Damn.

Damn damn damn damn damn damn.

I…I can’t think of anything else to say right now…

* * *

Maybe I’ll just link to a few articles I’ve written in the past about him:

The Vocabulary of Bill King

Things Are Looking Up

Bill King = Orson Welles?

The Athletics Zone

Peter Gammons floated a trade rumor about a Barry Zito-for-Lastings Milledge trade in his latest column:

One interesting decision for Beane? Whether to trade Barry Zito if the Mets offer a package including Milledge. Problem is, while the A’s have positional players coming, they do not have any more pitching.

Now what’s this rumor really about? It’s probably just Beane using Gammons as a messenger, letting people know what he wants for Barry Zito: another Mark Mulder trade. Another Barton and another Haren.

Gee, I’d love to give you Zito for Milledge, but gosh, what am I going to do about my pitching if I do that? Maybe if I give you one of my many hitting prospects in the deal (like, say, Nick Swisher: he’s young, and he’s gonna be solid, really he is, and he plays a really good defensive first base, which I believe you may also need) perhaps you would be so kind as to give me one of your pitching prospects (like, oh, say, Yusmeiro Petit) to help me fill the hole that Zito would leave on our roster.

The free agent market is quite thin this year, so Beane might just be able to get that kind of price for Zito. Perhaps not from Omar Minaya, but from some other sucker. It’s probably a good year to be a seller. Not that I want to see Zito go, but the A’s have several starting pitcher options. They really really need some monsters in the lineup, a 1.000 OPS hitter or two. They have solid hitting prospects, .800-.900 types, but besides Barton, no real monsters. Milledge has a shot at becoming one.

* * *

The A’s picked up Jay Payton’s option, but not Keiichi Yabu’s. Neither move is terribly surprising. Yabu is replaceable. Payton’s salary is reasonable, and even if they didn’t want to pay him $4 million next year, they probably could find someone who might. The Yankees need a centerfielder, for example. The Yanks would probably be better off trading for Payton than blowing a wad of cash on Johnny Damon.

It was a school night, but I let my youngest daughter stay up to watch the end of the playoff game. It was only about half an hour past her bedtime, the game was almost over, and she really likes it when the players “jump all over each other.” Since the game was almost over, I let her keep watching.

She had been rooting for the Cardinals. When the playoffs began, she decided that Albert Pujols was her favorite player in the playoffs, so she would root for his team. She likes Pujols because he’s really good in Backyard Baseball.

But when I explained to her in the top of the ninth that the Astros had never been to the World Series before, she decided that it would be OK if the Astros won. We kept watching, counting down to the jumping-all-over-each-other moment…”two outs to go”…”one out to go”…”one more strike”…

And then Eckstein got a hit. Edmonds walked. Up came Pujols.

“Pujols is really good,” she said. “He can hit grand slams.”

“Well, right now,” I said, “he can only hit a three-run homer. But they’d still probably be pretty happy with that.”

And then…pow.

“Oh my God,” I blurted out, the instant he connected. And as it landed, all I could say was, “Wow…”

I instantly felt really sorry for the Astros fans. That’s gotta be one of the all-time stomach punches. As an A’s fan, I’ve suffered a few stomach punches of my own, but if the Astros lose this series, this one’s probably worse than all of mine. Yes, even the one-of-which-we-do-not-speak.

My daughter and I sat in a sort of stunned silence for the rest of the game. Well, maybe only I was stunned. She was probably just tired. The game dragged on another ten minutes past her bedtime. As soon as the last out was recorded, I said, “Off to bed, now.” She went, no objections.

Tomorrow, we’ll probably pay for this. My daughter will probably be cranky and irritable, and we’ll have to diffuse a tantrum or two. But the tantrums will only last a few minutes, and will quickly be forgotten. This evening may end up being one of her earliest baseball memories, one magical game that everyone talks about for years to come, that she was actually watching. The memory will last a lifetime. The price is worth it.

You put your Macha in. You put your Macha out. You put your Macha in, and you shake it all about.

And here I thought this offseason was going to be boring. It’s been hilarious! A laugh a minute! Orel Hershiser? Larry Bowa? And now this?

Whee!

I’m not personally Machtose intolerant, so I don’t have any problem swallowing this weird turn of events. I don’t think Macha bothers me more than any other manager would. But let us all say a prayer for poor Zachary. May he survive this horrible shock to his system.

