The Oils played a Sydney reunion gig in 2005 (the video says 2006 but it’s wrong) to benefit victims of the Boxing Day Tsunami. It’s a tight, concise but still rocking 40 minute set:
Sorry for the title – I know this happened in Anchorage, not Wasilla, but “Skankorage In Anchorage” just doesn’t have the same zing to it.
Well, as you probably know by now, this happened:
Posted on 9/11/2014 1:28:42 PM by bigdaddy45
Sarah Palin may have channeled her inner lipstick-wearing pit bull this past weekend, when her entire family was reportedly involved in a brawl in Alaska.
Details are scarce, but according to a local blog in the Palins’ hometown of Wasilla, Sarah’s son Track (who may have been under the influence of alcohol) got into a physical altercation with an ex-boyfriend of his sister Willow’s at a snowmobile party.
****************************Don’t shoot the messenger… but this story is hitting big today. Something clearly happened up in Alaska this weekend. It’s evidently been confirmed by the Anchorage PD that there was a big broohaha, and that the Palin family was in attendance.
Not for the world would I shoot the messenger who brought me such delightful fare as this!
The night before, Saturday, was a doozy. The details are a little sketchy, but there’s enough of them, from enough different sources, that a story emerges, a story that according to the gossip Gods, looks kind of like this: There’s some sort of Iron Dog/snowmachine party in Anchorage. A nice, mellow party, until the Palin’s show up. There’s beer, of course, and maybe other things. Which is all fine, but just about the time when some people might have had one too many, a Track Palin stumbles out of a stretch Hummer, and immediately spots an ex-boyfriend of Willow’s. Track isn’t happy with this guy, the story goes. There’s words, and more. The owner of the house gets involved, and he probably wished he hadn’t. At this point, he’s up against nearly the whole Palin tribe: Palin women screaming. Palin men thumping their chests. Word is that Bristol has a particularly strong right hook, which she employed repeatedly, and it’s something to hear when Sarah screams, “Don’t you know who I am!” And it was particularly wonderful when someone in the crowd screamed back, “This isn’t some damned Hillbilly reality show!” No, it’s what happens when the former First Family of Alaska comes knocking. As people were leaving in a cab, Track was seen on the street, shirtless, flipping people off, with Sarah right behind him, and Todd somewhere in the foreground, tending to his bloody nose.
To: bigdaddy45Good deal. Finally! A republican who knows how to fight!
To: bigdaddy45this story is hitting big todayReally? This is the first I’ve heard of it. Where do you get your news from, DU?
When I heard that Bob Suter had died, a dozen thoughts ran through my head. Almost all of them were covered brilliantly by A in her post earlier this week. Meeting him at his store and meeting him at the Team Cheerios breakfast were among the best moments of my life at a time in which it wasn’t easy to find much for us to hold on to. We were scared, battered kids in our early 20s who didn’t know if we were going to accomplish an impossible task when we fell in love with Suter and company.
Suter was our age when he became part of a moment that would follow him for the rest of his life. In some cases, I’m sure it was a blessing and yet in other cases, I get the sense he wished people would just let it go.
Herb Brooks once told his Olympic kids that they couldn’t be common men because common men go nowhere. They had to be uncommon. In my mind, however, Suter was uncommonly common in the best of all ways. As such, he reminded me of Jack Kirrane, the captain of the 1960 U.S. Hockey squad that won gold by knocking off half of the Communist Bloc at a time of increasing international tensions. He was a 34-year-old firefighter from Brookline, Massachusetts who sold his truck to pay for the plane fare to get out to the tryouts and then took a four-month unpaid leave of absence to play for his country.
After he became the toast of the town and the hero of the country, he went home and put his gold medal in a dresser drawer. He then climbed back on his fire truck and served out the remainder of his 38-year career.
If Suter had done nothing else in his life but win that gold medal, it would be more than enough for most men for 1,000 life times. Jack O’Callahan famously noted that 1980 yielded two miracles: First, the team beat the Russians and second that Mike Eruzione was still making money off the deal.
That wasn’t Suter’s way.
