I’ve been asked to speak at our university’s annual Veteran’s Day Commemoration next Friday. General theme will be the Cold War (I suggested it after struggling to come up with something I could talk about), but if you can think of anything you’d want to hear someone say on Veteran’s Day, I’d be interested to hear about it.
Comment away!
Joseph A. Tranfo a Benedict Blog as this top ten list of changes we are likely to see that the Supreme Court, with its new Catholic majority:
10) Meat-less Fridays all year round in the Supreme Court cafeteria;
9) Oral arguments in Latin;
8) The bones of Chief Justice Marshall will be disinterred and placed in a glass coffin in the center of the Supreme Court bench;
7) Collections between each session of oral argument;
6) Supreme Court windows replaced with stained glass;
5) On close votes, the Justices will consult a statue of St. Thomas More. If the statue weeps, they affirm; if no tears, then they reverse.
4) Incense at the start of each session;
3) Supreme Court opinions will be deemed infallible and unreviewable by any earthly authority [Ed. - Sorry - that does not appear to be a change at all]
2) Catechism of the Catholic Church will now be “persuasive authority”;
And, the number one change which a Catholic majority would make to the Supreme Court . . .
1) Wednesday night bingo!
Hat Tip: David Bernstein at Volokh
6:32 PM CST, and only three parties, ringing the doorbell.
A little boy in glasses, with a lighted magic wand and Hogwarts robes, another in Army cammies, and one in some sort of super-hero ninja dress.
A very tiny toddler in a stroller, dressed as a cat. Her mother expressed a fondness for chocolate.
A small ninja, accompanied by both parents, who took one single packet of glow-in-the-dark Skittles, and was pressed to take an additional Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cup.
I was thanked lavishly by all, or by their closely-hovering parents.
I went out to look up and down the road for other TrickerTreaters. None in sight, although there are a number of dogs barking from other streets. Probably safe to sit down and eat dinner.
7:34 CST: A party of four, one dressed as a Star Wars Trooper, the other four as something indistinctive. The glow-in-the-dark Skittles are the most popular. As they go down the walk, one of them loudly chides the other three for not saying “Thank You”. There is hope for this younger generation, after all.
8:00 CST: Party of 5, mostly dressed as ghouls. Most want the glow-in-the-dark Skittles. I am running short of those, and begin to push the Reeses. All 5 line up neatly, take no more than two packets of candy each, and chorus thanks.
8:05 CST; Party of 6, middle-school age, most of whom , like the previous party are dressed as ghouls or ghosts. With only one packet of glow-in-the-dark Skittles left, the taller of the two children remaining nobly yields it to the smaller. Two of them voice a preference for Reeses’ and Twix anyway.
The last two packets of candy goes to the last TrickerTreater. Wonderful how these things work out.
I turn off the porch light, and take the iron-dutch oven– in which I have stashed the candy, inside. The oven, a broom and two pumpkins on the front porch constitute my Halloween decor. When I have gotten tired of answering the door in previous years, I have just put out a sign telling them to help themselves. Would that I could train Little Arthur and Morgie to sit on the pumpkins and glower threateningly— that would have kept the greedy from taking more than two or three candy bars each.
But everything worked out even this year— just enough candy, just enough kids.
A day or so after Thanksgiving of the year when I was in the seventh or eight grade, and hated gym class above all the other torments that junior high school offered in bounteous measure, I had a short conversation with another girl in my gym class. We were not particular friends, only that our lockers were adjacent, and we would be changing out of our school dress, into the black shorts and short-sleeved, snap-closure white blouse that Mt. Gleason Junior High dictated to be proper gym class attire. I don’t even remember her name, only that she was sturdy and somewhat stocky and like me, blue-eyed with dark-blond, brown-sugar colored hair and a fair complexion… and like me, not particularly enthusiastic about gym class, and all its’ works and all its’ ways. Both of us were of the devoutly un-athletic sort who picks a team position based on the likely chances of having little or nothing to do with the ball.