“Angels first place, A’s second place, Rangers third place, Mariners last place,” Selig said. “Sound familiar yet? If not, get used to it, as that will be your AL West for the next 20 or so years.”

So why bother even hiring a manager?

* * *

Orel Hershiser? In green and gold? Are you kidding me? That’s just way too weird to actually happen.

Not that he wouldn’t make a good manager, but…it’s just unthinkable.

Then again, Hershiser did wear a Giants uniform once. That’s probably even more unfathomable.

But really, Billy Beane is just screening Paul DePodesta’s calls, right? Right?

* * *

Or maybe, the Dodgers and A’s got their brains caught in a lunar-powered thought transferrence device, and they are gradually becoming the other. Next thing you know, The Dodgers will start wearing white shoes, and Tommy Lasorda will start telling everyone he bleeds green.

* * *

If Nova Science NOW were there, they’d take the women out of the water, and perform surgery on them.

I took my older daughter this afternoon to go see the new Wallace and Gromit movie, Curse of the Were-Rabbit. My younger daughter decided to stay home and watch baseball. She didn’t care much for the other Wallace and Gromit cartoons. I think the satire/spoofing goes over her head, so she experiences the movies mostly on a literal level, which doesn’t quite work for her. It’s the difference between age five and age eight, I guess.

When we left the house, Lance Berkman had just hit a grand slam in the 8th inning, to bring the Astros to within one run.

It’s a twenty-minute walk to the movie theater from my house. We saw the movie. (Quick review: enjoyable, entertaining, but coulda been better. The plot seemed rather loose, and the editing was choppy.) We walked back home.

And the Astros and Braves were still playing.

Cue the Jon Stewart eye-rub: Wha?

* * *

I recently answered some “What went wrong” questions about the A’s over at Baseball Analysts. Check it out.

* * *

Posting might be light here for the next week or three. Now that the A’s season is over, I’m gonna try to put some intense focus on programming Fairpole.

Ken Macha is out.

Interesting that the exact numbers that changed hands came out. Beane offered $2.6 million for 3 years; Macha asked for $4 million. Beane called off the negotiations; Macha said they would have been willing to come down to $3.1 million, but Beane said forget it.

With the Detroit job filled already, and Jim Tracy the rumored favorite for the Pittsburgh job, it sounds to me like Macha’s agent overplayed his hand.

Let the speculation about his replacement (and where Macha’s going next) begin….

Update: Some people think they know already.

TangoTiger’s 2005 Scouting Report by the Fans for the Fans is now available. Mark Kotsay won a “Globe Glove”, and I wrote his summary:

Mark Kotsay makes extraordinary defense look ordinary. His arm is good, but not a cannon. Yet he can unleash a textbook one-hop throw right on the base with uncanny consistency. His speed is good, but not blinding. Yet he seems to get to every fly ball without ever having to leave his feet. Kotsay is a great fielder, but he is not a reliable source of “web gems”. With solid fundamentals, perfect positioning and excellent reads off the bat, Mark Kotsay makes even the most difficult of plays look simple and routine.

Compare that to what Aaron Gleeman wrote about Torii Hunter:

Torii Hunter plays center field like a middle linebacker plays a sweep to the outside. He attacks the ball without regard for his own safety and hunts it down. Whether the catch involves scaling the baggy-covered walls in the Metrodome or skidding along the turf face first, he makes the play first and thinks about it later. There is no more spectacular outfielder in baseball, and while the triangle in Fenway Park handed Hunter his first career knockout this season, his overall record against The Wall is second-to-none.

Two utterly different styles of center field play, yet each effective in his own unique way. Ain’t baseball great?

* * *

Here is the A’s report from Tango’s study. Can’t say I’d disagree with the results too much, except for Jason Kendall.

Kendall’s speed and first-step scores are probably accurate, but those traits aren’t very important for a catcher defensively. Overall, his speed helped him reach a score of 52 on a 100 point scale. In my book, any catcher with an arm as bad as Kendall’s should not be considered an above-average defensive player. Catchers probably need to be measured differently.

Well, everyone else is doing it, so I may as well, too.

First, my division series picks. I’m going with my “fewest errors during the season wins” theory for these. It’s worked for me in the past, and it’s certainly been better than any other method I’ve tried, like, say, thinking about it. The number of games? I’ll just make something up.

