A Word About Professional Rasslin'

"WWE [professional wrestling] is theater for people who don't know they like theater."

-Me, at a party in which I found myself having to make conversation about professional wrestling. I'm a renaissance woman.

The Jim Bunning Guide to Politics

Reading the local newspaper here in Louisville, Kentucky has never taken a whole lot of time, even before last winter when the Courier-Journal dramatically scaled back its already anemic little rag (for "cost reduction reasons"). It's a thin offering of local goings-on, and most of the features are syndicated from the larger papers from larger, more important cities. With so many aggregate news sites on the internet offering free, constantly updated content you have to really scratch to come up with some sort of extra reason to plunk down your 75 cents--it's what we in the library and information science business call "added value." Well, nothing ratchets up the added value of our local AP cannibalizer for me more than our own illustrious GOP nutball senator: Jim Bunning. Old Jim (and I do mean OLD: at 77, he's one of the oldest in the Senate) is quite entertaining, if not acutely embarrassing for the state of Kentucky. If there happens to be a story about him in the paper on any given day, you can count on it being worth your time & your dime.

Bunning has a deep history of defiant foot-in-mouth syndrome, and he is bullishly unrepentant about the most outrageously inflammatory verbal diahrea. During his 2004 reelection campaign he was quoted saying his opponent (a child of Italian immigrants) looked like one of Saddam Hussein's sons(!), and he also made a comment that an opponent's campaign worker beat his wife (based on no actual evidence, mind you). Just this year, back in February, he predicted (quite gleefully) in front of a roomfull of Republican supporters, that Ruth Bader Ginsburg would be dead inside 9 months from pancreatic cancer. Yep, Jim's quite a guy, alright. And he even managed to insult her further when he was coerced into appologizing, saying he was sorry "if I offended her." Um, not sorry that he ghoulishly indulged in wishing for the death of a political enemy for the idle enjoyment of other ghoulishly-minded sorts, only sorry if it made her feel bad...or whatever. Sheesh! Women! Who can figure 'em--am I right, fellas?

Jim Bunning has taken blustery partisan trash talk to new heights, but he isn't the type of guy to limit his art to only his political opponents--he's busy dishing it out to his own party people as well. Worried that he'll lose another reelection bid in 2010, GOPers have been none-too-subtle about their insinuations that Bunning can't win and that he should bow out of the race--a stance that has only pissed our boy off, giving him a reason (as if he needed one) to shoot off his spectacularly crazy mouth at everybody from GOP minority leader Mitch McConnell to Kentucky Senate President David Williams. He even publicly called Texas senator John Cornyn (the NRSC chairman) a liar. He's threatened to sue the GOP--and maybe even more incredibly, threatened to resign and let the Democratic governor name his replacement--if the Republican leaders refuse to help him get reelected. It just gets better and better with each new verbal bitch-slap he hands out.

Probably my favorite little Bunning gem this year was when he decided to hire a private agency to do a poll in order to project his odds of reelection (probably so he could use the information to insult McConnell's grandmother), but then, suspiciously, failed to release the results. And when I say "failed to release the results," I mean that he told a reporter that it was none of his "goddamned business" (*actual quote*), and that the reporter could get the information when HE payed someone $20,000 to do a study. Hmm, do you think Jim got good news in those poll projections, or not?

This week Bunning has come out publicly to say he thinks he'll raise more money than anyone else in the race. But of course, he refused to disclose how much money he actually does have on hand right now. I guess us jerks will just have to wait until next week, when by law he'll have to disclose his second-quarter fundraising report. When asked what he thought of the amount reported by potential rival Trey Grayson ($602,699 since May, more than twice Bunning's first-quarter raised funds of $262,980), Bunning used the opportunity to give one of his signature backhanded compliments:

"I congratulate (him). It's nice to be able to work everyday on just raising money...I don't have the luxury of going around the state and knocking on doors and making phone calls to everybody that is available to raise money from. This job keeps me a little busy." Yeah, afterall, he's only Secretary of State--basically he just hangs around the pool all day and eats bon-bons, I'm sure. Not like you, Jimbo: you get things done, right? busy, busy.

Weeell...actually: in 2006 Time magazine chose Bunning as one of the top five worst senators, calling him The Underperformer. According to the article: "When asked [other Senators] struggle to recall any legislation Bunning has worked on," and that "he has the smarts to be an effective Senator but doesn't put in the effort." Ouch. No wonder Jimmy's taking indiscriminate swings at anybody who comes near. With friends like these, who needs friends?

