the Curse of the Bambino now dispatched, a nation turns its lonely eyes to other implosion-prone franchises. Fortunately, my hometown of Seattle provides a curse of a different sort. I would love someone to explain the mystery of why Seattle always has one good professional sports franchise, one mediocre, and one dismal team.

The Sonics, Mariners and Seahawks are a big O-fer when it comes to league championships during my lifetime, and the team everybody expects to go all the way invariably self-destructs. Witness the Sonics inexplicable collapse in round one of the 1994 playoffs versus the eighth-seeded Nuggets. Or the 116-win 2001 Mariners anemic demise in that year's playoffs.

The year 2004 is a textbook example: the Mariners lose 99 games, the Seahawks (early favorites to be Superbowl bound) are mired at 6-5 after losses to Buffalo and Arizona(!), and the SuperSonics have come out of nowhere to grab the NBA's best record (13 and 2, as of this writing).

Is this trend an illusion, like clutch hitting, or is the Jet City, dare I say it, cursed? Something to ponder as you enjoy your double, tall, half-caf mochachino.

Black Friday

The day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day of the year, is traditionally known as "Black Friday." One might conclude that this colloquialism has negative connotations, similar to the Great Depression's Black Tuesday. But one would be wrong. The orgiastic day of descent into consumption is not shrouded in any cynicism or dread. The "black" refers to retailers moving into the black for the first time of the year, on the way to end-of-year profit reporting.

Thus concludes today's lesson in soulless consumerism.

First in War, First in Peace, Last in the National League?

It was disappointing to see the new DC baseball franchise has been tenatively named the Washington Nationals, as announced yesterday. In the great spirit of DC, the team name represents a nobody-wins compromise between two highly suspect parties. "The Mayor was on Grays," [team president Tony ] Tavares said. "Bud [Selig] was on Senators. I think you see a compromise candidate." Added to the fact that this project will undoubtably cost DC taxpayers an arm and a leg, the ex-Expos are already taking after their adopted city.

I don't really mind "The Nats." I suppose DC residents should be glad the team didn't end up being named after a fearsome mammal or fish (especially considering that a team called the Potomacs once played here, it could have been much worse). Still, baseball had a chance to do something bold and gave it a miss. I encourage whoever ends up owning this team to consider changing the name (again) to the Grays, but it's probably too late. I'd say that the greatest Negro league team in history is a more promising legacy than the Senators, a team that managed only one World Series victory in 70 years. I'm personally encouraging the ghosts of Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige to roam Bud Selig's Milwaukee mansion until he has a change of heart.

There is always the option of me making a bid for the team and changing the name. I'll throw in all the money in my wallet ($4 and a bus token). I guess I could also take the George W. Bush route and get my father's friends to give me enough money for a controlling interest. So, George H.W. Bush, can a brother get a dime?

Prototype Advertising Campaign

In the interest of increasing readership and circulation (and cash flow--cha-ching!!!), we here at "Expecting Rain" have hired an established Manhattan agency to develop several prototype advertising campaigns. Below are a few examples of concepts currently under consideration.

• "Want unfettered access to Eli's thoughts, but find speaking to him just too burdensome? Try 'Expecting Rain'!"
• "Do you find yourself feeling fatigued? Lonely? Not finding the same joy in everyday experiences? Until Oxycontin is available over-the-counter, try 'Expecting Rain'!"
• "'Expecting Rain.' Please, don't encourage him."

Somebody Has a Case of the Mondays

First thing Monday morning found our hero digging through the garbage like a raccoon, an inauspicious start to a week if ever there was one. Will Tuesday find me fishing crawdads out of Rock Creek? I was after something mistakenly thrown away, which is as good a reason as I've heard for never cleaning the apartment.

Bush-Cheney '04 signs continue to blight my neighborhood utility poles and lampposts. They are too high to pull down, almost as if Rockets center Yao Ming placed them there (I know he's Red Chinese, but he does spend a fair amount of time in Texas). Political advertising (aside from Ward 6 candidates) was noticeably absent from public property on Capitol Hill in the run-up to November 2. Suddenly, two days before the election, the Bush-Cheney signs appeared, like a nasty herpes flare-up the night of a big date.

It seemed a black omen that these signs should spring up in bluest of blue America so close to the election. I guess Karl Rove knew something I didn't.

Signs of things to come?

Brawl in the Family

I'm always interested in "Shark vs. Lion"-type fight comparisons, thus it behooves me to mention the vicious one-two punch of the Ron Artest-Jermaine O'Neal tag team. Last night at the Palace at Auburn Hills, these two dynamos took on fans and players alike. Attempts to blind them with beer only made Artest angry, and you don't want to see Ron Artest angry.