LA Angels (87 errors) over New York Yankees (95) in five.
Chicago White Sox (94) over Boston Red Sox (109) in four.
St. Louis Cardinals (100) over San Diego Padres (109) in three.
Atlanta Braves (86) over Houston Astros (89) in five.

OK, then in the LCS, you reverse it:
White Sox (94) over Angels (87) in six.
Cardinals (100) over Braves (86) in five.

Then back the other direction for the World Series:
White Sox (94) over Cardinals (100) in seven.

There you go. The White Sox. See, if I had given this any thought at all, I would never have picked them. Now I’m going to be right, another curse will be broken.

Which all goes to prove the following…brains: bad. Soylent green…mmm…soylent green.

Brown hills rise beyond the eastern walls;
Freeways flow around us.

Here is where we must separate
To wander the asphalt for a thousand miles.

The clouds drift mindlessly.
The sun sets into the darkness like a handshake.

We roll down our windows, reach out, and wave.
The car horns bray their farewells.

—Li Po (very roughly translated)

I went to the A’s final home game today, to say my goodbyes to the 2005 Oakland Athletics.

The game itself was not memorable at all, except perhaps for an absolutely Kingmanesque home run by Nick Swisher. That thing went way, way up in the sky. If Mount Davis were located just behind first base, the ball might have cleared it. It eventually came down, with just enough distance to clear the right field fence.

Otherwise, the game had less energy to it than a spring training game. Barry Zito didn’t look like he had his mind in the game, as he threw some sloppy pitches that got whacked for home runs. That mattered little, as the A’s offense–without Crosby and Chavez–did almost nothing besides Swisher’s moonshot. I think Hiram Bocachica could face Bartolo Colon fastballs for weeks on end, and still whiff on every single one of them. He looked completely overmatched.

The outcome (7-1 Angels) didn’t matter, really. We were there for the last at-bat, to give one final cheer for this team, as thanks. Mark Ellis gave a valiant effort as the last man standing, fouling off about six Brendan Donnelly pitches before finally striking out. Standing ovation.

Ellis’ at-bat personifies this year’s team: a brave battle that fell short in the end. Last year’s A’s fell just short, as well, but they were far less likable. The 2004 A’s were an aging team that fell apart. The 2005 A’s were a young team that came together.

As the Angels shook hands, they posted this on Diamond Vision:

Next A’s Home Game
April 3, 2006, 7:05pm
vs. New York Yankees

I hadn’t really accepted the season was done until I saw that. But that struck me. April. It seems so far away. What to do, where to go, in the meantime?

This may be the most boring offseason in the history of the Oakland A’s. A right-handed power bat in left field would probably top my wishlist, but Billy Beane doesn’t really *need* to do much at all except let his players mature.

The players cleared the dugouts. The groundskeepers started grooming the field.

I stopped behind home plate, and looked out over that green grass one last time. Then I climbed the steps, walked out the tunnel, crossed the parking lot, got in my car, and drove away.

I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

—Bob Dylan

I burned a hole in my remote control tonight. I juggled three programs: the Angels-A’s game, the Giants-Padres game, and Martin Scorsese’s new documentary on Bob Dylan.

The Giants and A’s were living parallel lives. They both finished one game out last year. They both started four-game series tonight, trailing their opponents in the standings by four games. They both pretty much needed a sweep to avoid elimination. They both need a miracle.

*Click*. Eric Chavez homers. The A’s enter the ninth inning trailing 4-3.

*Click*. Bob Dylan explains how he studied other musicians, trying to figure out what made them so good, what they all have in common. He says there’s something in their eyes, something that says, “I know something that you don’t.”

*Click*. The top of the ninth is taking forever in Oakland. A walk, a hit, and a pitching change drags things out. Huston Street gets Juan Rivera to pop out to shortstop, to keep it a one-run game.

*Click*. Flip to the Giants game. The Giants also trail by a run entering the ninth. Trevor Hoffman is in. He gets two outs, runner on first. One out to go.

Then the Giants get their miracle. Randy Winn hits a ball to deep center. It lands in Brian Giles’ glove, but when Giles hits the wall, the ball jars loose. Winn ends up on third base. After Omar Vizquel walks, J.T. Snow singles to right, and the Giants lead, 3-2.

*Click*. Will the parallel lives continue? Can the A’s get a miracle too?

No such luck. The A’s and Giants paths suddenly diverge. K-Rod sets down the A’s, 1-2-3.

