The baseball stuff has moved!

If you are a regular reader, thank you thank you thank you! If you are looking for my stuff related to baseball, you will now find it exclusively at my Braves Lifer blog. I will continue to post musings on other things here. 'preciate it, as always.

Leo as Mr. Frank, but where's Der Bingle's story?

Leonardo DiCaprio will portray Frank Sinatra in a Martin Scorsese biopic. That means that, unlike "Titanic", I won't be rooting for him to drown. "Titanic" could have been saved if Kate Winslett had also drowned. Instead, it became, arguably, the biggest inducer of flaccidity in movie history, but I digress.

You won't find a bigger Sinatra fan than yours truly. Our toddler could sing "I've Got You Under My Skin" before she could speak a complete sentence. There are many who will criticize the choice of Leo since he won't be doing his own singing (though he tried, according to various reports). I disagree and think he will make a fine Frank as long as he doesn't pull a Kasem and have Sinatra the movie character predict global warming. (Pulling a 'Kasem' refers to legendary disc jockey and voice guy Casey Kasem. He was the longtime voice of Scooby Doo's Shaggy, and when Kasem became a militant vegetarian, he refused to voice scenes in which Shaggy and Scoob indulged in copious amounts of meat.)

That said, it makes me a sad Panda that Sinatra's story will be told yet again while the story of a man who was a much bigger star has never been told on the movie screen.

When folks think of Bing Crosby, they mistakenly simply think of the guy who was the big celebrity of one generation before Sinatra came along to displace him. Sort of like Elvis before the Beatles or being a loser hippie before being a responsible human being. Not true. Bing may have been the biggest celebrity in the nation's history in terms of overall popularity. Yes, even bigger than Lady Gaga, Ryan Seacrest's closet, or even "Who Let The Dogs Out!" Beginning in the early 1930's when he went solo full time, Bing was the biggest musical star in the world. He sold an enormous number of records, even during the Depression. Bing was feared by mostly older folks who thought every young woman could be wooed by his singing, and most of the rest of us guys have been wooing ever since, though some woos are bigger than others.

When Bing began hosting radio shows in 1932, his quickly became one of the highest-rated shows on the air. In 1936, he took over the "Kraft Music Hall" show on NBC Radio, making it an institution for the next decade, and the only American Idol number that even comes close is the number of Paula Abdul's prescriptions. After that, Bing took his show to ABC and, later, CBS after he became one of the first big stars to insist on tape-recording his shows, virtually creating the pre-recording industry in America by himself. The only unfortunate side effect of that was the birth of those shows where Dick Clark and Ed McMahon pretended to laugh at the TV bloopers.

From the first time he starred in a feature film in 1932's "The Big Broadcast", Bing was the biggest movie star in America. Even when the movies stunk, as many of them did, people still bought tickets to see Bing. Indeed, when it comes to ticket sales, Bing is the third-biggest movie star of all time, trailing only Clark Gable and John Wayne, and ahead of Jimmy Stewart and Optimus Prime. Der Bingle was also respected by his peers as evidenced by his Best Actor Oscar in 1944 for "Going My Way." And just when most people thought Bing's was getting long in the teeth, 1954's "White Christmas" became the biggest-grossing movie of the then-50-year-old Bing's career, taking in $30 million at the box office at a time when the average cost of a movie ticket was 50 cents. Adjusted for inflation, that would be almost $238 million in 2008, or enough for Washington to "stimulate" the repaving of my driveway.

There is no question that Sinatra was a phenomenal entertainer. He sold a lot of records and albums, had a fairly popular radio show (and some good but not-so-popular TV shows), and made some great movies, including his Oscar-winning role in 1953's "From Here To Eternity." But Bing was the country's single biggest star of three mediums (records, radio, and film) for at least two decades, and maybe three. So why is Sinatra revered, even by those of us who weren't around in his prime, while Bing might as well be as old as the Magna Carta? I believe there are a few reasons, and they have nothing to do with Bing being big before the Lord re-created the world in Technicolor in the late 1930's and 40's (yes, Adam and Eve were in black in white).

First, Bing stopped performing concerts in the early '30's, and according to his biographer Gary Giddins, he didn't resume live performances on the stage until the 1970's just before his death. Frankly (no pun intended), Bing didn't need concert tours to sell records or movie tickets. But a lot of people saw Sinatra perform live over the years, either solo or with members of the Rat Pack, and some of those shows became myths and legends of their own. Sinatra kept performing long after he forgot the words and the music to the songs. But rather than people feeling sorry for him as you did watching Dale Murphy in a Colorado Rockies uniform, those last concerts boosted his god-like status even more. Ironically, it was Sinatra's attendance at one of Bing's last live concerts of the 30's that led to Frank's decision to be a singer.