His obituary didn’t lead with his hockey nickname (Bam Bam) or wax poetic about his role in what Sports Illustrated called the Century’s Greatest Sports Moment. It talked about youth hockey and what he did for all those kids with half-formed ambitions to be good at a sport that saw the American player as inferior. It called him “Grandpa Bobby,” which is antithetical to those of us who can’t divorce this 57-year-old from that 20-something fireplug with a mop of golden silk hair and a desire to check every Czech out there.
His outer shell belied a softness for the young and for the game that really was inextricably woven into his life. I really got a chance to see that in Buffalo as we caught up with him after the game.
“Mr. Suter?” I called out.
He looked over at me like I was a Gopher waiting to be checked.
“I’m Drummy’s friend. You put a couple tickets aside for us and we wanted to say thank you.”
He relaxed and started talking to us. It was something that I’ll never forget and, yet, I still can’t remember what the hell he said. We talked about how the game kind of devolved after the first period. It was a charity game, so the first period was real hockey and then the ref (some local goofball) started screwing around. He forced people to shoot penalty shots with undersized or oversized sticks. He called penalties for “funny” reasons and he played to the crowd.
Every time Suter took the ice after that first period, I could see him skating harder and tougher. It was like, “Fuck this. We’re winning this game, no matter how stupid this gets.”
It was in that context that he went full speed into the corner in the final minute of the third and totaled some septuagenarian Sabre with a check that shook the arena.
I brought that up during our discussion and I remember asking, “I thought it was a no-checking game…”
He just grinned the grin I will never forget: Impish, fun-loving and completely dedicated to his craft. The way he approached that check was the way he approached life.
In thinking about the man who will be laid to rest tomorrow, I wonder if he was like The Judge in “Mystery, Alaska.” He never talked about how he played the game, he didn’t cotton to fools and yet, he was the one who would tell a little kid to make sure he held his stick a certain way. After all, you paid for the whole stick. You might as well use it.
Saturday’s memorial for the man will be held at the Alliant Energy Center’s exhibition hall, which coincidentally abuts the Veterans Memorial Coliseum, the home of the Madison Capitols hockey team. It may be coincidence, but I doubt it, as Suter always seemed to be most at home when he was around the rink. Although it may be too soon to consider such a thought, I hope the hockey royalty of the Madison area name some patch of ice or venue in his honor.
In Winthrop, Massachusetts, kids learn the game at the Larsen Skating Rink at the Eruzione Center.
Even Jack Kirrane has a skating rink in Brookline that pays tribute to him.
Suter deserves as much, if not more.
Maybe they could call it “Grandpa Bobby’s Pond.”
Our water was turned off for 5 or 6 hours yesterday because of some sort of water works, uh, work. Since I assume that any project involving the city will take longer than expected, Dr. A filled the bathtub just in case. A wise but unnecessary precaution as they finished ahead of schedule. That never happens here.
Anyway, when I pulled the plug to drain the tub it made a helluva racket causing Oscar and Della to run for the Grampian Hills. (I don’t know where the hell that is but WC Fields loved to say that and if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.) That, in turn, made me think of this old snapshot of Della Street who seems to be lying on a wash cloth or hand towel. Della is big on comfort, y’all:
I don’t know about you, but when Mrs. Greenspan trotted out John McCain on MSNBC after the President’s speech I changed the channel. Enough already, Andrea. You drove me to watch a Shark Tank rerun…
That brings me to today’s tweet. It comes from Eric Boehlert of Media Matters:
That sums it up quite nicely. Maybe McCain should have retired, grown a beard, and hired Keith Olbermann. Now that would be something:
The current president has been accused by his detractors of many of the same sins as he tries to lead the nation through a time when “political acerbations” are profitable drivers of political rewards. (What is John McCain now but a walking political acerbation?) Last night, he called on those detractors to actually make the war they so loudly recommend. He called on the governments in the region most directly affected to do their part to protect themselves, and to try and stop their people from butchering each other. He is groping, still, to find logic to the derangement that broke out on this day, 13 years ago. He is groping, still, for a way out of the profitable trauma.
There isn’t reason to remembering a war, which is what that day was. A one-day war, which we lost. And you don’t remember a war the way it happened. You remember it the way you have to remember it, to survive the next one.