*Click*. Armando Benitez needs one more out. Ramon Hernandez grounds out to Vizquel.

The Giants’ hopes are still alive. The A’s are hanging on by the slimmest of threads.

I’ve been considering going to Tuesday’s game. But now that the A’s have lost, do I really want to witness the Angels clinch the division? And on the A’s home turf? Why set myself up for that kind of pain?

*Click*. Dylan is explaining why he was so prolific in those days. He felt he was exploring something new, something he had never done, nor anyone else.

I will not go down under the ground
‘Cause somebody tells me that death’s comin’ ’round
An’ I will not carry myself down to die
When I go to my grave my head will be high,
Let me die in my footsteps
Before I go down under the ground.

—Bob Dylan

Indeed. See you at the Coliseum.

Last night’s game report (mouse over the image):

• it was breast cancer awareness day. they released doves to symbolize hope.
• rod barajas was initially called out on a foul tip. the umpires discussed it and ruled the ball hit the ground.
• one pitch after the reversed call, barajas hit a three-run homer.
• rich harden pitched an inning. a nice sight, but probably too little too late.
• mark kotsay stranded the bases loaded twice. a’s lose 6-2.

Angels, tonight. 2005 season, four games.

They’re partying in Sydney, like it’s Boston 2004.

The Sydney Swans of the Australian Football League broke a 72-year championship drought yesterday, defeating the West Coast Eagles 58-54 at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. They say it was one of the best Grand Finals ever.

In 1999, I went to an Australian rules football game at the MCG, as they call their sport’s most hallowed ground. It was awesome, a really entertaining sport. Here’s a “footy” primer, if you’re not familiar with the rules.

Footy fans are intense. The match I went to was just an ordinary weeknight regular season game, and there were almost 30,000 people in the stands. Each team has a fight song the fans all sing, and they wave flags and banners all through the match. Here’s a picture from my visit:

Saturday, the Swans had to hang on tooth and nail for their long-awaited victory. They were leading by just five with a minute left. (If you kick the ball between the middle goal posts, you get six points, so the Eagles trailed by only one score.)

The Eagles almost scored a game-winning goal, twice. Once, they got a one-pointer (which you get if the ball goes between the pair of posts on the side). And then…well, just watch the last minute of the final here.

Wow, that was an exciting finish! That’s what the Red Sox victory should have been like last year. That four-game sweep was so anti-climactic. The Red Sox should have had to fight with everything they had to defeat their ghosts.

That’s the proper way to break a curse! Although, hearing the Notre Dame fight song as they celebrated was kinda weird. Still, that’s way better than watching Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore running around on the field.

I suppose, though, that beggars can’t be choosers. If the price for breaking Cal’s 66-year Rose Bowl drought were having to watch Adam Duritz run around naked on the field, I’d probably pay it.

And I wonder, what’s the price for winning an ALDS series?

The Angel of Death flew into Oakland Wednesday, disguised as Michael Cuddyer.

Block: No man can live with Death and know that everything is nothing.

Death: Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness.

Block: Until they stand on the edge of life and see the Darkness.

Death: Ah, that day.

—quoted from Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal

Death takes possession of the agenda. It is time to discuss business.

Agenda Item #1: Death hits a home run.

Behold, I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke.

—Ezekiel 24:16

You can tell you don’t have your best stuff today. But you deny there is a problem. It is only one run. There is plenty of time.

You grind. You fight. You battle.

You give Death a wound, a foul ball off the shin.

You have an opening now, a good position to negotiate. Your odds are better now, right? Surely, Death cannot harm us, with only one leg to stand on?

Death gets up. He does not answer your question. He states only, in a matter-of-fact voice, “Your time is growing short.”

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the LORD when I lay my vengeance upon thee.

–Samuel L. Jackson
  in Pulp Fiction

Agenda Item #2: Death doubles.

Some good-for-nothing–who knows why–
made up the tale that love exists on earth.

People believe it, maybe from laziness
or boredom, and live accordingly:
they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
and when they sing, they sing of love.

–Anna Akhmatova
  via Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

Life is a pleasant illusion, a hidden gift decorated in agreeable geometries. Love. Joy. Hope. You only see the surface. You notice only what you want to notice.

Piece by piece, Death unwraps the package. Death does not tolerate delusion. Death demands the truth.

The truth makes you queasy. The truth is unsettling. The truth is sickening.