Secondly, Sinatra's children have played King Midas with his image, his music, his everything better than Warren Buffett managed the first dollar of his investment portfolio. Nancy, Frank Jr., and Tina have been masterful at keeping their dad alive long after his passing. Crosby's children, on the other hand, have mostly called each other names, notably when son Gary Crosby wrote his "biography" claiming Bing was akin to the 'pre-Buster Douglas' Mike Tyson when dealing with his kids. While Bing never made any secret of his use of the good, old fashioned whoopin', just as it was used on him by his parents and by the Jesuits at Gonzaga High School and University, Gary's claims appear to have been greatly exaggerated to help a failed singer and actor make some money off the family name.

Finally, and this is not a virtue, America loves Sinatra because America loves talking about sex. Deny this fact of life at your own peril, and when it comes to sex, Sinatra was, um, experienced. Frank started cheating on first wife Nancy even before they were married, and the escapades didn't stop until he married fourth wife Barbara (ex-wife of Zeppo) Marx in 1976, and maybe not until long after then. The notion that guys who slept around were cool gained traction with the rise of Hugh Hefner and "Playboy" in the 50's, just as Sinatra's resurgence was beginning. John F. Kennedy, despite having a libido resume as long as Gene Simmons, is still a media darling, mostly because of women who wish they had had a drink from the Vineyard, and Sinatra was a huge fan of JFK and helped secure, um, entertainment for him until Kennedy distanced himself because of Sinatra's ties to mobsters. Bill Clinton, ditto. While Der Bingle did get around before he was married and (allegedly) got around some later during his first marriage, he was not famous for his peccadillos as were most of Hollywood's leading men of the day, with the exception of straight-laced Fred Astaire. So, in adherence to our "modern" way of thinking, if Bing wasn't sleeping with anything that hath breath, he must not have been that cool.

Don't take this as bashing of Sinatra. I will cherish every moment I listen to Frank until the day I die. I also can't wait to see Leo's depiction of The Leader, as I have a feeling it will be excellent. But there are many stars, like Bing Crosby, who were bigger and more influential than Sinatra whose lives apparently can't be sexed-up enough to warrant their introduction to the next generation.

Countdown to the DL

"It was a brief nightmare for Braves Nation, but it’s over," writes Atlanta Braves beat writer David O'Brien in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. That means the countdown for Jair Jurrjens to land on the disabled list begins in five, four, three.....

I don't mean to be a Moanin' Minnie, but an MRI on Jurrjens's sore pitching shoulder not showing any damage is only slightly better news than Scott Brown's win in Massachusetts was for Democrats. There is a reason Jurrjens is hurting, and while we Braves fans hope Jair is the exception to the rule, that type of pain, like a bad idea from a politician, usually comes back. Sometimes it lands pitchers on the disabled list. Sometimes, they pretend the pain is a Tiger Woods mistress and hide it, thinking they can work through it with no one noticing. That is until your cover is blown and you either get a golf club inserted where golf clubs weren't meant to go or have a season like Brad Lidge in '09.

As Braves' blogger Alex Remington points out, Jurrjens is one of only 24 pitchers in the last 20 years to have a 215-inning season by the time he turned 23 years old:

(Mark Buehrle, Ramon Martinez, and Steve Avery each had more than one.) As you might imagine with any group of precocious young pitchers, the vast majority of them got injured or flamed out by their 30th birthday. Two of them are headed to the Hall of Fame: John Smoltz and Mike Mussina. Several are still in their prime: Buehrle, Javy Vazquez, Felix Hernandez, Matt Cain, the rejuvenated Ryan Dempster. A few are still active but close to ruined by injuries or ineffectiveness: Dontrelle Willis, Ben Sheets, Fausto Carmona, Sidney Ponson, and the perhaps-retired Mark Mulder. Of the rest, a few of them pitched meaningful innings into their 30s: Andy Benes (done by 34), Brad Radke (done by 33), Matt Morris (done by 33),and Livan Hernandez (somehow still around, at 34). The others were all more or less done by the end of their 20s.

Also, why are some folks describing Jurrjens as the best pitcher on the Braves' staff? While he did have the third-best ERA in the National League last year, he did it with only a fair-to-middlin' 6.4 strikeouts per 9 innings, down from 6.6 in '08. No, you don't have to strike out a lot of batters to be successful, but you can't compare Jair to someone like Tom Glavine as I have heard some do. Jair ain't Tom Glavine yet, and I don't remember Glavine ever having a sore arm. Also, in Glavine's breakout Cy Young season in '91, he struck out seven batters per nine innings and finished his career with a respectable 2,607 K's.

I am not wishing injury on anyone, especially one of my Braves. But if Jurrjens ends up on the DL in a few months, I wonder if Mr. O'Brien will revisit the "nightmare" that is supposed to be over? Makes me hope more than ever that John Smoltz is still available for one last run.

Oh, by the way, Tommy Hanson is 23. I'm just saying.