The meltdown of Jim Bunning seems like it's been fermenting and unfolding for ages, but we still have a long time to go before the 2010 election. I'm rubbing my expectant little hands together in anticipation of reading all about the approaching political trainwreck. I'll be keeping a close eye on the Jim Bunning implosion story, readers, so be ready for more updates on inept backwoods politicking from my home state...

Breaking the Wrong Kind of Record...

On Monday my beloved Cincinnati Reds experienced an historic occassion, but not in a good way. For those of you who don't keep up with the box scores, The Reds were handed their worst defeat in franchise history--and that goes all the way back to 1869, readers. Needless to say things have been a bit on the soberly despondent side over here at the MM.

Sadly, with the advent of free agency and the best players going to the richest franchises, it no longer seems possible for a team to keep the same great players year after year. Of course, the exception to that rule this year seems to be the Philadelphia Phillies, the same team that won last year's Series, and the very team that handed my Reds their epic loss Monday night (22-1, a score you never expect to see outside the confines of a little league). The Phillies will likely make a good run at another World Series this year, but I doubt their lineup will stay intact after that--modern baseball, for better or worse, just doesn't work that way anymore.

Anyway, chin up, sports fans: the season is only half over and the reds only trail their division by 4 games--still time to try for that other love-it-or-hate-it modern baseball invention, the wild card! Sing along with the official Cincinnati Reds Fight Song (you know all the words to that one, don't you?): "We did it before, we'll do it again! We'll give 'em a chance, we'll fight to the end! we are the Cin-ci-nna-ti Reeeeeds! HEY!"

Domesticated at Last

Well, I guess it had to happen eventually...I now have a garden: the ultimate sign of settled-down, salad days, nothing-to-see-here domestication. I never thought it would happen to me, readers, but there you have it. Rather than indulge in a devil-may-care, I'll-go-buy-some-if-I-want-'em attitude towards tomoatoes, I am now engaging in the decidedly less instant gratification-minded approach. I now sit back and patiently anticipate the pay-off for an afternoon of hard work, and if that isn't the most ardent sign of being a grown up I don't know what is.

Incidentally, as you can see I am trying out a suggestion given to me by my father-in-law (another sign of adulthood: taking advice from one's in-laws...or even having in-laws...), I planted my tomatoes in a bale of hay. Supposedly this is a good way to get extra tasty tomatoes if you don't have very good ground soil (our ground soil sucks-- it's weirdly sandy for Kentucky dirt). Well, I hope so, because it was a bitch-and-a-half digging a hole in a bale of hay, I can tell you.

Ladies' Vintage Base Ball

New York Bloomer Girls, circa 1920

More vintage "base ball" info! I have been striving to learn more about the ladies who played the game, and came across this image of the New York Bloomer Girls, a team which was founded shortly after men started forming professional teams in the 1860's. Curiously, it was a small group of men who originally formed the NYBGs in 1910: Dan Whalen, Joe Manning and Eddie Manning, all of whom were ballplayers themselves. In 1920 managment was given over to a woman, Margaret Nabel, a candy store owner who had made the team previously as a pitcher (that's Nabel pictured above on the right). Like many other base ball clubs during the Great Depression, the Bloomers folded under the economic strain of the times. The team dissolved at the end of the 1933 season.

Marge Schott

Marge Schott is a special case in my rogues gallery of eccentric millionaire baseball team owners. Her tenure as the majority owner of the Cincinnati Reds was concurrent with my formative years as a young Redlegs booster--the last time the Reds won the world series (1990) was during her reign--and so it may then be understandable that I am partial to her. Not that Schott is an easy person to like--in fact, it's probably not socailly acceptable for anyone to like her considering the plethora of inflammatory, derogatory, and downrigt Nixonian statements she made during her public lifetime about various minority groups (or, um, pretty much ALL minority groups). Affection for Marge Schott in reality was probably a little like trying to cuddle a cactus, but the lady had gumption--any woman trying to hold a position of power in a traditionally male dominated arena has to be spunky, and at least twice as much of an asshole as the biggest asshole man in the same field. And so, I give you: Marge Schott.

A Cincinnati native born August 28, 1928, Margaret Unnewehr was one of five daughters born to a strict Catholic father whose desire for a son was perpetually disappointed. Edward Unnewehr raised Marge to be tough and paranoid, to not show weakness, and to eventually take over the family business (a hardwood and veneer manufacturing company which ensured that the family was fairly well-off). Ed nicknamed Marge "Butch," and she played the part of surrogate son pretty well, cracking wise and smoking cigars at slumber parties. It was a disappointment for Ed when, in 1952, Marge married Charles Schott, the son of a wealthy Cincinnati society family, and left the business to (attempt) to be a good Catholic housewife.