The truth is this: you cannot stop the truth. You cannot disguise the truth with shiny distractions. Any victory is temporary. The truth will out.

Whack its shin, and Death will put on a shin guard. Death will have its day.

Behold, therefore I will deliver thee to the men of the east for a possession, and they shall set their palaces in thee, and make their dwellings in thee: they shall eat thy fruit, and they shall drink thy milk.

—Ezekiel 25:4

Michael Cuddyer:
Without thy fruit (vs. rest of baseball): .252/.282/.387.
Drinking thy milk: (vs. Oakland) .367/.424/.967.

Agenda Item #3: Death slides ahead of the throw. Another double.

There are blows in life so violent–Don’t ask me!
Blows as if from the hatred of God; as if before them,
the deep waters of everything lived through
were backed up in the soul…Don’t ask me!

Not many; but they exist…They open dark ravines
in the most ferocious face and in the most bull-like back.
Perhaps they are the horses of that heathen Attila,
or the black riders sent to us by Death.

–Cesar Vallejo
  via Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

And you scream, “No f@#%ing way! Get a new f@#%ing scouting report on this guy! Nobody else has a problem getting him out! This ain’t f@#%ing happening!”

But the truth is this: Death means business.

Behold, therefore I will stretch out mine hand upon thee, and will deliver thee for a spoil to the heathen; and I will cut thee off from the people, and I will cause thee to perish out of the countries: I will destroy thee; and thou shalt know that I am the LORD.

Ezekiel 25:7

The truth is this: Your time is running out.

You turn to the past, asking questions, looking for an answer that maybe, maybe can get you out of this mess.

What went wrong?

Each question opens up a wound.

Whose fault is this?

To ask the question, you must relive the pain, over and over again.

What should have been done differently? What should we do now?

The questions are fruitless, and the answers don’t satisfy.

Why? Why now? Why us?

Death provides no answers, only the next bullet point.

Agenda Item #4: Death beats the throw home. Scores standing up.

I ache now without any explanation. My pain is so deep, that it never had a cause nor does it lack a cause now. What could have been its cause? Where is that thing so important, that it might stop being its cause? Its cause is nothing; nothing could have stopped being its cause. For what has this pain been born, for itself? My pain comes from the north wind and from the south wind, like those neuter eggs certain rare birds lay in the wind. If my bride were dead, my pain would be the same. If they had slashed my throat all the way through, my pain would be the same. If life were, in short, different, my pain would be the same. Today I suffer from further above. Today I am simply in pain.

–Cesar Vallejo
  via Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

You’re on the edge of life now. The Light is fading, the Darkness getting stronger. This game, this season…the odds of staying alive are dwindling each second.

The only tool left in your kit is a prayer. Your only hope now is a miracle. You don’t really believe in miracles.

You begin to accept that there is little left to do now but to pour salt on your wounds. It’s OK. This is Life. A six-run deficit. A three-game deficit. Let’s play the last plays. Let’s get it done.

Agenda Item #5: Another standup double, another RBI.

When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestlers’ sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

–Rainer Maria Rilke
  via Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

Bryan Smith has a nice run through some top prospects who pitched last night over at Baseball Analysts. Here’s what he says about Francisco Liriano, whom the A’s beat last night:

Simply put, Liriano was just too hittable yesterday. It did not look like the Francisco I saw at the Futures Game, the point in time in which his tear really took off. Still, there was a smell of dominance in the air, as despite struggles in his 3.2 innings of work, Liriano managed to strike out six hitters. Few pitchers have no-hit stuff (3 good pitches, none under 85 mph) as consistently as Liriano, who even amidst a bad performance showed why he is top dog in a loaded Minnesota minor league system.

Liriano’s “stuff” was indeed impressive. But except for one at-bat against Mark Kotsay, he never really had the A’s fooled: when he got them out, he simply overpowered them. It didn’t look like he had mastered the art of deception yet.

Still, if I were a Twins fan, I’d be excited about him. A pitcher can’t learn to overpower, but he can learn to deceive.

He’s very reminicient of Rich Harden when he first came up. Harden at first relied primarily on overpowering people, and was very inconsistent as a result. If his control was off, he’d struggle, walking people or throwing fastballs down the middle. That’s what happened to Liriano last night.

Harden spent about a year in the majors before he learned to combine his electric stuff with deception. When that clicked for him, Harden become one of the best pitchers in baseball, and he could win even without pinpoint control.

