Are my eyes really blue?

It was two decades ago today that Magic Johnson announced he had HIV and was retiring from the NBA.  Of course, he would come back to the All-Star game, the Dream Team, and eventually to play and coach again in brief stints.  He would also turn into a mogul – one of the most successful African-American businessmen of our era, if not ever.

Oh yeah – and he’s still alive.

Magic changed the paradigm for HIV.  It was no longer a gay problem, it was no longer a white problem, it was something that could hit the healthiest person imaginable, and it was something that didn’t have to be a death sentence.  Who among us, on November 7 of 1991, would have predicted that Magic would be alive in twenty years – let alone filthy rich, running businesses and raising literally millions of dollars for AIDS research?

The fact that the most terrifying illness of my adolescence has become something you manage and live with – if that’s not proof we live in the future, I don’t know what to tell you.

Where is Vanderbilt to go if not the SEC?  Cuz suggests a trade – we go to the ACC for Miami or Florida State, and that makes perfect sense; our situation is not dissimilar to Georgia Tech’s own departure in the mid-60s.  But then, the ACC is at 14 teams and will probably make a run at 16 sooner rather than later (UConn for sure – maybe Notre Dame? How about Navy?) so it’s possible we find ourselves stuck in the machine again.  What I’m looking for is a return of the Magnolia League concept – some way to play football at a serious level while not giving in to the arms race of BCS-era money and bullshit.

I say “Magnolia League” because Vanderbilt chancellor Alexander Heard’s original concept involved Vandy, Tulane, Duke, SMU and Rice.  Tulane was game, but Duke didn’t want to give up the UNC game (why they thought they would have to is beyond me, but whatever, typical Duke) and SMU and Rice didn’t want to give up the Cotton Bowl, either as an opportunity or as a cut of revenue.  And so Tulane pulled out of the SEC about the time Tech did.

The problem now is that football has trumped everything else.  Reorganizing around football has a deleterious effect on everything else – it turned the Great Midwest into Conference USA and eventually a disaster area, it’s wrecking the Big East right now – but for our purposes, assume football has become a separate entity and nothing else is affected.  Everyone can keep their conference for hoops, baseball, etc etc.  So.

For starters, it’s no longer possible to keep this just to the South.  Even if you could peel away a big chunk of the ACC, it still doesn’t get you to eight.  Duke, Wake, Georgia Tech, Vandy, Tulane, Rice and SMU – even assuming you want SMU, and I’m not convinced you do.  Bring in Miami?  Technically it’s a private school.  It’s also the poster child for everything wrong with college football, so forget that.

So cast your eyes north and consider Notre Dame, and its rivals.  USC?  Would never give up the Rose Bowl spot.  Stanford?  Wouldn’t want to give up the Big Game, most likely, but might otherwise be amenable to something snotty and Ivy League-ish enough.  Navy?  Very respectable football team, and a great rivalry with Army, and hey wait a minute…don’t look now, but Army and Navy are exactly the programs you want for such a thing.  Institutionally immune to the crasser trends of college football, programs with tradition and history, with a Northeastern footprint and national interest…

So reshuffle.  Now you have Notre Dame, Vanderbilt, Navy, Army, Georgia Tech, Stanford, Tulane, Rice.  Eight teams without having to take too big a bite out of the ACC.  Seven-game round-robin every year, and five non-conf spots open so Notre Dame can still play Michigan, USC and Purdue and still have two more spots free.  Or Vandy can keep playing Kentucky and Tennessee and maybe LOL Miss if they like.  Georgia Tech can schedule all the old SEC rivals they like.  Stanford keeps Big Game and the LA schools and has a couple more spots – and sure, they’ll get killed on plane fare, but I’m sure John Arrillaga will stroke another check and not think twice, so screw ’em.  Tulane and Rice get a shot at staying in Division I without having to bring back the “undergraduate studies” major.  And you get an eight team conference of actual student-athletes, liberated from having to play East Roast Beef and its army of well-paid adolescent golems.