He's a pain, but he's somebody's friend

I am just as guilty as anyone. When encountering someone who is a genuine pain in the arse, you wait until the person is gone before sharing tall tales with others who have experienced their pain-in-the-arseness. My recently deceased step-grandfather was one of the biggest bigoted curmudgeons I have ever met, always hacked off at something and ready to assign blame to whichever group of people he felt like hating that day, usually minorities or Republicans. But when our kids, not knowing of course how we felt about it, would crawl up to him and give him a big smile, he melted into a giant purring pussy cat. How often we forget that there are people who genuinely like, sometimes even love, those who cause us to involuntarily reach for the nearest gun or giant carving knife at the mere sounds of their voices.

Baseball fans know Ty Cobb as one of the greatest players of all time. If you keep score of such geeky stat boy things as I do, he is number three on the all time WAR (Wins Above Replacement) list, trailing only Babe Ruth and The Incredible Hulk (the former Barry Bonds). Most everyone also knows that Cobb could be one of the meanest men in America and, as he hailed from segregationist Georgia, was a virulent racist. During a game in 1912 in New York, Cobb was being mercilessly heckled by Claude Lueker, a man with one arm and only two fingers on his lone hand. Cobb restrained himself until Lueker called Cobb a "half-n*****." The "Georgia Peach" went into the stands and beat up the man. When stunned onlookers shouted for him to stop, saying Lueker had no hands, Cobb retorted "I don't care if he got no feet." So most people respected Cobb the ballplayer but hated Cobb the man. But to James Fargo Lanier, Ty Cobb was like a father.

When Mr. Lanier was a boy in an area of Augusta, Georgia known as The Hill, Ty Cobb and his family were neighbors. Mr. Lanier befriended Cobb's middle son, Herschel Cobb, and when Ty Cobb was home during his off-seasons from the Detroit Tigers, he treated Mr. Lanier as if he were his own son. "Mr. Cobb was as fond of my dad as he was of his own children," said one of Mr. Lanier's sons, James McCrary Lanier, in an interview with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. "My dad grew up like a lot of young people fascinated and enamored by sports heroes. He looked at Mr. Cobb through the eyes of a child, even after he became an adult." Their relationship eventually led to what most boys at the time would consider a dream job, being a batboy with the Tigers during the 1925 and 1926 seasons. Mr. Lanier held Mr. Cobb in higher regard than did some members of Cobb's family, and would continue to do so until he passed away this past weekend at the age of 93.

If someone as mean and nasty as Ty Cobb can have a devotee such as Mr. Lanier, perhaps we should remember that next time we want to rip a new one into our favorite human punching bags. For our own reasons, we may not be able to stand the sight or sound of that yappy great aunt or second counsin. We may think we hate Barack Obama or George W. Bush, Bill Clinton or Rush Limbaugh. But for every ounce of hate we have for that person, someone else has that much love for the very same person, and vice versa for the people we love. So sorry if I ruined your day of hatin' on someone. Reading about Mr. Lanier's love for Ty Cobb sure ruined mine.

If Republicans want to kill their momentum, here's how

Everything seems to be going right for Republicans and wrong for Democrats these days. The Dems can and do try to blame Republicans for this, but they would have more credibility blaming the Animaniacs for surreptitiously dropping anvils on the heads of John Barrow and other Blue Dogs. Whether it was President Obama misreading his elective mandate, just as George W. Bush misread his after 2004, or Members of Congress being their usual incompetent selves, the Democratic majority has accomplished virtually nothing the party faithful clamored for in 2008. There is even talk that Republicans could take control of Congress in midterm elections this year, though I still believe that is unlikely. One reason it is unlikely is Dan Coats, the former Republican Senator from Indiana who has decided to run for his old office this year. What, were they not able to get Tom DeLay to change his residency? Did Richard Nixon's corpse politely decline to run?

The fact that Dan Coats is a candidate is the latest evidence that, apparently, no political party is capable of true change. They talk about change, they sometimes elect new blood, but they always revert to the same old, good ol' boy, back slapping, turning a blind eye to conflicts of interest shenanigans of the past. When Dan Coats speaks of himself as a conservative as he inevitably will, unless he is referring to his attempt to use a comb-over to conserve his head from the sunshine, he shouldn't be able to keep a straight face. The fact that moderate Democrat Evan Bayh chose to retire from the Senate rather than potentially face what should have been a cupcake opponent speaks volumes about what some Democrats think about their party these days.

Seriously, a Bayh-Coats race should be akin to Georgetown-Savannah State on the basketball court. Just before his retirement announcement, one poll had Bayh holding a 20-point lead over Coats in a hypothetical race. Why would this be the case in a time of Republican resurgency? Maybe it's because that since Coats left office in 1998 rather than face the opposition of Bayh, Coats has become a millionaire by lobbying for folks like Bank of America and Chrysler to receive millions of your (and my) tax dollars in the form of bailouts. Conservatives probably aren't enthralled that Coats has also lobbied for many companies that have become close allies of Obama, such as Google and the major pharmaceutical manufacturers. It is very ironic that Democrats are also attacking Coats for lobbying for those folks even though those companies were major supporters of health care and other portions of Obama's agenda. Oh, and did I mention that Coats also moved to and registered to vote in Virginia?