So we remember a day that frightened us, and then united us, and we long for that unity, in no small part because it never existed:
And in Bridgeview, Ill., a suburb of Chicago, police stopped 300 marchers as they tried to march on a mosque. Marcher Colin Zaremba, 19, told The Associated Press, “I’m proud to be American and I hate Arabs and I always have.”
We have made up a pretty story about who we are, to keep us alive until tomorrow. That it isn’t true doesn’t matter so much as that it isn’t working.
I said last night that it seemed like Obama was just phoning in his performance as George W. Bush, which is understandable. He doesn’t want to be in the middle of this, and tried to get us out of the middle of it, and bowed to pressure to “do something.” Nobody has ever gotten anywhere just “doing something” but this isn’t about him or us anymore.
This is about the next war, and what we’ll have to tell ourselves about this one, to get us through it.
Old Scratch Dick slithered about, probably making mirrors tarnish while continuing to grunt, drool…and get the Middle East dead wrong. The very fact there are still people willing to give this pathetic, heartless (that’s deliberate) mother-of-all-scary-creepy-clowns anything besides derisive jeering and a solid pelting with rotten fruit is…sad, and a sign of the moral and intellectual deficit of, well, the Stupid Caucus.
Dick Cheney is the person who got us into this quagfuck, insisting that whacking the hornet’s nest that was/is the Middle East would produce milk and honey, and not a downward spiral harvest of sickening violence. Slapping on a cheap coat of paint, with barely enough glue, paste, chewing gum, and baling wire to hold this lemon of a foreign policy together long enough to hie-tail it out of town should be a Rushmore sized national embarrassment. And probably would have been, if Old Dick hadn’t been a Republican…because, you see, with Rethugs, the rules are…different.
One of my favorite things about being a blogger is skewering hypocrites. That’s the essence of this feature: taking down the pious phonies who populate our national life. There is no bigger hypocrite than former Virginia Governor and future convict, Bob McDonnell, and that is why he’s malaka of the week.
Everybody knows that McDonnell rolled the dice in his corruption trial and rolled snake eyes. That’s not even the worst, or stupidest, part, he took his wife Maureen down with him. That’s particularly rich in his case, as he ran as a “family values” candidate who trotted out his attractive and rather large family at the drop of a hat. That didn’t stop him from using his wife as a human shield whilst his lawyers put on a disgusting and demeaning defense wherein Mo Mac was portrayed as a greedy, nutbag, she-devil with a crush on star witness Johnny Williams.
The best thing I read about McDonnell’s disgusting, and mercifully futile, defense was by the preternaturally awesome Dahlia Lithwick at Slate:
If I never hear the phrase “X threw Y under a bus” again, especially with regard to this trial, I will be immensely grateful. At some point in the proceedings, it seemed as if there were so many people thrown under so many buses—wife, children, executive chef, staff—it wasn’t clear the bus could move anymore. Maureen McDonnell acceded to a legal strategy that painted her as a frosty harridan with a roving eye and a lamentable inability to manage the staff (the “Downton Abbey defense”). I still cannot accept the defense’s proposition that she was somehow driving the bus when it looked to the rest of the world like she was lying under it.
It’s easy to say that everyone in power is bought and that the McDonnells simply got caught getting bought. But that doesn’t quite capture the horror of what happened here in the commonwealth in the past month. Whatever shame they brought on the office of governor by their dealings with Williams was overshadowed by the shame of their legal strategy. The jurors must have felt unimaginably filthy listening to gruesome tales of a “nutbag” first lady, rebuffed letters from the governor trying to resolve marital spats, and tween-grade text messages to a man Maureen McDonnell was allegedly “obsessed with.” That the former governor knew his career was making his wife wretched and drove on nonetheless is one thing. That he blamed her wretchedness for wrecking his career borders on felony chutzpah.