So, on this first day of gym after the Thanksgiving holiday, I struck up a conversation about it, about how my family Thanksgiving had gone— how all the constellation of great-aunts, great-uncles, and grandparents had gathered for the ritual feast. The family Hayes had gathered at either Grannie Jessie’s little white house on South Lotus, or Grannie Dodie and Grandpa Al’s house in Camarillo. I can’t recollect which, so unvarying was the rotation, so regular the attendance of the senior members and devout their interest in JP and I, Pippy and our new baby brother. Most of them being for one reason or another, childless, I lamented the lack of cousins, for it meant their concentration on the four of us as torch-bearers of a new generation was as focused as a laser-beam, and I assumed that the same was true of my gym-dressing room friend.
“Oh, no,” said she. ”It’s just my parents, and my brothers and sisters. We don’t have any cousins either. All of my parents’ families… they all died. We don’t have any cousins, either.”
“None of them? None at all?” I asked, in disbelief. No fond grandparents, no doting great-aunts, no eccentric great-uncles? None of them at all, nothing outside the usual parents and sibs at the dinner table, nothing special, relations-wise, about the holiday table, with roasted turkey, crackling-fat and richly stuffed with brown-bread dressing? About this time in life, my peers had begun to lose grandparents to the usual span of human mortality— I had lately lost one, Grandpa Jim, and thought myself lucky to still have three, all of them still healthy, cantankerous and good for another couple of decades. To have none at all, though… that went beyond misfortune. That was a catastrophe.
My gym-friend shrugged.
“My parents met after the war, in a DP camp. They were just kids. It turned out they were both the only survivors of their families. They got married and came here. There was nothing for them to go back for, anyway.”
Nothing to go back for, anyway, in Poland, Czechoslovakia, the Ukraine… somewhere in Middle-Europe, wherever her family trees had sprung up and been pruned with brutal finality of all but two last little shoots. Transplanted, new-rooted in America, but haunted forever by a ghostly range of empty chairs around the table at those family gatherings so universally assumed to me multi-generational.
The genocide against European Jews is as much of a challenge today to get ones’ sensible American head around as it was sixty years ago. Us Indian-massacring (sorry, Native American massacring!) slavery-enabling, Negro-lynching (Sorry— Persons of Color lynching!) religion-addled, brutally-capitalist, petty-small-town minded uncultured Jacksonians are forever being lectured about our shortcomings by those cultured Europeans. Europe was, after all, the place where they did everything better than us… more cultured, more tolerant, and oh-so-much-better in every civilized way. And yet, pogroms never happened here. Social prejudice, country-club anti-Semitism, distrust of the “other”— oh yeah, all of that…but never pogroms. Russian and Polish Jews came here to get away from pogroms, ungrateful and unappreciative of the cultural advantages to living in Europe.
The clamor of the lectures by our so-called moral superiors pretty much swamps the observation that the Native American and Black American communities still exist in a far more vibrant state than, say, the Jewish communities of Poland… and that Paris, the city of Light has a suburb torn for the fourth night running by what we, in our uncouth American way, used to call race riots. Ah, well, Europe— they do things with so much more style, over there. Sixty years ago, under German occupation, ordinary Europeans watched their neighbors, their friends, coworkers, classmates, employers and employees, their doctors, and cleaning women rounded up and marched away to oblivion. Some eagerly assisted; some benefited from participating, most watched and turned away and did nothing, not wishing to risk what might happen to them, should they be too open in objection. A very few righteous, possessed of a fiercely refined moral sense, and courage of the sort usually termed “crazy-brave” did what they could… that there was anything left of European Jewry by 1945 was a sort of miracle in itself. On a national level, only the Danes can be credited for behaving in a way that we hope we could ourselves be equal to, given the same situation. They refused, categorically, firmly, and in a manner most breathtakingly effective, to turn over Danish citizens of the Jewish faith to the occupying German authorities… of course, the Germans had gone easily on the Danes, hoping to win them over to the benefits of the Thousand-year Reich… but still, and all… German blandishments did not tempt them to sell out their fellow citizens.
So, during a week in which the elected leader of Iran, which has done everything it can to acquire or develop nuclear weapons, has publicly and in terms quite straightforward and understandable, vowed an intention to wipe Israel off the map… a small and pesky nation formed in no small part from the survivors of the European-wide holocaust. What would a single nuclear hit do to a tiny and democratic survivor-state? Nothing good, that should go without saying. So, what will Europe do, this time? How stalwart will be European resolve be to intervene, given that Israel was referred to as “that shitty little country” by a French diplomat at an English dinner party, that anti-Semitism (now charmingly called anti-Zionism) is at a revoltingly open, all-time high? No matter what they call it, it’s still used for the same old purpose, to kill Jews, or at least, justify their murder by a third party. How nice. How amusing, that European hands would be kept clean of the murder of Jews. This time, anyway.