Until he started pulling muscles, that is, but that’s another story.

With pitchers like Harden and Liriano, this seems to be a natural process. You overpower people all the way up to the majors, where the hitters make you make an adjustment. It probably takes pitchers like that a year or two to figure it out.

Unless you’re Felix Hernandez, of course. He might be an exception, although he did get roughed up a bit in his last outing. Still, from what I’ve seen of him, he showed up in the major leagues with both electric stuff and ace-like deception at the age of nineteen. Remarkable.

The Twins have had a rough year, but when Liriano figures it out, and pairs up with Johan Santana, the Twins will be competitive again, I’m sure, just from those two guys alone.

Today, the A’s go for a sweep. I’ll be at the ballpark. Pictures later…

the Oakland Athletics’ deficit in the AL West at the time of this posting.

One-and-a-half is a self-referential Google query. One-and-a-half is waiting for Googlebot to become recursive.

One-and-a-half is a confusing artifact that is difficult to recognise.

One-and-a-half is in the archive just now. One-and-a-half is from The Chronicles of Narnia. One-and-a-half is the oldest document in the National Archives of Scotland and is one of our treasures.

One-and-a-half is wounded. One-and-a-half is always sick and going to the doctor.

One-and-a-half is putting a good face on it, since (if I remember right) the “one” had obviously undergone major modifications and less-than-successful repairs before it was lost for 500 years.

One-and-a-half is now considered too high for all breeds, and one-and-a-quarter is the current requirement for most breeds.

One-and-a-half is the standard spoken-English way of expressing this number, and it is written as “1 1/2”.

1 1/2 is half of three. 1 1/2 is calculated by dividing 3 by 2. 1 1/2 is almost a two. 1 1/2 is the raw, irrational version of “two”.

1 1/2 is not equal or better. 1 1/2 is sometimes meant as a precise measurement or count and sometimes as a vague approximation or rhetorical exaggeration.

1 1/2 is available as a byproduct of energy metabolism.

1 1/2 is a torrent of activity – really a happy kid with a drooly face and big round brown eyes full of mischief. 1 1/2 is not allowed on the new carpet.

1 1/2 is the same as one point five.

One point five is one of those cinematic offerings that is filled with people who are neither angels or devils, and consequently feel all the more genuinely human for being so. One point five is actually the same movie as X-Men with more features on dvd.

One point five is spread over two discs. One point five is Wim Wenders, number two is Fassbinder.

One point five is a ménage-a-trois, and half a sock is “Don’t open the door! Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me!”

One point five is a big deal, right?

One point five is an insignificant event save for the inclusion of a spell checker by default maybe, but it is also a fine-tuned release of a great email client.

One point five is written 1.50, one and one-quarter is written 1.25.

1.50 is a dialectical approach. 1.50 is utilised for teaching, lecturing and tutorials. 1.50 is the same arbitrary scaling factor currently applied to the base risk weights, to give the granularity scaling factor (“GSF”) actually used for the calculation (Basel, 2001, paragraph 457).

1.50 is more in the ball park. 1.50 is not such a bad place to be.

1.50 is a haven for nature lovers, for families who want to get away from it all and for the lovers of history who enjoy exploring the fascinating wartime defences.

1.50 is based at Grimsby. 1.50 is technically in Holm, and the Italian Chapel, the relic of the builders of those marvels, though within the parish, is more associated with its own small island, Lamb Holm (pronounced holm).

1.50 is again evidenced per the purchase price of a second bride.

1.50 is not called and half, it is called half of three.

Half of three is what I call it.

Half of three is probably right. Half of three is VERY new. Half of three is not bad. Half of three is fine. Half of three is acceptable also.

Half of three is fine and dandy for the drivers, but it can be hell for members of the media who are trying to cover the action, or lack thereof.

Half of three is a good-sized dose for me. Half of three is a little bit too much. Half of three is certainly too much — but does not seem way out of line.

Half of three is still ahead of us. Half of three is the end.

Half of three is still too much.

The Oakland Athletics are the winners of the Heavyweight Of The Year title for the 2005 regular season.

The Heavyweight of the Year goes to the team that wins the most title bouts throughout the regular season. The A’s have won 27 bouts, seven more than Toronto, their closest competitor.

The competition treats baseball like boxing, where if you beat the champion, you become the new champion.