Tell us what you really think, Dahlia. Felony chutzpah sounds like a textbook example of malakatude. It also sums up much of McMalaka’s public life. He went to Pat Robertson’s law school, and was supported politically by Pat and the Immoral Minority’s Jerry Falwell. As Governor, he earned two disparaging nicknames: Governor Ultra Sound for the intrusive abortion law he signed into law. And Doc Maddow dubbed him Sponge Bob when his procilivity for grifting free stuff, both large and small, became public knowledge. McMalaka never met a freebie he didn’t like or take advantage of. His defense to his own ravenous greed: the little lady/missus made me do it. I never bought it, and I’m glad the jury didn’t either.
The Commonwealth of Virginia is justly proud of its long and glorious history. Bob McDonnell was its first Governor to even be indicted, let alone convicted. I don’t recall Patrick Henry saying, “Give me liberty or let me drive your Ferrari.” Dr. A spent her formative years in Virginia and we have family and friends there. A few of whom have teased me over the years about Louisiana’s reputation for political corruption. It’s true, C Ray went to jail on Monday and we’ve had our share of crooked Governors as you can see in this sign I made to wear in the 2007 Krewe du Vieux parade:
Neither Dick Leche nor Edwin Edwards blamed their spouses or even their mistresses for their problems, which makes them better men than that sanctimonious fraud Sponge Bob. And that is one of a gazillion reasons that Bob McDonnell is malaka of the week.
Bob Suter, a defenseman for the 1980 Miracle on Ice team and father of Minnesota Wild defenseman Ryan Suter, died Tuesday at age 57.
Suter played for the University of Wisconsin, winning a national championship in 1977, before being chosen for the team that upset the Soviet Union and won a gold medal at Lake Placid, N.Y.
Ryan Suter has said that his dad never talked about 1980 much while he was growing up.
“It was never my dad the gold medalist. It was my dad the hard-working guy who runs a sporting goods store and does what he can for youth hockey,” he told USA TODAY Sports in 2010.
Doc and I drove out to that sporting goods store one day, and if we’d been there to buy sticks or pads or pucks, I think Suter would have known exactly what to do with us. But we were there just to meet him in person, and he seemed weirded out by the whole experience.
His gold medal, he said, was at home in a drawer. He wasn’t exactly sure where. Could he at least help us find a jersey or something?
We were like pre-teens at a Bieber concert. We talked for hours about the two seconds we’d spoken to him. He’d looked right at us! He’d said things! In the same oxygen as us!
You’ve got to understand, that was a catastrophically shitty year. Our paper had shut down, we were broke, we were working 80 hours a week and trying to get through college, our parents were barely talking to us because we were never around, everything at the age of 19 feels like the last days of a war anyway if you’re doing it right, and so what we would do was tell stories to get through the hour between 3 and 4 a.m. when it felt like the whole world was ending.
One of those stories was this:
This was before the Disney movie, before the torch-lighting, before the “greatest sports moment of all time” specials on cable. Everybody remembered it, sure, but this was basically before the real Internet. Nobody had a way to talk about it all day long. The story felt like ours, like a secret. That’s what a good story is: A part of your secret heart, that you can take out and look at when you need to remind yourself who you are, when you need something to keep you alive.
I think I might have stammered something like that the second time I met Bobby Suter, in a deserted ice arena in Buffalo, New York.
This time Doc and I had dragged ourselves all the way out to what seemed like the coldest goddamn place on the planet. We’d read that the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team was gonna play a game, a charity match, against the Buffalo Sabres Alumni squad. Bunch of old guys in a no-checking game that meant less than nothing? On a Sunday afternoon in winter?
Just try and keep us away.
Tickets were sold out, the story said. But Doc pulled some strings and Bobby Suter set aside a couple, just for us. We took a bus to a train across the country, to a cab when we missed our train station, to a town with blue laws where nothing was open. We were so poor we couldn’t spring for a hotel, so we wandered the streets before the game and wound up at a Burger King.
After the game — in which Suter knocked some 70-year-old into the boards because no checking doesn’t really mean no checking — we hung around the arena waiting for the players to come out of the locker rooms. We wanted to thank Suter in person, and suddenly there he was, his hair still wet from the shower, grinning like a little kid at the circus.
Forget the game (which was forgettable), forget the overnight train trip, forget the fact that it was 5 below zero and the snow piles were over our heads. It was worth the distance to see somebody lit up like that, from doing just what he was put on earth to do.