Oh, yeah… if I were a Jew, I’d think twice before depending on Europe to keep my ass safe… especially given how effective they were, overall, about that the last time.
The eastern world, it is explodin’.
Violence flarin’, bullets loadin’
You’re old enough to kill, but not for votin’
You don’t believe in war, but what’s that gun you’re totin’
And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin’
But you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.
Don’t you understand what I’m tryin’ to say
Can’t you feel the fears I’m feelin’ today?
If the button is pushed, there’s no runnin’ away
There’ll be no one to save, with the world in a grave
Take a look around you boy
It’s bound to scare you boy
And you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.
Many hyperbolic statements are coming from the radical left, relative to SCOTUS nominee Sam Alito’s opinion in a Pennsylvania case involving spousal notification prior to abortion. Glenn Reynolds makes this counterpoint:
I’m not sure about Pennsylvania, but in many states her spouse — even if he’s not the father of the child — would still be on the hook for child support. Likewise, if he didn’t want children, but she disagreed, lied to him about birth control, and got pregnant. And he certainly couldn’t force her to have an abortion if she did so, even if his desire not to have children was powerful, and explicitly expressed at the outset. (The usual response — “he made his choice when he had sex without a condom” — never comes up in discussions of women and abortion.)
So where’s the husband’s procreational autonomy? Did he give it up by getting married? And, if he did, is it unthinkable that when they get married women might give some of their autonomy up, too?
The problem here is that you can say “my body, my choice” — but when you say, “my body, my choice but our responsibility,” well, it loses some of its punch.
Contrary to popular opinion, she did not suffer from Parkinson’s Disease.
Update: Congratz to our own AProudVeteran (see comments)
29 October 2004 was my very first post here. The linkage it included has died so I’ll link back to A Brief Introduction. Wow…some things have changed a lot. Some things haven’t.
My legs now work. My lower back doesn’t want to and high blood pressure, the scourge of my family on both sides, has finally decided to settle in and stay. Meds are being taken and the headaches have been replaced with a spinning head when I work out. Me and the Doc are working on that. Although great for listening to Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd, dizzy spells are something I try to avoid these days. Being dizzy just doesn’t have the appeal it used to.
I still want to be a First Sergeant, but life happened a lot in the past year and that means that sometimes people you love and cherish die or get ready to die. That makes things hard. I didn’t want to be splitting my time between my family and my squadron. Not now. Not yet. I still have time. If it doesn’t happen I have no regrets over chosing my family first. I’ve watched guys pick their careers over their families. Not a one of them was ever happy about it. And I mean career, not duty. Duty is different and my family understands that which makes me a blessed man.
We thought we were going to Kadena next spring, then for Mt Home next month. Now we have no idea again. I’ve been here before, but I have to tell you, it’s starting to get old.
Life and death happens. One of my favorite books has a quote along the lines of, “If you truly believe in this spiritual life than you have to accept that dying is just as much a part of life as puberty…hopefully less dramatic.” That one makes me grin because it reminds me of that ol’ Marine Colonel I worked for, “You’ve got to have some vices otherwise God has to get creative when it’s time to take you home. Give Him something to work with otherwise he has to make things interesting. Nobody likes it when God makes death interesting. Tends to be dramatic.”
I need to thank some folks out there in this cartoon town of opinions we call The Blogisphere.
First of all the gang right here at The Daily Brief. Mom and the rest of you are just a barrel of laughs and a hoot and a holler all at once and it’s oodles of fun working with you. You do keep life interesting. Every now and then I wonder what the hell happened to Sparkey.
Stryker. My blogisphericalspiritual twin. Heh…that ought to make him gag for about a week…oh…wait…he has no gag reflex…he listens to Abba. Seriously though, thanks for the chats on Google and for letting me know, on occaission that I’m not as weird as I think I am…all the time.
And I could try to list all the people I read and try to draw material from, but there’s just too many.
Big thanks to the wingnuts on the far right and the moonbats on the far left for proving that sanity is a relative thing. Remember, as long as you guys are fighting, the terrorists are laughing.