It’s not perfect.  Hell, it may not be practical.  But at some point, somebody has to stand up and say “enough is enough, we’re getting off this carousel.”  And that particular combination of schools might just have enough credibility to make it happen.

Fuck the SEC.  I’m through defending this shitpile of a league.  I’m sick of the fact that nothing matters but football.  I’m sick of the fact that officiating is based on how high-profile you are and how good your national title chances are instead of what the fucking black-letter rules in the rulebook say.  But mostly, I’m sick of having to spend my Saturdays week in and week out watching my guys go up against a bunch of the best illiterate hyperthyroidal chuckleheads money can buy, all majoring in kineseology, playing in front of borderline-sociopath rednecks who only set foot on a college campus for games.

We’ve been there since 1933.  We’re competitive in every other sport.  We’re the only thing keeping this league’s dumpster-fire academic standards from straight-up Southwest Conference territory circa 1980.  We do things the right way, and have done, and all we get for our trouble is a cut of somebody else’s bowl money and a royal screwing anytime we show signs of being any good.

To hell with it.  Alabama, Auburn, Arkansas, LOL Miss, Mississippi State, Kentucky, Florida, Georgia, LSU, Tennessee, South Carolina.  Joke institutions in a garbage conference.  We deserve better than your bullshit. If we’re going to play in college football’s whorehouse, at least let’s play in one that’s not crooked.

Three years ago today.

All day was nothing but anxiety. They lied to the pollsters. They’re going to panic at the last minute and go running back to Daddy. Something will go wrong, because we’re not going to be able to elect a black man President of the country while Selma and Birmingham and Indianola County are living memory.

And yet, when it went down, when the polls closed, there it was. National championship. The music hit in Grant Park – “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” – and our man walked out and cracked that grin, and we exploded. It had happened, and it really did feel like anything was possible.

That was three years ago.

Basically, it’s been downhill ever since. Not to say I told you so, but I totally did…

“If you’re looking for some changes to the way things run in this country, forget that too. The Senate Republicans have shattered the record for filibusters in a single session these last two years, and that’s with a President who could still veto things if they somehow got out of Congress. With a Democrat-controlled Congress (and probably by a larger margin in both houses) and a Democratic President, they’re going to dig in their heels. Scorched Earth, just like 1992-94. Every initiative will be tied up forever in the Senate, while the usual talk-radio scum bellow on about how the GOP is saving America from the depredations of the horrible socialist terrorist-worshipping Democrats…and the political media will bemoan the fact that Obama has failed to change the tone in Washington and cannot get his program through Congress.”

That was two days after Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech at the RNC, when it became obvious that they were going to go the full Atwater with the fall campaign. And I nailed it. “Scorched earth” doesn’t even begin to cover the range of actions and initiatives that have drawn 100% opposition from the GOP from day one, whether it’s the stimulus package (now revealed as way too small for what was required), the health care reform bill, or even the most routine procedural matters. And it got worse in 2010, when the GOP took the house and got more than 40 in the Senate – thus giving them effective control of the chamber, since the current interpretation of the cloture rule basically makes everything a 60-vote threshold in defiance of the Constitution and two hundred years of history and established practice.

And now people are out there asking whether the Republicans are engaged in active sabotage. What a fucking crock. They’ve been engaged in active sabotage since November 5, 2008. From the day Barack Obama was elected, the GOP committed itself to one goal and one goal only: undoing the results of that election, in practice if not in fact. It should have been obvious to anyone, and it was easily preventable if only Harry Reid had the balls to lay down the law and order Senate Democrats to support all cloture votes – or better yet, to do away with the filibuster altogether. “But the Senate won’t be the Senate anymore!” – guess what, moron, it’s not the Senate now. Ask Sinclair or Ornstein or Oppenheimer or anyone with a pair of eyes and an IQ above room temperature.