So thank you for that, Mr. Suter, and thank you for the story we told ourselves over and over in the middle of the night.
And the winner is Zephyr Teachout. It’s unusual, it’s punchy, it’s punworthy. She also cocked a snook at Andrew Cuomo in yesterday’s Noo Yawk Democratic Goober primary. (I prefer the term goober to gubernatorial. It’s one of my many quirks.) I thought she’d get 15-20% of the vote but she got 34%, which was a damn good showing for a protest candidate.
I knew that Empire State liberals were mad at Prince Andrew but I didn’t think that many of them would vote against him. Cuomo has dedicated his career to avoiding the mistakes he thinks his father made. He clearly believes Mario wasn’t dickish or arrogant enough, and has been compensating for those perceived failings since his father was defeated in the GOP wave election of 1994.
I’m glad that Zephyr Teachout Cuomo a lesson. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely to alter his style of governing or smooth over the rough edges of his personality. A dick is a dick, an asshole is an asshole.
Repeat after me: Zephyr Teachout.
I’ve been thinking about posting this cover for quite some time. Todd Rundgren *is* one of my favorite artists, and this was the first Utopia LP as well as his first foray into prog rock. That, however, is not the reason for the timing. I saw the new Fox reality teevee train wreck Utopia the other day. It’s bad, bad, bad. Their idea of Utopia is putting obnoxious bros together with bikini clad babes and the odd wingnut. The result is a campy, unintentionally funny asshole utopia. I’m not sure if I can stand watching it again but it made me laugh to watch these bumbling bozos. Thomas More is not amused…
Todd Rundgren has always been an experimental artist. It’s what has made his career arc so interesting and occasionally infuriating. Todd Rundgren’s Utopia pushed the LP format to its limit with each side clocking in at around 30 minutes. Todd’s first version of Utopia was full of guys with names like Moogy Klingman and M Frog Labat instead of screaming Fox teevee reality pukes. It’s a helluva album with a cool cover. The eyes have it:
To begin: I am a woman teacher of introductory computer sciences. My two sections this semester have 150 students each. When I say there’s a “pretty good” gender balance, I mean it doesn’t take me too long to find women to make eye contact with while I’m lecturing. It’s definitely nowhere near 50-50, though.
I had a student come into my office hours on Monday and mention, in passing, how intimidating it was that whenever I’d ask a question there were a bunch of male hands that would immediately jump into the air. “The guys already know all this,” she told me. The thing is – they don’t. Most of the time their answers are incomplete or straight up wrong, but the hands are there. The hands always go up. Clearly they know.
I make an absolute point of calling on a woman if she raises her hand, because it’s important for other women – and men – to hear a female voice answering a question. But am I self-sabotaging? Are women afraid to raise their hands now because they know they’ll be called on? I don’t know. What I do know is that right now, the class is falling back into that depressing rut of “programming is for white and east Asian men”, and I feel like I’m already defeated.
Bob Mould is back on the road in support of a new album, Beauty and Ruin. He gave a swell interview to Salon wherein he described playing at the Minnesota State Fair. I guess he’s now playing rock on a stick. Here’s the very amusing video for the first single from the album:
I haven’t written much about the Gret Stet Senate race because it’s a rather depressing topic. Mary Landrieu, instead of subtly tacking to the right as is her usual pattern, has gone full blown blue dog on a wide variety of issues. We’ll see if it works, but my nose is sorer than usual from wearing a clothespin when I contemplate the race. The good news is that the other guy is much worse. He’s also a dumbass with limited knowledge of the history of the institution he wants to serve in:
Rep. Bill Cassidy (R-LA) said Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-NV) runs the Senate “like a plantation.”
Cassidy’s comments were published by E&E Daily on Tuesday. Cassidy, who is running for Senate, made the comments while bashing Sen. Mary Landrieu (D-LA), who he said has helped Obama “get his agenda through” thanks to her support for Reid.
Cassidy added that Reid “runs the Senate like a plantation.”
“Son instead of the world’s greatest deliberative body, it is his personal, sort of, ‘it goes if I say it does, if not it stops.’ Senator Landrieu’s first vote for him to be re-elected means that every other wish for a pro-oil and gas jobs bill is dead. Reid will never allow a pro-oil and gas jobs bill.”