Part of their success against the fans stems from complimentary fighting styles. Artest seems to favor the right hook, taking advantage of his superior reach (and proving that music is not his only other alternative career). He made a quick retreat from the stands after the initial flurry of punches, drawing his opponents out into the open ground and demonstrating a strategic brilliance worthy of the young Ali. For a study in contrasts, O'Neal prefers to get in close for the body blows, sliding in to deliver a jab to the face. Is there another duo currently playing basketball that could take on these two in a cage-match to the death?

Work Now Hazardous to My Health

In a recently released study, Japanese researchers discovered a correlation between time spent staring at a computer screen and the degenerative eye disease glaucoma. As if further proof was needed of work being hazardous to my health. At least I can get some medical marijuana out of the deal.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Who knew it'd be so hard to find pictures of midgets on the internet?

Although my memories of holidays past may be colored by the wide-eyed idealism of a young child, somehow I don't recall "The Christmas Season" ever starting the day after fucking Halloween. We find ourselves now in mid-November, deluged by exhortations to buy buy buy, for 'tis the season to prop up the consumer economy with an ever-weakening dollar. Spend those tax cuts now, because soon they won't be worth the paper they're printed on. (I'm not a Commie, just a concerned citizen).

Speaking of economic disaster, this brings me to another point that I've seen no comment upon from the liberal elites at the New York Times: are we in danger of eliminating the need for midgets to act as elves in holiday commercials? Every year finds a group of wee men in green stockings presenting that old fuddy duddy Santa with some gadget that the kids just have to find under the tree Christmas morning (such as the Cingular Wireless commercial that's been in heavy rotation lately). The holiday season seems to be when midgets get the majority of their television work. However, recent advances in film special effects, most strikingly seen in "The Lord of the Rings" and "Elf," threaten to render the "little people" irrelevant. Why would one hire midgets to play these roles if they can just hire short actors and shrink them, a la Bob Newhart? If they aren't careful, the little people could find their lucrative holiday commercial jobs outsourced and become resigned to bit roles in Austin Powers sequels and exploitation television like "The Littlest Groom." They'll always have live roles to fill at Santa's Village in malls everywhere, but that will mean leaving LA--a vagabond life. I just hope they have a good union.

What Does Your Cube Say About You?

According to this fascinating article from MSN, there is a great deal you can tell about a person from their cubicle (I'll reserve judgement on the sad state of the American workplace and just take it all in at face value). Does your cube say, "That you're a bland corporate drone with no interests outside of work? That your mind is as cluttered as your desktop?" Or does it say, as it does for a certain Marcia Davis, that your obsession is cows?

This got me to thinking: what can one tell about me from the space in which I am confined for up to eight hours a day? Let's take a brief tour:
The two nods to what might be referred to as "art," a Hopper calendar and a velvet painting of a deer, indicate that I am a snob but fancy myself a hipster. The CDs sitting atop George Bush's face on the (unread) November 15, 2004 Newsweek demonstrate both my impeccable indie-rock cred (Elliott Smith, Decemberists, White Stripes, Simon and Garfunkel) and my utter inability to process any more political news.

The instructions for various filing procedures and computer programs pinned to the walls are evidence of my amazing technical prowess, while the scattered office supplies (pens of all colors, clans of Post-It Notes, staple removers and to-do listed legal pads) clearly show how my organizational skills equal success. Piles of papers and battlements of document boxes fill the remaining space. There are also two empty 20 oz. Diet Coke bottles, evidence that caffeine addiction is harder to kick than heroin (How do I know this? How do you think I managed to kick the heroin?)

What does this all add up to? I'll leave that to any aspiring Freuds in the audience. But for what it's worth, it says to me that I'd rather be elsewhere.

Admitting You Have A Problem Is the First Step

It's not that I'm addicted to Diet Coke, it's just that I can't function without it.

Who's Up Next?

With the death of Yasir Arafat creating a vacuum in the Palestinian leadership, the jockying for his successor (and those billions of looted dollars) has begun in earnest. But another void has been created by his death, that of Ugliest World Leader. The past few decades have seen the demise of many truly hideous world leaders, leaving a field about as depleted as the bottom-half of the AL Central. This I suppose is an unavoidable by-product of the television age.

The obvious choice to replace Arafat, in looks as well as fashion, is North Korean "peerless leader" Kim Jong-Il. Ironically though, one of the dark horses for top spot is Arafat's long-time nemesis, Ariel Sharon. Thus, time marches on.

Why Can't We Breed Cats to Enormous Size?

