All I Need Is One Mic, And a Brick Wall

You know, I just noticed something. Chicago's got some kick-butt semi-pro teams. First, much love goes out to the local Arena Football League team (that my roommate worked with in equipment) the Rush. They're in the quarters, after winning the other day. Then there's the perennial favorites, International Hockey League champs the Wolves and Major League Soccer cats (although they have been slumping as of late) the Fire (also coolest Chicago-related name, much better than my alma mater's University of Illinois @ Chicago Flames). And of course, the number one Chi-town semi-pro team, the White Sox.

Ahhhh, the game yesterday. The raison d'etre for baseball. Starting pitcher, Mark Buerhle, is pulled one out into the ninth. Sox ahead by one. Relief pitcher gets the bases loaded and two runs in before the second out with a strike-out. Our closing pitcher is brought in to retire the side. Which he does. Quite a few fans (When was the last time Sox Park had nearly a sold-out crowd? In first place not just of the division, but in all of major-league baseball AND a holiday. Still barely full.) left early, but not as many as you'd think. (Yes, I pointed at them. And generally made an * of myself. People in front of me must've thunk me drunk. I was having a gay old time.) The rest of us hoped for one of those last-second miracles.

A single. A pop-up. Two pinch hitters, after the one who came to replace the once-mighty, and now just returning, and now freshly injured Frank Thomas. A steal. Which helped lead to a walk. A sacrifice bunt which led to runners on second and third. Two outs. A full count. And then a line drive that hit ground before the outfield could grab it and throw it to home. By then both runners were home. The place went bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s. Bananas.

'Cuz there ain't no holler back, girrrrrrrrrrrl, there ain't no holler back, girrrrrrrrrrrrrl!

Traffic was on NBC tonight, but it got preempted by a major whooping sound coming out of Detroit. Speaking of the realpolitik of Traffic, however, reminds me of a joke.

A bipartisan group of congressmen were presiding over a quarterly review of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA). The executive officer of the NEA was highlighting some of the more conservative and popular pieces while trying to blow over some of the more controversial pieces. One prominent senator, however, urged him to go over some works the officer had rushed past. It was a series of photographs that cleverly parodied and commented on Michelangelo's nudes.

The senator asked how the NEA can fund such blatant examples of pornography.

The officer, indignant yet trying to maintain a shred of sobriety, asked of his accuser, "Can you tell me, Mr. Senator, how you can make such a clear distinction between what is called art and what is called pornography?"

The senator ceded, "Well, now, I may not know much about art. But I know what I like."

Thank you, you've all been wonderful.