Meanwhile, as respected a source as the Economist runs articles about “the missing middle”. Never mind the US media, in thrall to the golden mean fallacy. False equivalence plus scorched earth equals no future. I wish I knew the way out, but as good as I used to be, I don’t have one.

Shocker.  The “General Strike” in Oakland leads to assorted vandalism, sporadic violence, a march to shut down the port of Oakland, and a whole lot of confusion.  Not least of which is “what the very fuck is going on?”

Because the plot has been lost.  Make no mistake, the whole point of the Occupy movement is now up for grabs.  The International Longshore Workers Union is standing around debating whether or not they should be forcing their way into the port or honoring the strike, and believe me when I say that the Occupy kids want no part of crossing the ILWU, which has a long memory regarding another general strike.  At the very least, the modern “movement” should be aware of why the ports on the West Coast still shut down every year on July 5.  Hint: it’s not a paid holiday.

Marching, police activity, all we need now is the tired Buffalo Springfield soundtrack.  Because this has been neatly forced into the same paradigm as every other mass action for the last forty years.  This needed to happen in a very different way if people were going to be motivated.  It needed to be somewhere far from the Bay Area, quite frankly, and it needed to involve people who will generate empathy in Peoria and Kansas City and Jasper and Trenton and Buffalo.  The minute it’s possible for the mass media to shove this whole thing into the giant overstuffed box marked “HIPPIE SHIT,” the rest of the country – the legions of downwardly-mobile middle-class Americans done wrong by the financial shenanigans of the last decade – ceases to identify with the movement.

Maybe it’s not right, maybe it’s not fair, but it’s reality.  Spare me the diatribes about “false consciousness”.  I’m sure that goes down a treat in Boulder or Santa Cruz, but that’s not where this needs to resonate.  Ed Earl Brown, who can’t find a job that pays what he used to get and whose wife is struggling to keep the kids fed and whose house is upside down 50% and who’s one bad month away from getting his base-model F-150 repossessed and whose biggest joy in life is going to be if LSU breaks through Saturday against Bama – if Ed Earl doesn’t identify with the Occupy movement, the then Occupy movement has blown it.

It might just be possible to salvage this shit, but it’s going to take some doing.  Clean up.  Dress like ordinary folks from Middle America. Tell the bedraggled potheads with the END CAPITALISM banner to fuck off back to the dorms. Focus – heavily – on the financial sector, the people who make billions on a glorified shell game, the ones who begged to be rescued by the Feds only to turn around and drop the hammer on ordinary people who needed the same thing.  I’m mainly thinking here of Rick Santelli’s infamous CNBC raveout a month into the Obama administration, and thinking of Matthew 18: 23-34, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that once upon a time I was really fucking good at this shit.

It’s about time for me to return the 13″ MacBook Air to its rightful owner – my boss – and I have come to some firm conclusions.

1) My next work computer must be a 13″ MBA.  No ifs, ands or buts – I need the reduced weight in my bag and the speed and performance are outstanding, not to mention the battery life.  Hell, the i5 processor and only 128 GB of storage are sufficient.

2) While I could sure use a portable of my own, right now the move is to wait for the notional iPad 3.  Basically on the pretense that innovations seem to move back and forth between devices.  Just as the iPhone 4 got the original iPad’s A4 processor, and the iPad 2 got the iPhone 4’s FaceTime camera, and the iPhone 4S got the iPad 2’s A5 processor, I’m hoping that the (wholly theoretical) iPad three will include a faster processor, support for Siri, and (most of all) the ability to go on AT&T or Verizon with the same hardware, which would mean I could use Verizon in the States and still get GSM service abroad.  Hopefully by then, we’ll have versions of SBNation and WatchESPN that work with iPad and UVerse respectively – the presence of Prompt and Spaces on the iPad have been a real leap forward in terms of “good enough” viability in case I had to try to do work on the bloody thing.