This from the Tax Foundation via TaxProf:
[F]ederal and state taxes on gasoline production and imports have been climbing steadily since the late 1970s and now total roughly $58.4 billion. Due in part to substantial hikes in the federal gasoline excise tax in 1983, 1990, and 1993, annual tax revenues have continued to grow. Since 1977, governments collected more than $1.34 trillion, after adjusting for inflation, in gasoline tax revenues—more than twice the amount of domestic profits earned by major U.S. oil companies during the same period:
Year
Oil Profits
Federal Taxes
State Taxes
Total Taxes
1977
$26.8
$13.7
$29.0
$42.7
1978
$27.5
$13.0
$28.1
$41.1
1979
$34.9
$11.4
$25.2
$36.7
1980
$41.0
$9.4
$22.0
$31.4
1981
$41.4
$8.5
$21.0
$29.5
1982
$35.8
$8.0
$20.6
$28.6
1983
$30.2
$15.0
$22.0
$37.0
1984
$28.7
$16.2
$23.5
$39.6
1985
$29.3
$15.6
$24.6
$40.2
1986
$9.0
$15.9
$25.7
$41.5
1987
$14.0
$15.0
$27.4
$42.4
1988
$16.9
$15.6
$28.1
$43.8
1989
$14.5
$14.5
$28.3
$42.8
1990
$18.6
$14.5
$29.1
$43.5
1991
$11.0
$21.1
$29.7
$50.8
1992
$10.1
$20.9
$30.8
$51.7
1993
$10.6
$20.9
$31.4
$52.3
1994
$10.8
$27.1
$32.1
$59.3
1995
$7.9
$26.3
$31.9
$58.1
1996
$18.9
$26.8
$32.0
$58.9
1997
$18.8
$26.0
$32.6
$58.6
1998
$9.0
$27.1
$33.1
$60.3
1999
$16.8
$26.5
$33.6
$60.1
2000
$34.9
$25.7
$33.3
$59.0
2001
$35.1
$24.9
$33.6
$58.5
2002
$16.2
$24.5
$33.9
$58.4
2003
$31.7
$24.6
$33.4
$58.0
2004
$42.6
$24.2
$34.2
$58.4
Total
$643.0
$533.0
$810.1
$1,343.1
Hat Tip: InstaPundit
After what seems like months of this impenetrable, three-ring media/political circus, I have finally had a thought about the Plame Affair… no, not the one which everyone else has had… “Say What?????!!!” coupled with a plea for aspirin. This thought is original to me, and I have not seen it suggested anywhere else, and that is…
What if practically everyone inside the Washington Beltway was already vaguely aware that Valerie Plame Wilson worked for the CIA? What if this was such common knowledge that practically everyone involved really cannot remember how they came to know it, or who first told them… especially if it came about through casual social gossip?
Well, really, it would account for a number of supposedly clever, politically adroit politicians and reporters suddenly stuck in the spotlight, fumbling for an answer to the question “Who told you, and when did you know?”
Practically anything sounds better than “Everyone knew, I don’t know and I forget when!”
I am currently watching some shit on the Military Channel themed “what’s the best tank?” And it’s between the M1A2, the Challenger II, the Leopard II, and the LeClerc - this is all so ridiculous! Technology sharing within NATO makes all these weapons just variations on a theme.
My spam email count, as a result of my participation on this website, has gone, in the last few months, from many each day, to dozens, and then to scores. I fear, with the Pajamas Media thing, it will go to hundreds. I seem to recall Glenn Reynolds telling me he has gotten over 500 spam emails per day. And I specifically recollect Larry Elder telling me he gets over 3000 per day (but, of course, he has a couple of guys working for him, to filter that crap).
And I’m thinking we need some “contact us” page, or JavaScript thing, to defeat the robo-crawlers - that just want to spam everybody with a webpage..
What to do?
I just saw some crap on The History Channel: What the Victorians Gave Us, where the idiot historian/presenter claimed that King Camp Gillette was the first to give us a “disposable consumer product” with his razor blade in 1895. Well, besides the fact that Gillette was an AMERICAN, I say it was Peter Durand, with his canned food process (the can being disposable) in 1810, not Gillette.
But I could be (and likely am) wrong. If you have an earlier example of a disposable consumer product - please post up.
