Rest in Peace, Hedy Lamarr

"That's HEDLEY!!!"
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/05/29/state/n155845D90.DTL

This could be bad for the Wed Wings.

We keep coming back to the boxing analogy. Like a fighter sizing up its opponent, the young Penguins played last night as if they were a young team just beginning to figure out its older, more experienced, savvier, more skilled opponent. Its young stars stopped trying to do everything individually, and started passing more instead of stick-handling through traffic.

Just as auspiciously, the defense jelled, and hit, and hit, and hit, and hit. Especially Brooks Orpick. More of that to come, and as this young team finds its legs, the older Wed Wings could be in for a fight, no, make that a slugfest.

This series is only just beginning. Having said that, the Penguins had better start winning some face-offs.

Home Sweet Home

The Penguins haven't lost at The Igloo in three months. The key? Move your feet.

"I think maybe we moved our feet a little bit more," said Crosby, explaining his squad's improved play.

And, admit it. You've done it, too.

You've called them the Wed Wings.

What took so long?

Good riddance, Mark Madden. Your misanthropic, mean-spirited, low-minded schtick is done. It's about time – long overdue, in fact. Somewhere, Myron Cope is smiling and raising a toddy in a celebratory toast to karma.

Ryan Wilson, who writes for AOL Fanhouse and Heels, Sox, Steelers, said it well:

"Earlier this year, I spent a few hundred words bellyaching about the sorry state of Pittsburgh sports radio. Specifically, the fact that village idiot/local ESPN radio 'personality' Mark Madden earned a paycheck to spew invective while making everybody who listened to him dumber in the process. … For Madden, it couldn't have happened to a nicer jerk."

As George Costanza might've said, "The jerk store just ran out of jerks."

Schadenfreude can be so sweet sometimes, and this is one of them.

Steel City vs. Motor City: "Get Dressed Grandma, This Bingo Game is Ready to Roll!"

“What’s the sense of being Irish if you can’t be dumb?"
-- Billy Conn, the Pittsburgh Kid

If Philadelphia's Flyers were paper thugs, ersatz contenders like Sylvester Stallone's Rocky Balboa, Detroit's Red Wings are the real deal. Like Joe Louis.

The Penguins go from Rocky Balboa to Joe Louis.

From Philadelphia's thugs on ice and louts in the stands to Hockeytown, with octopi tossed onto the ice at Joe Louis Arena and a rich tradition of class and grace surrounding the franchise and its fans.

Unlike Pittsburgh-Philadelphia (Penguins-Flyers), there is no animosity between Pittsburgh and Detroit. In fact, for these two great cities built long ago in part as French colonial fort outposts, there's a sense of kinship forged in the historical socio-economic connection of history and industry (Pittsburgh's steel building Detroit's automobiles) and cemented in the February 2006 Super Bowl where Les Detroitois embraced and welcomed more than 100,000 visiting Steelers fans who adopted the city as their home away from home, as the Steelers prepared for and won Super Bowl XL.

But Detroit had no stake in that game, except as host city. Once again Detroit plays the host, but this is a different story. This is the Stanley Cup Final. And it starts in Hockeytown.

"Oh, woe is me, tut-tut, how will the Penguins ever compete?"

The Red Wings, one of the NHL's most storied Original Six franchises, have won 10 Stanley Cups to the Penguins two. The Wings have been to the Stanley Cup Final four times in the past 11 years, the Pens not once since 1992. The Wings had the NHL's best record this past season and bring a distinguished and accomplished corps of veteran stalwarts and future Hall of Famers to this Final. The young Penguins open on the road and are led by a 20-year-old. It's been speculated that if somehow the Penguins win this series, juice boxes will be handed out in the winning locker instead of champagne.

If the powerful Red Wings are Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber, the plucky Penguins are Billy Conn, the Pittsburgh Kid. And we all know how that one turned out. Let's hope the Pittsburgh Kids come out on top this time, and let's hope the series will turn out to be be every bit as entertaining as that legendary fight (see the excerpt, below, from Frank Deford's classic article in Sports Illustrated).

Other Perspectives:
A great column from the Post-Gazette's Bob Dvorchak, who notes the historical connections between the two cities:

The teams never have collided in the playoffs and meet sporadically during the regular season because of the unbalanced schedule. And at first glance, this series is a blank slate. There is no contempt bred by familiarity. No known grudges. No coaching feud. No insults or trash talk. Just a best-of-seven played out in two cities with blue-collar legacies between two teams with world-class forwards, team-based defenses and high-caliber goaltending. In short, it could be a classic and the best ad for the new NHL that the suits could have hoped for.

But from the long view, the two cities -- both of which share roots as French forts before there was an America -- have hockey bonds that rival those between father and son, and sports traditions that intertwine.