3) In the meantime, the combination of the iPhone 4 (running iOS 5) and the Kindle 3 (keyboarded with 3G) make a fairly decent personal solution.  The screen of the iPhone is no great shakes for watching video, obviously, and my battery may start giving out sooner rather than later, but the iPhone is still the indispensable device.  And the Kindle (freshly warranty-replaced) still has the browser, which is perfectly viable for RSS and Twitter – with the ace in the hole of unlimited free 3G access.  A great solution for those long winter walks around San Francisco when I need reading material whilst sat in the cafe or the dive bar, without having to carry a bag.  In fact, I intend to try that combo this very night, albeit not in the city, because the temps are finally turning autumnal.  It’s kind of a drag having summer last from August through Halloween, but that’s the price we pay for no mosquitos/hurricanes/tornadoes/Vols/etc etc.

All right.  Two down, twenty-eight to go.  I will make this work, you’ll see…

Read this bit first.

So it’s happening this weekend – thanks to another bad lease deal, the 4Ps will suffer the same fate as Dan Brown’s Lounge, and be turfed out in favor of some other big-ticket joint, and another piece of my past will go missing.  And make no mistake, this is a big piece.  Not least because it was everything.  It was where we celebrated when good things happened.  It was where we mourned when bad things happened.  It was where we took guests from out of town to show them a good time.  It was where we went to get away from it all and get lost in the smoke and the jukebox and the beer and the song and the potato soup.

It was, in short, the place I’d always wanted my whole life.  If you really reach, you could have made a case for the Overcup or the Villager at Vanderbilt, and some interesting things happened at Sign of the Whale in the boom era, but make no mistake: for four and a half years, Ireland’s Four Provinces was The Bar. The place where the action is. The place where We hung out, the place where We belonged, the place where there was a We.

And the more I think of it, the more I know I don’t actually want to go back one last time.  I did that last year, and we closed the joint again, and a great night was had by all – but I don’t know if I could bear it knowing it would be the last time.  I’d much rather remember how it was, and hope against hope that maybe that really is the afterlife: the snowy night outside, with my best girl and my best friends inside, at a table full of food and Guinness, and more friends coming through the door, and it’s 11 PM and the McTeggarts are just starting the third set with “On The One Road”…for eternity.

 

NB: this is day one of NaBloPoMo, in which I attempt to blog something every day for a month.  Hell, I’m not going through NaNoWriMo again without a MacBook Air.

I have reached an age and a station where there’s not that much on my radar as presents go.  I’m pushing forty (dragging thirty!  DRAGGING THIRTY!) and I don’t have any kids, and the things I want most in the world aren’t really things I can have – or at the very least, they’re not things that I can stick on an Amazon wish list.  (I suppose if I had ridiculous 9-figure money, I could buy myself a Vanderbilt ride to the Sugar Bowl, but things like a do-over on undergrad or a sudden onset of sanity in the old country aren’t on offer.)

So what’s left?  This is an even more pronounced issue with a big birthday coming up sooner than later, but it’s not like I can even decide what I want to do to “celebrate” the great odometer rollover (although the series of blog posts is already in pre-production, don’t think it isn’t).  The real issue is that, you know, I’ve got a little money and I’m doing all right.  So anything under thirty dollars is probably something I’ve already bought myself, and the kinds of things I’d like to save up for are too costly for a present to make that much difference on – I mean, a night out at Bourbon and Branch is easily funded as a gift, but two weeks walking the Cotswold Way, not so much.

Right now, the things of foolishness currently occupying my list mostly revolve around the new Brooks Brothers line of Vanderbilt apparel.  I need a new dress shirt in the worst way, and since BB makes some of the best out there, one or two with the school logo on the cuff wouldn’t be the worst thing to get by a long shot. I hear they also do a very nice Vandy polo shirt, complete with black-on-black logo so it doesn’t look quite so prep-tastic. (If I had a truly ridiculous sum of money to hand, I wouldn’t mind overhauling my entire wardrobe with a nice selection of bespoke and tailored things of the sort that scream “Vandy lifestyle” – but if I had that kind of money, it wouldn’t be a problem.)