On the cover of my latest Automobile magazine (11/05): “Civil War! Z06 vs Ford GT vs Viper [coupe].” I expect the other major automags will follow suit.
Of course, revivals of the old Chevy, Ford, Dodge rivalry aside, this is more a matter of contrast than comparison, as these are three distinctly different cars. But some excerpts are worth noting:
[T]hese are America’s greatest cars - and two of them, the GT and the Corvette, are among the world’s best cars.
In performance, price, and driving pleasure, [the Z06] blows the current Porsche 911 Carrera S away[.]
Now all the American industry has to do is up the ante with its more affordable cars
Well, the ante is being upped - across the board. I’ve raved about other new American cars on this blog - the Opel Omega based Cadillac CTS comes to mind. And now it seems the Mazda 6 based Ford Fusion is a star player.
I promised in comments to Timmer’s recipe post last week that I would post my favorite cold-weather soup recipe. It’s from Nava Atlas’ “Vegetariana”
Combine in a large pot:
1/2 Cup dried lentils, washed and picked over
1/3-1/2 Cup brown rice
2 TBSp olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 TBSp soy sauce
2 Bay leaves
3 Cups water, or which is much better, 3 Cups vegetable broth
Bring to a boil, cover, and simmer over low heat for 7 to 10 minutes. Then add:
2 additional cups water or broth
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 medium carrots, thinly sliced
1 large celery stalk, finely chopped
Handfull of finely chopped celery leaves
1 14-oz can chopped tomatoes with liquid (for better yet, make it the tomatoes with chili peppers, like Ro-Tel)
1/2 Cup tomato sauce or tomato juice
1/4 cup dry red wine or sherry
1 Teasp dried basil
1 Teasp paprika
1/2 Teasp dried marjoram
1/2 Teasp dried thyme
Salt and pepper to taste.
Cover and simmer for half an hour or so, until lentils and rice are done.
It is especially splended when made with a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes with chilis, and with a rich vegetable broth…. and you can take the onus of being vegetarian off it by adding about half a pound of kielbasa or other smoked sausage, sliced into rounds, towards the end of the cooking time, and serving it with a little grated cheddar cheese on top. I made it once with imported green lentils from France, and people almost swooned.
And like all really splendid soups, it is even better when warmed over the next day.
The expression “combat shopping” is a wry inside joke in the military family, because there are certain assignments that are well known to be— because of the variety, quality and exoticism of the merchandise, and the comparatively well-paid nature of American military service when compared to local conditions— absolutely a dedicated shopper’s paradise on earth. Even locations where the local exchange rate didn’t particularly favor the American service personnel (most of Western Europe and Japan, in my service lifetime, f’rinstance) there were nice bargains to be had. Size up the local terrain, see the bargain, scoop up the bargain in the neatest and most efficient manner possible; the essence of combat shopping.
At an assignment in Germany, or Italy, or Spain, one was always able to buy locally some attractive and comparatively inexpensive something or other that would cost four or five times as much, back in the good old US of A. (Taking the Williams-Sonoma catalogue as my guide, I could buy an astonishing number of items from it at the Al Campo supermarket, Spain’s answer to Walmart, for about a fifth of the price.) One wouldn’t even have to take a trip to load up on the souvenirs, either: the AAFES Catalogue featured a large assortment of tat.
For exuberantly bad taste, though, the AAFES catalogue paled next to an emporium like Harrys’ of K’Town (Kaiserslautern, to the uninitiated.) Harrys’ stocked elaborate, ornately decorated beer steins as tall as I am, and candles not much shorter, and cuckoo-clocks the like of which had to be seen to be disbelieved. The cuckoo-clock industry in Southern Germany apparently depended almost entirely on sales to tourists: locals had too much good taste to buy such monstrosities. (Although not to much good taste to avoid marzipan pigs crapping gold coins. The good taste thing is probably relative, I think.) Harrys’ memorably featured a cuckoo clock as large as a garden shed, with life-size deer and clusters of dead, turkey-sized doves. You’d need a living room as big as a football stadium to carry it off, and the cuckoo calling the hours was probably audible in the next county. I gave pass to cuckoo clocks, by the way. I bought Steiffel stuffed animals for my daughter, instead.