Just as Democrats are killing their 2008 revolution by moving away from appealing to folks other than their base of lefties, some Indiana Republicans seem ready to put a chink in the armor of the current GOP uprising by nominating one of the reasons they lost their majority in Congress. It seems that "change" always stays the same in Washington, because those in Washington apparently like it that way.

Bring Smoltzie Back, Mr. Wren

The excitement and sadness of September 27, 1987 still resonate to this day. Having already celebrated my 16th birthday and my new license to drive my own personal tank (a '77 Monte Carlo from which I would emerge scratch-free after running it into a ditch a few weeks later during a marching band scavenger hunt), it was 9/27 when my favorite baseball team was exorcising itself of one of the dumbest of many dumb moves it made through the '70's and '80's. Given the current state of John Smoltz's career, Braves' management today would do well to learn the lesson it should have learned from the way the team handled Phil Niekro more than two decades ago.

It was sunny in Atlanta when Niekro, 48 years old, took the mound for the final time. The reigning king of the knuckleball had been justifiably released earlier in the year by both the Cleveland Indians and Toronto Blue Jays and knew that his 24th big league season would be his last. The Braves, where Niekro spent the first 20 years of his big league life, signed him specifically so he could pitch his last game in his old home ballpark. For three innings, it was as if Niekro were 28 again, as he tossed shut out ball against the Giants. But the clock struck midnight in the fourth, as Knucksie gave up a couple of runs and left his final game with the bases loaded, runs driven in and charged to Niekro when Candy Maldonado hit a grand slam off reliever Chuck Cary, in what eventually was a blowout win for San Fran. Still, for those of us who grew up with an aging but effective Niekro as one of the few highlights of our lovable losers, it was wonderful to see him in a Braves' uniform one more time, especially since they shouldn't have let him go in the first place.

In 1983, a 44-year-old Niekro was a league-average pitcher for the Braves, going 11-10 with a 3.97 ERA (98 ERA+). When Ted Turner decided he was too old to pitch and should instead marry a hippie and join the front office, Niekro instead signed with the New York Yankees and proved him wrong, having his last excellent season in '84 (16-8, 3.09, 123 ERA+). Knucksie followed with a league-average season at age 46 (16-12, 4.09, 98 ERA+), with his final win of 1985 being number 300 for his career. After George Steinbrenner decided he was too old to pitch and should instead join the front office and fire George Castanza, the Indians signed Niekro. Amazingly, he was almost league-average again at age 47 (11-11, 4.32, 96 ERA+) before the old knuckleball finally gave up the ghost in '87.

So besides being good PR to keep one of your icons in your team's uniform for his entire career, would an average pitcher who avoided injury have helped the Braves on the field during those years? Let's look at Atlanta's staff in the years Niekro was still effective, 1984-86. In '84, the Braves had just two pitchers make at least 29 starts and have a league-average or better season, Rick Mahler (123 ERA+) and Pascual Perez (103). In '85, that number was again two, Mahler at 118 and Steve Bedrosian at 100. In '86, the only decent Braves starter was David Palmer, who made 35 starts with an ERA+ of 108. While Knucksie certainly wouldn't have helped those pathetic teams make the playoffs, the Braves most assuredly would have been better than 80-82, 66-96, and 72-89 those three seasons with Niekro on the hill every fifth day.

Atlanta now faces a similar conundrum with Smoltz, who turns 43 in May. Number 29 doesn't have a team right now, and Jeff Schultz of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution says Bobby Cox placed a call to Smoltzie recently. For Smoltz to come back to Atlanta, either for a full season or as a late-season addition, general manager Frank Wren would have to eat a big plate of fried crow over grits. Despite clear evidence that Smoltz had recovered from what felt like his 87th surgery in 2008, Wren decided it was a fabulous time to do Brett Favre role play and not make up his mind on re-signing Smoltz. Granted, it appeared that Wren was prescient when Smoltz signed with the Red Sox and promptly rang up an 8.32 ERA in eight starts before the Sox gave up on him. But then, the Cardinals signed Smoltz, and he showed he still had something left with an ERA just barely below league-average (4.26, 96 ERA+), as well as 40 strikeouts in 38 innings over 7 starts. Mr. Wren should loosen his belt and chow down, because Smoltzie doesn't belong in any other uniform than the one with the tomahawk across the belly.

Signing Smoltz would help Wren extricate himself from the first serious mistake of his tenure. An icon who should never have left the team will be back where he belongs, and unlike Niekro, he could help the Braves get to the postseason. Smoltz will probably tell you he can still be an effective starter, and the Braves probably don't have room in their rotation for him right now. At this point, though, I bet Smoltz would rather pitch than not pitch, and as Martha Stewart always says, an extra arm in the bullpen is a good thing. Especially when that arm can still throw 92 and belongs to one of the greatest relief pitchers in Braves' history. Atlanta repeated a bad portion of that history with their dismissal of Smoltz just over a year ago. Let's hope they take advantage of the golden opportunity before them to correct it.