I wonder if Dr. Empty Suit has ever heard of a guy named Lyndon Johnson? He ran the Senate with an iron fist as did Bob Dole in his day as Majority Leader. I personally adore the pugnacity of Leader Reid, but he’s no dictator let alone a plantation overseer. Being Majority Leader in 2014 is more like herding cats than whipping the help. It’s also kind of a stomach churning image for a Congressman from a former slave state to use. Marse Harry? Gimme a break, Doc.
Cassidy’s gearing his comments towards oil and gas is an excellent illustration of the state of the Gret Stet Senate race. Both candidates are competing to see who can give the oil and gas people the bigger orgasm. The incumbent’s edge on this issue is that she’s Chair of the Senate Energy committee, a position she obtained via Marse Harry Reid. Maybe he’s one of the *good* plantation owners. Either way, the big oil will have a Senator in their pocket.
If I were a betting man, I’d bet that Landrieu runs first in the November open primary; I refuse to call it a jungle primary. If Landrieu doesn’t close it out then, there’s a good chance that she’s a goner since the run off is in De-fucking-cember. Maybe the Dems can convince Governor PBJ to fly in from Iowa and stump for Cassidy, that would certainly hurt his candidacy.
I was more patient with Senator Landrieu’s Blue Doggery in the past. I know from people who know her that’s she more liberal than her voting record, but that’s wearing thin in her bid for a 4th term. When it comes time for me to vote, I will essentially lay back and think of Harry Reid when I vote for her. I guess Dr. Empty Suit would call me a plantation dreamer…
Finally, I have a piece of advice for Mr. Cassidy. Pick up a copy of Robert Caro’s Master Of The Senate and learn something about the club you want to be voted into. I warn you, it’s long and uses a lot of big words but since you’re an M.D. I think you can handle it. If not, toting around a book of that girth is good exercise.
See also Church, The Catholic and State, Penn.
●Would the inauguration of a new Democratic president change the behavior of recalcitrant hard-liners among the House Republicans, who have sought to block almost every major initiative from President Obama and whose tactics led to last year’s government shutdown?
●Would a Republican president be beholden to those hard-liners, or would he or she seize control of the conservative agenda to chart a different governing path?
●But above all, will the next president, whether Democrat or Republican, cultivate the kind of productive relationships with opposition-party leaders and others in Congress that Obama has failed to develop? Perhaps. But the reality is that deeper forces are at work that could well frustrate the hopes, aspirations and pledges of those who seek the presidency in 2016.
Yeah. Will the next president play enough golf (but not too much golf, and not on the wrong days) and suck enough cock to make Congress love him? I mean, that’s what this is really all about. Relationships. If only Obama had been nicer.
Both parties are to blame for partisanship, since nobody really profits from it in any way:
The reality is that the two major political parties not only have strong differences about major issues, but because of the makeup of their coalitions, now approach the governing process in Washington from almost irreconcilable positions. And both claim a measure of public support for their approach.
It’s astonishing that people aren’t flocking to traditional print journalism for this sort of stunning insight.
I didn’t recap Season-4 of Boardwalk Empire, in part, because the first episode didn’t float my boat. But I was also in mourning for one of my all-time favorite characters, Gyp Rosetti. I was wrong about last season, it was extraordinary, with the introduction of a great villain in Dr. Narcisse and the dramatic departure of the world’s most lovable hit man, Richard Harrow. R.I.P. sweet homicidal prince:
That was a long way of saying that I’m recapping Season-5. The premiere episode, Golden Days for Girls and Boys, was a great set up for the final season. They’ve advanced the action to 1931, which was a momentous year for two of the real life characters, Charlie Lucky Luciano and Al Capone. It’s also the year that Nucky starts planning for the return of legal booze by corrupting a Senator and cutting a deal in Havana with the Bacardi people. Party on, Nuckster. Nucky is ready to go full circle and become legit again. I have the feeling that some of his old partners aren’t going to be very co-operative. He’ll probably have a Pacino in Godfather Three moment.