The base tourism office in Spain were always scheduling day tours to places like Muel— for the pottery, and to the Lladro factory, down near Barcelona, or more extensive excursions to Turkey… Turkey, like Korea in the Far East being The One Place to indulge in serious and prolonged retail therapy. People came back from Turkey with carpets, and brass-work, and gold: from Korea with bespoke clothes, antique furniture and jewelry. Our houses are marked and furnished with unusual items gleaned from tours and TDYs to distant and exotic foreign places. One can almost tell were we have been by looking carefully at the décor… or what we have given to our family as Christmas presents over the years.
And sometimes the phrase “combat shopping” is not entirely a joke: while traveling in a convoy from Kuwait up into Iraq shortly after the liberation, my daughter swapped some MREs for a couple of small rugs from an Iraqi vendor setting up shop along the roadside. Cpl. Blondie was teased by her friends for weeks, for being able to find something to buy, in the middle of a war zone.
So I’m kinda busy. Not happy. Trying not to injure in-laws emotionally or physically.
All I’m gonna say without going into details is Beautiful Wife’s family does NOT put the fun into dysfunctional…and they’re not even Irish so I have NO roadmap to follow whatsoever.
Well then you really should be by that absolutely repulsive Glenfiddich dude - who seems to be a pathetic Ralph Lauren rip-off.
I don’t get this - Glenfiddich ain’t Tanqueray - we are talking about a premium brand here. Why do they need to resort to such addlebrained marketing tactics?
…At this time: the death of Rosa Parks. And her celebration, in many circles, as “the mother of the civil rights movement.”
As it turns out, I have been working on an article, premised upon the afro-centric view of racism in America, and the general denial of racism in the southwest.
I’ve chosen as my focus for this piece, the case of Mendez v. Westminster - Which preceded Brown v. Board of Education by several years. This has particular gravitas for me, as, while I attended Johnson Intermediate - the site of the Mendez farm, I was never taught about this. Neither have any of my California-schooled contemporaries! In fact, a query with one of my favorite Constitutional scholars - Eugene Volokh of UCLA - got the reply, “never heard of it.” In fact, even the Mendez’ granddaughter had not heard of it, until she studied at UCR.
To date, I want to thank Prof. Vicki Ruiz, of UCI, for her help. It seems there were other cases - Alverez v. Lemon Grove, which preceded Mendez, and others in Texas and Arizona, which followed, which all led up to Brown. I’m working on those now.
I hope to tie this all together under an umbrella of general racism and segregation.
This morning the news channels are buzzing from right to left with the news that Harriet Miers has withdrawn her name from nomination to the Supreme Court. This is probably no surprise to the President, as the furor over her nomination has been boiling since day one of her nomination. In fact, I don’t think it is a surprise to anyone, on the right or on the left.
We will now see a completely new fight in the Senate as regards any nominee that President Bush sends up. The real drawback to Ms. Miers’ nomination was not that she is a conservative, or that she was not qualified, although that smoke screen was released early in the process. Most of the left’s criticism was that she was too conservative, but the howls of foul came from the conservatives on the hill. While both sides of the aisle were crying over her lack of conservative or liberal views, both sides were mostly concerned over her lack of a paper trail, or record of her views.
Here we go again. The President will have to make another choice, and there is the rub. The conservatives are hoping his next nominee will be to the right with a clear record as such, and the liberals will be praying (!) for a centrist or even a liberal candidate. (Don’t hold your breath Teddy!) I’m not a stealth anything, most people know that I’m a conservative. I believe that the constitution should be interpreted, not modified by the supreme court. If the left loses the white house and both houses of Congress, they should not live under the false assumption that they deserve any power in the courts.
Roe v. Wade. That seems to be the main litmus test of any court nominee, regardless of the level of judiciary. But anyone who thinks that one judge could singlehandedly overturn the ruling is living in wonderland. It just ain’t gonna happen that way. I personally am against abortion, it is murder of the baby no matter how you look at it. It was a wrong move to begin with, but it has become so ingrained in our society that it is going to take a long time and a lot of education to get that one ruling deleted.
OK, let the games begin!
It’s sweeter when you’re from Chicago…even if it is the wrong side of town.
Jermaine Dye, Juan Uribe, may you never have to buy another beer for the rest of your lives.
Update: BTW, if you’ve grown up in Chicago, the White Sox winning the series has always been unlikely but it is NOT one of the signs of the apocolypse. That’s saved for the Cubs.