Chipper calls Johnny

Johnny Damon: "Hello?"

Chipper: "Johnny, it's Chipper."

Damon: "Hey, Larry. Sup?"

Chipper: "Don't call me Larry (spit)."

Damon: "Okay, Uncle Lar. But I hit better than you last year."

Chipper: "Yep (spit) you did. Shore was nice of the Yankees to show their gratitude by offerin' you all that money."

Damon: "Ummm, I was in an episode of "Arthur" once. When I was a Red Sock."

Chipper: "Listen. Frank Wren wants me to do his job for him. Again. He told me, hang on a second. (Unfurls crumpled up piece of paper) We....would...be....honored...if....you....woed, oh, sorry, would....play...with...the....br...br...bra--ves. Heh heh, I need a 'Hooked On Phonics' refresher."

Damon: "I don't know, Lar. I mean, I know I'm 36, I'm slowing down, and my defense has more holes than Tiger Woods's stories, but I really feel as if I have been shown a lot of disrespect for my overall career by these lousy offers. I really did have a good season last year, Lar. I don't understand why teams haven't made me any decent offers for more than one year yet.

Chipper: "We ain't got 'roids to make us younger anymore."

Damon: "Aw (bleep), your right. Ummmmmm, I did an episode of 'Queer Eye' once. Seriously, Lar, I think I am worth more than a one-year contract. I believe I can still make good contact, I can still steal a few bases, hit a few homers, and my numbers should be better if I am playing in the weaker National League. I really don't know if I should sign with the Braves unless they want to add a second year to the deal."

Chipper: "Uhhh, we got Hooters. And I'm the president of their Headlights Club."

Damon: "Oh. Okay. See you in Orlando!"

Me, myself, and McCarthyism

"Dr." Andrew Wakefield, the "scientist" who was discredited last week by Britain's General Medical Council more than a decade after that same council legitimized him, has finally spoken about the rejection of his studies that supposedly link autism with the measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) vaccine. Well, that is if the doc has bleached his hair blond and grown breasts. Here is part of the statement issued in defense of Mr. Wakefield (sorry, I will not call him Dr.) from those world-renowned experts on medical science, Jim McCarthy and Jenny Carrey:

Despite rampant misreporting, Dr. Wakefield's original paper regarding 12 children with severe bowel disease and autism never rendered any judgment whatsoever on whether or not vaccines cause autism, and The Lancet's retraction gets us no closer to understanding this complex issue.

In related news, Bill Clinton admitting to an affair with Monica Lewinsky never rendered any judgment whatsoever on whether or not that affair actually took place. Oh, and this little tidbit that was on the website of JennyJim's pet group Generation Rescue:

Generation Rescue believes that childhood neurological disorders such as autism, Asperger’s, ADHD/ADD, speech delay, sensory integration disorder, and many other developmental delays are all misdiagnoses for mercury poisoning.

Well, never mind. That statement isn't on the website any more. Generation Rescue now merely claims that autism was caused by exposure to Sarah Palin speeches. More from Dr. Jenny:

The retraction from The Lancet was a response to a ruling from England's General Medical Council, a kangaroo court where public health officials in the pocket of vaccine makers served as judge and jury. Dr. Wakefield strenuously denies all the findings of the GMC and plans a vigorous appeal.

Vaccine makers have only one pocket between them? I just read a couple of great books on sartorial king Fred Astaire, and I know those English tailors make better suits than that. Maybe Jenny, or Jim or whichever press hack actually wrote the statement, meant to say pouch since they brought kangaroos into the discussion.

For the past decade, parents in our community have been clamoring for a relatively simple scientific study that could settle the debate over the possible role of vaccines in the autism epidemic once and for all: compare children who have been vaccinated with children who have never received any vaccines and see if the rate of autism is different or the same.

You know, she (he? it?) is absolutely right. We need one study to say once and for all whether there is a link. The Institute of Medicine has done only eight studies on the subject already, and the fact that those eight studies found no link between vaccines and autism shows just how desperately we need that one last study that isn't in anyone's pocket or pockets. Except the pocket that holds Mr. Wakefield's $270,000 annual salary from a non-profit; that pocket is a-okay. As for those dozens of other studies that haven't found any connection between autism and vaccines? Why, those should also be the impetus to let Mr. Wakefield do the scientific work that gets us the result that we want!! And while we wait for that study to come out, why don't you head over to our "non-profit" website and stock up on some $99 books and some gluten-free goodies that will wash that autism right out of your child's hair.