It turned out that Marge learned more about business after getting married and hanging around her father-in-law--a man who at one point in his career was the largest automobile dealer in Ohio--than she did about being a homemaker. This education was most likely the best part of her marriage; the couple were unable to have the children Marge so desperately wanted, and Charlie was a notorious alcoholic, gambler and womanizer. Her new husband left her alone in their hotel room on their wedding night to go to a card game, not exactly a good sign of times to come. He died of a heart attack in 1968, found in his mistress' bath tub. This infidelity may be what later triggered Marge to wage a full-scale Big Brother-esque surveillance war on her unfortanate players: opening their mail, video taping their movements in and out of hotels and buses, and even keeping detailed phone logs of every call in and out of the clubhouse. She was always worried about the groupies professional sports attracted, and made it her personal business to keep them away from her players (married or not).

It was in December of 1984 that she purchased a controlling interest in the team for a reported $11 million. The next year she was named President and CEO, and thus began her career as one of the most notorious, infamous and outspoken owners in baseball.

Marge was never strapped for cash, but her personal experience running and helping to run the family businesses made her a notorious cheapskate. She never bought clothes for herself, she kept the heat in her businesses turned down to 55, and any expense over $50 was to be approved by her personally. She would only agree to an expense (say, an order of paperclips for the front office) after getting at least 3 bids from 3 different suppliers.

According to Marge: "You're spending millions and millions out on the field for these players, honey, and you find yourself arguing about envelopes and paperclips in the office. You try to cut on the silly stuff. It's like Disneyland on the field and the real world in here." To which one employee reportedly said: "No, it's like Disneyland on the field and Bosnia in here." Harsh!

But players often felt the pinch too: broken bats were sent to a downtown Cincy hotel, which sold them as souveniers. Extra bats were not bought for players, so they would have to pay for their own replacements. No extras as far as clothing goes either: hats, sweatshirts and jackets were all bought on the players' dime.

At least some of the players took these things in stride. Barry Larkin, the 1995 National League MVP, didn't complain much: "The only thing I don't like is when the dog [Schottzie] takes a crap at shortstop, because I might have to dive into that shit." Indeed. Schottzie, Marge's massive Saint Bernard, would trot out onto the field before each game to much fanfare--especially when she had some "business" to take care of.

And then there's the case of her MANY publicly documented racial slurs. There can be no excuse for those, exept maybe that she was from a conservative and notoriously racially segregated city, grew up in a time and family where bigotry was just an accepted fact of life, and was widowed and leading a very isolated life at only 39 years old. Reading interviews with her today suggest that she was probably like your typical, oldschool white grandma after one too many, which is fine, except that this old lady had reporters and cameras recording what she said about Jews, black people, Hitler, Asian-Americans, etc. etc. etc.

In the end, Marge got herself forced out of baseball in 1999 when she agreed to sell her majority share rather than be ousted by her partners, but every reporter in the area was eagerly holding the microphone and giving her every opportunity to dig her hole deeper and deeper. I won't say baseball was better off with Marge Schott than without, but I do miss the fact that the most expensive ticket at Riverfront stadium during Marge's tenure was $11.50, by far the lowest in the sport at the time (contrast that with $300 today). I miss her ban on players wearing jewellry and ugly goatees and grandstanding like clowns. I also miss the fact that baseball once had a woman, however derided and disliked and prickly, in a position of power and influence. And yeah, I also miss Schottzie.

Source: Reilly, Rick. "Heaven Help Marge Schott" Sports Illustrated 84 No. 20 (May 20, 1996)

Harry Caray

For anyone who doesn't know, Harry Caray (1914-1998) was the often celebrated (often soused) long-time announcer for the Chicago Cubs. He popularized the modern tradition of singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame during the 7th inning stretch, and I was fortunate enough to experience him performing it back in the early 90's, when I visited Wrigley Field for a game on a family vacation.

Harry was amazing: by then he was a gnarled old character, blusteringly excitable in that way that some old men have, and wacky to the point of being suspected of dementia. When stretch time came around he hopped up and grabbed a mic, teetering and tottering dangerously near the open window of the upper deck broadcasting booth, and leaned his entire torso out over the crowd. In his trademark slur he cajoled us all into singing along, then warbled with manic glee, gesturing with his outstretched arms and swaying alarmingly back and forth. Normally, as an adult, singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame is as embarassing as singing Happy Birthday to You, but somehow Harry made it seem hip.