There’s a watch on the list – I know, I know, but this one is an automatic self-winding number from a small purveyor of government contracted goods, and it’s completely without logo or branding of any kind.  Basically, I could wear it for the next forty years without ever buying a battery – and there’s something about owning a completely mechanical, completely unbranded, completely superfluous accessory that would last the rest of my life…I don’t know, but there’s an appeal there to something in the kind of character I’d like to be.

As superfluities go, for that matter, there’s always the new waterproof Palladiums – which might just make a viable alternative to the endless parade of DMs I’ve worn for over a decade.  Not that I want to get away from my Docs, but something else might make a nice change of pace, and the ultralights I bought earlier this year were the perfect summer footwear all season.  Again, something about the “urban explorer” vibe of the revived Palladium pings something in the back of my head about what I’d like to be doing; this is where you go to Wikipedia and look up the word “flaneur”.  I guess this is where the Carharrt donkey coat, or the SeV outback jacket that holds an iPad, would come into play…

And that’s where things really trip up.  Because at the moment, there’s no telling when I’ll end up reworking my laptop situation at the office, let alone my cell phone situation.  And at some point, I may wind up having to purchase a portable computing solution of some sort, and right now everything is on hold until we see how viable the Kindle Fire is.  But I’m not fooling myself that I could blog on it, even assuming I wanted to…for that matter, I’ve not attempted Anchor of Gold blogging through the web interface on a non-laptop portable.  And above all, I don’t know what the shelf life of the modern tablet is, and I’m not persuaded it matches the three years minimum I expect of a laptop (and let’s be honest, probably more if I have to front the cost myself…and how long can we expect a MacBook Air to be viable?  Not three years I bet).

Hell, maybe everyone should just give me money and then enjoy the spectacle of me fretting about what unnecessary thing I should blow it on.  At least there’s entertainment value in that.  After all, I just churned out 800 words on what may be the Platonic ideal of first world problems – the comic potential of me agonizing over a gift card for six months is bound to pass some of the time, right?

The whole point, the whole appeal, of the Occupy Wall Street movement was “99%.”  Everyone is suffering.  Ordinary non-political mainstream Americans.  People who are just living their lives and playing by the rules and getting screwed by the beneficiaries of the Whiffle Life.

And yet, out here in the Bay Area at least, the wrong sort of people are taking over.  Occupy SF is getting costumed visits from Critical Massholes.*  Occupy Oakland is getting speeches from Michael Moore.**  And the kind of people who need to be behind the movement are going to look at it and see the usual suspects of the Professional Indignant Left – and the punditocracy will not hesitate to lump Occupy in with the usual suspects – the pot-bedraggled-Free Mumia-International ANSWER-ginormous puppet-crowd that helped paint opposition to the Iraq War as the province of Dirty Fucking Hippies.

If the people who really want to protest what’s happened in this country could be compelled to turn out in khakis and polo shirts, and lash out at things like Bank of America debit card fees and illegal foreclosures by banks that were bailed out with taxpayer money and failing CEOs getting one golden parachute after another, and if the Telegraph Avenue burnouts could stay home and shut up for once, it would only take a few weeks for Middle America to identify with the movement and wonder why we haven’t started stringing up hedge fund managers.

But as soon as the Professional Indignant Left gets themselves front and center, they become the story, and they become the face of the movement, and ordinary Americans don’t want to identify with them anymore.  And that’s how the 1% get away with it.  That’s how it worked in Alabama in the 1920s, that’s how it works in Alabama today, that’s what the GOP has attempted to nationalize in the last few decades, and on the available evidence you have to think it’s working out for them so far.