Jenny (kind of makes you have a Forest Gump moment when you say that, doesn't it?) goes on to argue that the only reason the medical council chose now to distance itself from Mr. Wakefield is that he and some other "scientists" are about to publish that one, definitive, "my research is bigger than yours" study involving monkeys. Never mind that the journal publishing the study, Neurotoxicology, is being criticized by many reputable scientists for publishing the work of someone who fraudulently obtained material for his previous "study." Oh, sorry. The journal is just about to publish the new study, as Jenny explains:

Dr. Wakefield and his scientific colleagues are on the brink of publishing their entire study, which followed the monkeys through the U.S. childhood vaccine schedule over a multi-year period. It is our understanding that the difference in outcome for the vaccinated monkeys versus the unvaccinated controls is both stark and devastating.

Jenny would have better luck gaining credibility if she tried to re-publish Peter Gabriel's hit "Shock The Monkey." I don't have to tell you that the first portion of Wakefield's monkey study published last October has already been discredited by a lot of people a lot smarter than me. But you have to give the guy credit. In his latest study, he used a grand total of 14 monkeys. That's two more monkeys than the number of kids Wakefield used in his original 1998 study designed to scare parents into paying him a boatload of money. I know that I would trust a study of 14 monkeys a whole lot more than I trust a study of 537,000 children published eight years ago that showed no link between vaccines and autism. That study, of course, found that the entire country of Denmark, at least the men and women doing that thing you do to bear children, were paid off by vaccine companies.

Speaking of being paid off, I am so glad that ripping Mrs. Fire Marshal Bill has bought me that yacht and that beachfront mansion on Tybee I have always wanted:

Led by the pharmaceutical companies and their well-compensated spokespeople, Dr. Wakefield is being vilified through a well-orchestrated smear campaign designed to prevent this important new work from seeing the light of day.

Being Californians, Jenny and Jim should by now have seen the work of ace consumer TV reporter Rick Romero, who has the greatest living mustache and is the poster boy for obvious statements (if you are a fan of Fark.com, I needn't say more). I hope Rick sends the McCarthys one of those fancy, new electronic mail messages detailing his special report next week, "The Internet. How this new technology can help you spread the word about anything."

Thanks to the web, you can get a legion of folks to believe just about anything. Do you believe the president is a secret Muslim alien throat-wobbler mango? Do you think Glenn Beck is using poisonous gold underwear to get everyone to kiss his bootay? If you believe such blather, you can find those of like mind on the internet. You can say just about anything on the web and get away with it, so the only people with the power to silence Mr. Wakefield are whoever writes the paychecks from Jim and Jenny's account.

So despite losing another match to the truth, the crowd parroting the latest version of McCarthyism says it will continue to push for a "cure" for autism. I will leave that to someone else who is bit more qualified to speak on the subject than Jenny or I am, Dr. Temple Grandin. The autistic Dr. Grandin is a famous lecturer and professor of animal studies at Colorado State University whose life was just made into an HBO movie starring Claire Danes. When asked by MSNBC if there needed to be a "cure" for autism, Dr. Grandin replied;

I believe there’s a point where mild autistic traits are just normal human variation. Mild autism can give you a genius like Einstein. If you have severe autism, you could remain nonverbal. You don’t want people to be on the severe end of the spectrum. But if you got rid of all the autism genetics, you wouldn’t have science or art. All you would have is a bunch of social ‘yak yaks.’

Someone desperately needs to sell Dr. Grandin some of Jenny's "Nana's No-Gluten Cookies", as she is obviously out of control. How dare she refer to Jenny and Jim as yaks. They aren't nearly that hairy, at least as far as we know. They are simply intolerant of those who disagree with them, even when those who disagree have all the evidence on their side. They are McCarthyites in the truest sense of the word.

NOTE: This column makes several references to Jim McCarthy and Jenny Carrey (yes, I transposed their names on purpose) that might be confusing. Just so as to avoid this confusion;

Jim Carrey, formerly a very funny man and vastly underrated actor, is now the companion of Jenny McCarthy.

Jenny McCarthy, formerly nekkid in magazines, now believes she can cure autism and you can't because she has all of Jim Carrey's money at her disposal.

No link between vaccines and autism....again

When your opinion of a subject is vindicated, the human temptation is to pull a pro wrestling's Degeneration X, making a lewd gesture toward a certain part of your anatomy while telling the person with the opposing viewpoint to "Su--- --!" Okay, maybe that's just my temptation. It hit me when I read the news that the British medical journal The Lancet had retracted it's 1998 study saying there may have been a link between childhood vaccines and autism. But as a parent of an autistic child, I truly have no ill feelings toward other autism-spectrum parents. I feel sorry that they were duped by a "doctor" whose study methods apparently were later adopted by the British climate scientists.

I take that back. I don't feel entirely sorry for Jenny McCarthy. My thoughts on her are already documented, and while I do empathize with her as a parent, her sanctimoniousness toward the rest of the world ever since she decided to put on her clothes and try to speak in complete sentences has been nauseating. Nevertheless, I suspect that some "news" show will put her on television again to rebut science, since Jenny has for whatever reason become the poster mom of autism parents. Does this mean I have to get nekkid for a magazine to be taken seriously?