Seattle and Toronto, the two last teams with a chance to catch the A’s, were eliminated yesterday when the Mariners lost to Texas. Toronto will have no more title bouts, while Seattle can have at most six, not enough to catch the A’s.

Another prize goes to the winner of the crown after the last day of the regular season. Six teams were eliminated from that competition yesterday, as a result of Seattle’s loss: the Blue Jays, Yankees, Red Sox, Royals, Tigers, and Twins. All National League teams were eliminated earlier this summer.

For current standings, and possible bouts remaining in the season, look at the sidebar.

Congratulations to the A’s!

I witnessed something truly sublime yesterday.

sublime. adjective.

• Of high spiritual, moral, or intellectual worth.
• Impressive; Inspiring awe, usually because of elevated quality or transcendent excellence
• Not to be excelled; supreme.

I am not a particularly religious person. I’m a confirmed Lutheran, but I don’t attend church anymore. I don’t believe the universe operates on willpower. Like Jon Carroll, I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason.

And yet I experience moments that feel religious. These moments usually involve something sublime, something heavenly, when you know that this is as good as it gets.

It’s a weird paradox. One part of my brain rejects the conventional idea of God, yet another part knows God. Perhaps this will be explained one day by neurotheology or maybe neurogastroenterotheology. Until that happens, I’ll just have to live with the mystery.

* * *

A couple weeks ago, I saw a vanity license plate that read “VOGON.” Oh no! Is it an omen? Is the Destructor Fleet on its way? Are we about to be subject to some really bad poetry? I started to panic.

Don’t Panic!

There’s an art to vanity plates. There are good ones and bad ones, and usually we can tell the difference. What makes a good vanity plate? I’m not sure. What makes any artwork great? The very best vanity plates are clever and funny and say something about both the owner and the vehicle. I remember thinking that VOGON was a pretty good, but not great. VOGON belongs on a Hummer or a monster truck or something. But this one was on a luxury SUV. It ruined the effect. The owner was no Vogon.

* * *

Alas, my sublime experience yesterday did not happen during the A’s-Red Sox game. The A’s suffered their second straight late-inning loss; the Angels got their second straight late-inning victory, and the A’s fell 2 games out.

Two games out is OK. With four games left against Anaheim, a 3-1 series victory gets them tied. Until they fall three games out…

Don’t Panic!

These two losses didn’t really bother me. They were two well-played games, where the balls just didn’t bounce the A’s way.

Danny the Rabbit pitched a good game, but suffered the Wrath of Manny, who drove in the winning run for the second straight day.

The A’s don’t have a Manny, or a Papi, or an ARod, or a Vlad. Having a player like that is like a tennis player having a big serve. Every now and then, they get you some free points. The A’s have to get all their points the hard way.

* * *

After the game, I loaded up the kids in the car, and we headed out to dinner at a local restaurant. As I signed my credit card receipt, I had a strange urge to write a note on the napkin, and leave it for the waitress. I wrote this:

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

* * *

As we got in the car to drive home, I noticed a Volkswagen Rabbit convertible had parked in the space opposite mine. It had a vanity plate.

WASCALY

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the perfection of an art form. The ultimate license plate. It doesn’t get any better than that. Sublime.

This recent article entitled The Ten Stupidest Utopias! brought back memories. If the author had read the final paper I wrote in my Utopian Fiction class at UC Berkeley back in 1987, I’m sure my utopia would have easily cracked the top 10.

The final exam for the class was to write our own utopian (or dystopian) short story. Mine involved a global thermonuclear war breaking out during a Super Bowl. The only human survivors of the war were 80,000 football fans watching the game inside a concrete domed stadium.

The civilization that emerged from this catastrophe used the NFL as its cultural foundation and economic model. Everybody lived in domed cities (to keep the radiation out), cities were organized into divisions, and divisions were assigned industries in which they would compete economically. Only the NFC East cities would make, say, beer, while only the AFC West cities would make, for example, clothing.

Any profits the cities earned were invested in the football team. The more efficient your economy, the better your football team. What better economic incentive is there than that?

Now, that’s clearly a stupider utopia than Plato’s Republic, or William Gibson’s Neuromancer, wouldn’t you say?

I thought about using baseball as a model instead, but the sex and violence of football just makes for a better story.

I dug around in my old papers, and tried to find the story. I found my first draft, but not my final paper. Dang. Where did I put it? I gotta do some cleaning up around here. My house is dystopianly disorganized.