This has bothered me for some time. Despite 5,000 years of domestication from the Egyptians on, we have not attained the broad range of sizes in house cats that we find in dogs. If the canus domesticus breeds can acheive sizes and appearances as disparate as the Great Pyranees and Chinese Crested, why then do we not yet have cats the size of a pony or hamster, respectively? I view this as a failure of imagination almost as egregious as humanity's inability to make an imitation crab that tastes more like real crab.

Auto-eroticism

Performs best while parked

We're pleased to introduce a new feature here at "Expecting Rain": car reviews. We plan to make this a regular feature...as regularly as we rent cars, which means biennially. The fine automobile we'll be reviewing today is the Kia Rio, or, as we shall refer to it in this space, "La Poderosa." The MSRP of the Rio is $10,390, which coincidentally is also the asking price of a healthy white baby on the black market.

We had the pleasure of taking La Poderosa through its paces on the streets and freeways of Southern California, site of so many memorable car chases from Hollywood films and also "World's Wildest Police Videos." However, without the reassuring voice-over work of Sherriff John Bunnell or Michael Bay's Tourette's Syndrome editing, the experience was found lacking.

The acceleration and handling leave much to be desired, and the compact body fails to intimidate as sports cars bedecked in primary colors and superfluous spoilers passed on all sides. A little more intimidation factor couldn't have hurt when we were aced out of that parking spot in Westwood, either.

Although trunk space is ample, the leg room in the back seat is insufficient for all except perhaps former Georgia senator Max Cleland. Thus, unless one is a struggling actor with no self-respect to begin with, La Poderosa is not the way to go if one is planning on rolling down the mean streets of Compton or the gilded avenues of Beverly Hills.

In conclusion, one would be better served by dropping ten grand on a healthy white baby, which incidentally holds its Private Party Resale Value better than the Rio.

Please, Mr. Postman

Gibbard and Tamborello

Just in case anybody missed the amusing dust-up between Ben Gibbard side-project The Postal Service and the actual US Postal Service, there was a bit of a fracas concerning the use of the copyrighted name. For some time it appeared as though the band might have to change their moniker to "The Postal Cervix," but all has been resolved. As part of the settlement, the band must perform at the annual postmaster general's convention (sure to be the rockingest venue since that air force base in "Spinal Tap") and in exchange the USPS hawks "Give Up" on their website. Indie-rock and the US government, now that's a match made in heaven.

Another Military Disaster

In a show of solidarity to our fighting men and women, I was trying to hold back judgement, but this latest atrocity is just too much to bear. It is time to call for the immediate sacking of whichever Pentagon or Bush Administration official is in charge of code-naming our various operations and wars of choice. As the Marines assualt Fallujah, they are doing so under the name "Operation Phantom Fury." They have been planning this assualt since last July, so it's difficult to believe that no thought went into this (or am I being naive, since there doesn't seem to have been any planning beyond flowers, candy and instant Jeffersonian democracy?).

Were the individual or individuals in charge aware that the definition of "phantom," in addition to a ghost, also means "ficticious" or "nonexistent"? For example: The phantom weapons of mass destruction... Is the irony of Phantom Fury intentional? Doubtful, if one may judge by the earnest stupidity found in the dubbings of other Bush II-era operations: Operation Enduring Freedom, Operation Infinite Justice, etc (seriously, how asinine).

No matter where you come down on the spectrum from hawk to dove, you have to admit that we've had some pretty cool names for miliatry operations down through history. Like "Operation Overlord", that's a pretty cool name. Or what about "Rolling Thunder"? Or "Desert Storm"? Hell, even "Operation Marketgarden," which should suck as a name (not to mention an operation), still manages to trip merrily off the tongue.

With "Operation Cleaning House" now underway in the Bush cabinet, it's time for the Secretary in Charge of Naming Stuff to get the boot. Isn't that a better way to support the troops?

Happy Trails...

...to Attorney General John Ashcroft, who jumped from the ship of state today, along with Commerce Secretary Don "Big Pun" Evans. Will the resignation lift the stench of failure and abuse-of-power that has hovered, Pig Pen-like, over his tenure? Allow me to quote Paul Krugman: "John Ashcroft is the worst attorney general in history.

But hey, we'll miss you, big guy. You were able to intimidate a lot of young, brown men with the Justice Department's merciless rounds of interrogations and deportations. Too bad every press conference prediction you made of an impending terrorist attack turned out to be untrue, but at least you frightened a lot of white people in the Midwest.

It may be a little premature to begin discussion of who will succeed Ashcroft at Justice, but I would like to cast an early vote for Augustus Garland. He has plenty of experience, serving as Attorney General during the Grover A. Cleveland administration. Sure he's been dead since 1899, but as was shown by the victory of Mel Carnahan over Ashcroft in the Missouri senatorial race, Ashcroft can be ably replaced by a dead man with few negative effects. Do I hear a second for the bewhiskered gentleman from Arkansas?