So bury the affinity groups, put out the fucking joints, burn the Chomksy and wash your fucking hair, and try to make Ed Earl Turnipseed feel like you’re one of him.  Unless, as always, you’d rather be right than win.  God, I miss Bill Clinton.***

 

 

* Seriously, there’s nothing wrong with Critical Mass that couldn’t be fixed with a couple of automatic rifles.  I’m sick of people who don’t understand what civil disobedience means – from either direction.

** Michael Moore needs to be sewn in a sack and dropped off the Bay Bridge.  No one who seriously argued that there was no difference between George Bush and Al Gore should be treated as anything other than a retard, let alone given any sort of credibility as a political figure.  You fuck up like that, you don’t get to play anymore.

*** It’s not too late for the Big Dog to be put in charge of Obama 2012.

The memorials and eulogies and etc. for Steve Jobs have been plentiful and well-deserved.  Everyone is in awe of the iOS era, and to some extent of the iPod (still!), and everyone says that he “saved Apple,” which he certainly did.  But I don’t know how much people think about just what sort of state Apple was in.

I came on board in summer of 1994, with a Power Mac 6100AV that I bought in advance of starting grad school.  I’d wanted a Mac for a while, and the decision to go with a desktop over a laptop was a tough one until I realized that it would mean the difference between a 68K processor (past) and a PowerPC one (future, or at least futureproof).  And so it was that I wound up with the whole kit and kaboodle.  The 14″ monitor with the speakers underneath and the microphone built in, connected to that weird thick port on back of the pizza box.  System 7.1.2, back when the operating system was just called System.  And a Geoport Telecom Adapter, using some of the already-overtaxed CPU to handle the model dialup connection – which, in my case, meant using Apple Remote Access to establish a connection to the school network.

It could have been worse, to be honest – not that many people were dialing in on ARA, so I usually had as good a connection as the 14.4kbps modem emulation could provide me.  But this was an era when TCP/IP wasn’t actually part of the operating system.  I remember trying to get MacTCP working, and arguments over beers at the Garages over Thanksgiving break as to whether SLIP or PPP was a better way to try to get online, while I was dutifully logging into eWorld for Monday Night Football chat.

Salvation was going to come in 7.5.  Or with Open Transport.  Or with OpenDoc.  Or with CHRP-based clone hardware.  It seemed like everything on God’s green earth was being thrown at the wall in the hopes that something would stick long enough to be the miracle that brought everyone charging back into the Apple fold.  Every month, MacWorld or MacUser had details about some new thing – some preview of Copeland, or some new frogdesign concept for a new-look Macintosh incorporating Bluetooth peripherals, or a new line of Power Computing clones that ran faster than anything coming out of Cupertino.  MacWorld Boston, or MacWorld San Francisco, or Seybold – an endless stream of Photoshop bake-offs and promises of new things to come.

None of it worked, of course. Cyberdog was interesting – and one of its most knowledgable authorities wound up best man at my wedding – and things like the Apple Open Collaboration Environment had promise, albeit in a world of LAN-based networking quickly swamped by the Internet.  I never really got round to using my computer as the answering machine.  Similarly, Claris eMailer never really displaced Eudora (except a few years later, briefly, as Outlook Express for Mac), and the clones only serves to cannibalize the existing Mac line.  CHRP and PREP didn’t amount to anything, as nobody really wanted to dual-boot Mac OS and Windows NT on a PowerPC system.

Apple was a mess.  And within two years of Steve’s return, the product line was simple: PowerMac, PowerBook, iMac, iBook.  And to this day, that’s pretty much how the Mac side of things looks: a desktop and a laptop each, for consumer and pro markets.  Simple, self-replacing, non-proliferating (God only knows how many Performa models there were by 1998) – pick something to do and do it right.  And embrace standards – USB,TCP/IP, POP/SMTP, no more proprietary nonsense.  Today, you won’t find a single port on a MacBook that you can’t find on any other laptop, except for the new standard by Intel originally called LightPeak – which Apple now markets as Thunderbolt.

Apple stands for simple computing.  Fortunately, Steve had the chops and the sense to simplify Apple.