Well, I suppose it's either take off the clothes or take the route to seriousness used by "Dr." Andrew Wakefield. All he had to do to be taken seriously for the last dozen years or so was essentially fake a medical study and get a dozen of his fellow doctors to jump on his gravy train. Despite The Lancet now admitting that he is largely full of hooey, many people will still take Wakefield seriously, and he will probably continue to make a killing at his private clinic in Texas. Why any parent, regardless of their child's affliction, would take their kid to a doctor who would, at his own son's birthday party no less, pay kids eight bucks each to let him draw their blood for his "study" is beyond me.

I understand the frustration of parents who are desperate for a "cure" to autism. I am also sure the parents of someone born blind would love for them to be able to see. But my autistic daughter is doing great things, just as many great things have come from two good friends who haven't seen a thing in their entire lives. Gordon and Michael Mote were both born blind. All Gordon has done is become a phenomenal pianist who is one of Nashville's most sought-after musicians. Mike, an old radio partner of mine, runs a radio board better than anyone with sight I have ever known. They don't need a cure for their afflictions. Neither does my first-grader.

Already, something called the National Autism Association is criticizing The Lancet. "Certainly the retraction of this paper doesn't mean that MMR (the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine) doesn't cause autism and it's all a farce," said Wendy Fournier, the association's president. She adds that it is "possible" that the MMR vaccine causes autism, but "the science is not there in terms of the mechanism." Dangling by one finger to the clock's big hand as your 15 minutes of fame expires must be a tough thing. In other words, vaccines don't cause autism, but we still believe they do. I sure hope those parents love their autistic children as much as they love whoring themselves to the media.

The Olden Days

Boy, the way Glenn Miller played. Songs that made the hit parade. Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days. And you knew who you were then, girls were girls and men were men.

- from "Those Were The Days", theme song of "All In The Family"

Yes, yes, I admit it. I am Edith Bunker in disguise.

It ain't easy being 40 years older than you appear to be. A friend with whom I used to work in radio, a friend old enough to be my father, used to call me 'grandpa' because of my penchant for telling "in my day" stories. "In my day, musicians didn't wear all this black eye shadow, and black lipstick, singing about suicide all the time. The guys wore women's makeup and teased their hair five feet in the air, and they liked it. They LOVED it!" I didn't mind being called grandpa by a guy who actually was a grandpa. But having your kid point out your age is something completely different.

We are fortunate in that our first-grader not only loves to read, but also that she reads on a fifth-grade level. I am fortunate in that one of her favorite authors is Dan Gutman. Mr. Gutman is near and dear to my heart for a book he wrote prior to his sterling career as a children's book author, a baseball book called "It Ain't Cheatin' If You Don't Get Caught." The book came in handy during another time in my life, as it gave detailed instructions on the "gamesmanship" aspects of our national pastime. I learned the proper way to throw a spitball, which substances work best (K-Y, well, it worked best for me), the proper technique for a "scuff" ball, and if I ever got to play in a wood-bat league, I would have been able to cork with the best of them. Of course, nowadays I would never advocate cheating in baseball. Never. If I were you, I wouldn't let myself within a mile of your kid's Little League team.

Mr. Gutman later moved away from cheaters and into kid's literature, and his "Weird School" series is hilarious. The books are supposed to be funny to me because they are written for boys, yet my little girl loves them, which is both fun and disturbing. The "Weird School" books depict second-grade boys as, well, second-grade boys. They are usually mean to the girls in the class, they burp the alphabet, they refer to the school's cafeteria as the "vomitorium", and they say the word "butt" as many times as possible because it is the funniest word in their vocabulary. When you think about it, they aren't all that different from fifth-grade or 10th-grade or 38-year-old boys. Naturally, this means the first-grader would not exactly be a hit at an old-Savannah proper ladies' tea. "What would you like in your tea, my dear?" "Your butt!"

This week, we did not have a "Weird School" book to read at night before bedtime, as the first-grader had already read all of those available at our local library. Thinking she might be up for something different, I checked out what I thought was a very nice book about Harriet Quimby, the first woman ever to acquire a pilot's license and the first woman to fly solo across the English Channel. We had read it once already, but when I suggested it again to my little girl, I was rebuffed. Okay, I said, how about this book from the "American Girl" historical fiction series that my wife had picked out as a Christmas gift in an attempt to interest the first-grader in something other than bodily functions. "I don't like it," I was told. "It's too real." When I asked her what she meant, she told me, "I don't like books about the olden days. The olden days are....boring!"

Ouch. For someone whose idea of a good time is to listen to scratchy 1920's jazz records..errr, mp3's or to watch a Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire movie for the 174th time, that was like getting belted by Bluto before being able to pull the can of spinach out of my shirt. Knowing that my little girl loved to watch the dance scenes from those movies, I reminded her that Gene and Fred were from the 'olden days.' She smartly replied, "yeah, but I only like the dancing. When they just talk, it's.....boring." I sarcastically suggested that I guessed everything was boring unless it included 'chicken butt' jokes, people shaking their butts, and everyone referring to each other as "dumbhead." Her eyes lit up, a smile slowly formed, followed by a simple but effervescent "yeahhhhhh." I should have known that sarcasm and Asperger's mix about as well as Tiger Woods and monogamy.