Cold Turkey

I am trying to kick the following:

Carbonated Water (mostly benign, possibly explains "refreshingness")
Caramel Color (for that alluring, mystery brownness)
Aspartame (Much like Reese Witherspoon: sweet, artificial, causes cancer in rats)
Phosphoric Acid (for the chemical burn)
Potassium Benzoate (to keep us docile during the Rapture)
Natural Flavors (?)
Citric Acid (Vitamin C, for health!)
Caffeine (my true master, dastardly by-product of the kola nut)

Democracy Works (Against Me)

I guess one cannot spend the next four years in a fetal position, muttering "so cold, so cold" to oneself. No dammit, one is expected to rise from one's bed of carpet, to shower, to brush one's teeth, to crawl from one's (metaphorical?) Jack Daniels' bottle and get on with life. Perhaps visit one of our nation's national parks, while they are still there.

In the five days since the election, I have passed through the five Kubler-Ross "Stages of Grief," and now find myself with a tenuous grip on "acceptance." This is, of course, vulnerable to backsliding. It's entirely possible I remain lodged between anger and denial, as evidenced by my fading hope that several thousand uncounted ballots are waiting to be found in a Toledo church basement (a concession speech isn't legally binding, after all!).

Mes amis will all have our cri de couers, check real estate prices in Vancouver and reassure ourselves with cold comforts like "perhaps getting our asses handed to us for 20 of the last 28 years is the best thing that could happen to the Democratic party."

Solace

Since my attitude hasn't gotten any sunnier after listening to Kerry's concession speech, I must seek solace in other quarters. I just have to readjust my expectations, like when I wrote off the Mariners' season back in May. Only now the "team" plays year round, and they'll suck for four seasons straight. Yeah, that's the ticket. And if that fails, there's always screaming into pillows or pointless acts of vandalism.

Tell it on the hill, Woody:

"The world is filled with people who are no longer needed
And who try to make slaves of all of us
And they have their music and we have ours.
Theirs, the wasted songs of a superstitious nightmare.
And without their musical and ideological miscarriages to compare our songs of freedom to,
We'd not have any opposite to compare music with
And like the drifting wind, hitting against no obstacle, we'd never know its speed, its power."

The Day After

Now that I've had a chance to sleep for three hours, my despair has mellowed into a quiet, depressive rage. Still, if I see Rudy Giuliani's smug face on the television anytime soon I'm going to huck my shoe at him. The respite from news watching will make this post readable for young children. If I could have gotten online last night, it would have been a long string of expletives.

As it stands, I'll let my good buddy W.B. Yeats set the mood:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

...The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

On Second Thought...

...nevermind. I did some checking and there's just no money in avante-garde artistry. Gotta keep myself in New Balance sneakers, after all.

A New Direction

I have decided to quit my job and become a avant-garde artist working exclusively in the medium of bookmark (fashionable and utilitarian!). Not that my time as a paralegal hasn't been rewarding. I just don't think anything else I do in the legal world will top that one time when I fixed the automatic stapler in the Xerox machine on the fifth floor. When you've already achieved such a wild success, everything else pales in comparison, thus time to move on.

A Retraction

Upon further review of the previous post, I have determined that it shows "weakness," and as we all know, weakness emboldens our terrorist enemies.

Health Tip

In case you were thinking of consuming mussels, french fries, roasted pumpkin seeds and a Snicker bar in a single evening, don't.

Burnout

The undeniable sign that I had reached campaign '04 burnout came last Friday night. In a dream, I was walking through a glorious, sylvan forest. The sun was shining, birds singing, deer foraging in the underbrush...when suddenly, I was surrounded on all sides by wolves, a la the Bush-Cheney ad "Wolves". Ever closer they circled, more and more of them, baring their fangs and closing in until...until...

I don't know if you've seen this commercial, but it combines footage of wolves in a forest with the following ominous voice-over:

"In an increasingly dangerous world…
Even after the first terrorist attack on America…
John Kerry and the liberals in Congress voted to slash America’s intelligence operations.
By 6 billion dollars…
Cuts so deep they would have weakened America’s defenses.
And weakness attracts those who are waiting to do America harm."

Subtle, no? This was just the most obvious sign of campaign burnout, but I had to take a week off of reading the papers, studying the polls, worrying about the effects of a Redskins victory on voter turnout in Milwaukee. But after a relaxing weekend spent eating Snicker bars and watching football, I'm back, baby.