Perhaps one day, my little girl will appreciate the olden days. Then again, perhaps she will offer her own unique take on history, writing reports on the American revolution that feature George Washington accepting the surrender of Lord Cornwallis by exclaiming, "nah nah nah nah boo boo on you", and Benjamin Franklin shaking his butt at King George (which quite possibly could have happened). Perhaps her project on the first moon landing will include Neil Armstrong's historic words "Houston, guess what? Chicken butt!" Perhaps I will be able to talk her teachers out of flunking her, pointing out her wondrous creativity and that, in a hypothetical bizarro world, her take on the olden days could have happened. But it won't be easy.

The Southern League of Colored Base Ballists

Don't you hate it when you feel like a coward and you have no reason to do so? Oh, I haven't done anything cowardly, at least not that I can think of, but a project on which I am about to embark makes me less sure of my manhood. Not that manhood, the other one. It is sobering to write about men who, obviously, have more bravery in their pinky fingers than I would have even if I were trapped for three days in that cloning scientist's lab from "South Park" and emerged as 30 Ray Steeles, which would only be terrifying for the high school French teacher I used to torture. There is no way that I or anyone else in this country today can understand the concept of putting your life on the line simply because you wanted to play baseball every day. But that is exactly what a special group of African-American men did a century-and-a-quarter ago.

Being a baseball aficionado makes one a bit of a baseball snob, and I assumed that I knew virtually everything about baseball's Negro Leagues, where some of the best athletes in the world were relegated for decades thanks to the stupidity of era's white people. The side effect of listening to me drone on about the history of the organized black leagues, the famous teams before the organized leagues, and their players is similar to the side effect of having eight shots of tequila, followed by a dozen martinis. But as is usually the case when I think I know everything, I eventually learn that I know nothing. A few weeks ago, I discovered something that I felt as if I should have already known, but that apparently isn't all that well known. Savannah was one of six cities to field teams for what was the first attempt at an organized Negro baseball league.

There is very little information about the Southern League of Colored Base Ballists. Researcher Bill Plott, who belongs one of the country finest group of junkies, the Society for American Baseball Research (SABR) has dug up most of what we know about the league. In March of 1886, a number of Southern newspapers carried notices asking "colored base ball clubs" with a "fair record" to join the league by sending their information to the league's headquarters in Jacksonville, Florida. Opening Day was scheduled for May 10 but, as was often the case in fledgling leagues both white and black, a variety of problems pushed back the beginning of the season until June 7.

Savannah had not one, but two teams when the league began play; the Broads and the Lafayettes. There were also two teams from Memphis, three from Jacksonville, and one each from Atlanta, Charleston, and New Orleans. A third team from Savannah, the Jerseys, was listed in some later game accounts before the league's only season ended in August, with the two teams from Memphis both claiming to be champions. Unfortunately, that's about all Mr. Plott was able to find, and no one else has augmented his research. Granted, black baseball got about as much news coverage in the mainstream media back then as anyone not named Tiger Woods or something involving sex or sex tapes does today.

The official "organ" of the 1886 league was the "Southern Leader", a black-owned newspaper in Jacksonville that appears to have ceased publication in 1888. If there are any copies or microfilms of the paper, no one knows of them. What fun it would be to make that archaeological discovery to see if there were some semblance of reports or box scores for the games. More importantly, what fun it would be to learn about the men who made up these teams, who wanted to play baseball in a part of the country where it was often dangerous for them to simply be out in public. Reconstruction laws that helped blacks in the South thrive were dying, and Jim Crow was settling in to reign for the next seven or eight decades. Some of the fears we have today are rather silly when you think about a bunch of guys who risked their lives to simply play a game they loved.

I don't know if my quest will get anywhere, but if there is information on the men who made up those Savannah teams, as well as the league's other teams, I will do my best to find it. The league did not exist in a vacuum. Those teams were made up of real men with real stories, and some of the teams kept playing for years after the league folded. Who knows. Perhaps it will turn into a masterpiece that will finally force my friend Jim Morekis at "Connect Savannah" to finally admit that when it comes to baseball, I am always right (while he is merely always right about everything else).

A note about the photo at the top. The Negro Leagues Baseball Museum in Kansas City appears to be in serious financial trouble. I am ashamed to say I have never been there, nor will I likely get there in the near future. While we are lucky to live in an era that has seen the end of segregation and, largely, the end of racism, the paradox is that we pay lip service to "never forgetting", then promptly forget those who helped get us to this point by enduring humiliation that, absent a time machine, we will never be able to imagine. If you have it within your budget, and I know most of us don't right now, the museum sure could use some help.