The Pirates won their first World Series title in Detroit in 1909, with Honus Wagner outplaying Ty Cobb. Billy Conn, an upstart light heavyweight from East Liberty, was nine minutes away from becoming heavyweight champion of the world in 1941 when he got greedy and was knocked out by Detroit's Joe Louis, for whom the Red Wings' hockey arena is named. Detroit's NFL team has endured the Curse of Bobby Layne stemming from his trade to the Steelers in 1958. Pittsburgh won its last major title in Detroit at Super Bowl XL, when the city welcomed Steelers fan with open arms. Former Pirates skipper Jim Leyland now manages the Tigers.

And, as far as hockey goes, the sport wouldn't exist in Pittsburgh without Detroit. The relationship goes back to 1936 when a minor-league team called the Detroit Olympics was sold, relocated to Pittsburgh and operated as a minor-league team for the Red Wings. That team became the Pittsburgh Hornets, denizens of the old Duquesne Gardens, who shipped NHL players to Detroit the way the old Pittsburgh mills shipped steel to the Motor City to make cars.

--------------------------
Helene Elliott of the Los Angeles Times is one of many across North America who says "Pens vs. Wings: Just What the NHL Needs," but she says it well ...

"The face of the NHL is scruffy, Sidney Crosby's attempt at a playoff beard having resulted in fuzz more befitting a high school prom king than a player who carried the Pittsburgh Penguins from near-extinction to the Stanley Cup finals.

"Crosby, a few months too young to legally drink adult beverages, will take on the biggest challenge of his career starting tonight at Joe Louis Arena. The final between the Penguins and Red Wings is the most eagerly anticipated in years, promising world-class skills, smart defense and the grit that sets the hockey playoffs apart from other postseason tournaments."

----------------

More on Billy Conn vs. Joe Louis:

"The Boxer and the Blonde," Frank DeFord's classic article on Billy Conn, in Sports Illustrated, courtesy of billyconn.net:

June 18, 1941, The Polo Grounds, New York ...

Billy Conn crossed himself when he climbed into the ring that night.

And ... the fight began, Joe Louis’s 18th defense, his seventh in seven months.

Conn started slower than even he was accustomed to. Louis, the slugger, was the one who moved better. Conn ducked a long right so awkwardly that he slipped and fell to one knee. The second round was worse, Louis pummeling Conn’s body, trying to wear the smaller man down. He had 30 pounds on him, after all. Unless you knew the first rounds didn’t matter, it was a rout. This month’s bum.

In his corner, Conn sat down, spit and said to his cornerman, “All right, Moon, here we go.” He came out faster, bicycled for a while, feinted with a left and drove home a hard right. By the end of the round he was grinning at the champ, and he winked to Jawnie Ray, his trainer, when he returned to the corner. The spectators were up on their feet, especially the ones who had bet Conn.

The fourth was even more of a revelation, for now Conn chose to slug a little with the slugger, and he came away the better for the exchange. When the bell rang, he was flat-out laughing as he came back to his corner. “This is a cinch,” he told Jawnie.

But Louis got back on track in the fifth, and the fight went his way for the next two rounds as blood flowed from a nasty cut over the challenger’s right eye. At Forbes Field in Pittsburgh the crowd grew still, and relatives and friends listening downstairs from where Maggie lay worried that Billy’s downfall was near.

But Conn regained command in the eighth, moving back and away from Louis’s left, then ripping into the body or the head. The ninth was all the more Conn, and he grew cocky again. “Joe, I got you,” he popped off as he flicked a good one square on the champ’s mouth, and then, as Billy strode back to his corner at the bell, he said, “Joe, you’re in a fight tonight.”

“I know it,” Louis replied, confused and clearly troubled now.

The 10th was something of a lull for Conn, but it was a strategic respite. During the 11th, Conn worked Louis high and low, hurt the champ, building to the crescendo of the 12th, when the New York Herald Tribune reported in the casual racial vernacular of the time that Conn “rained left hooks on Joe’s dusky face.” He was a clear winner in this round, which put him up 7—5 on one card and 7-4-1 on another; the third was 6—6. To cap off his best round, Conn scored with a crushing left that would have done in any man who didn’t outweigh him by 30 pounds. And it certainly rattled the crown of the world’s heavyweight champion. The crowd was going berserk. Even Maggie was given the report that her Billy was on the verge of taking the title.

Only later would Conn realize the irony of striking that last great blow. “I miss that, I beat him,” he says. It was that simple. He was nine minutes from victory, and now he couldn’t wait. “He wanted to finish the thing as Irishmen love to,” the Herald Tribune wrote.

Louis was slumped in his corner. Jack Blackburn, his trainer, shook his head and rubbed him hard. “Chappie,” he said, using his nickname for the champ, “you’re losing. You gotta knock him out.” Louis didn’t have to be told. Everyone understood. Everyone in the Polo Grounds. Everyone listening through the magic of radio. Everyone. There was bedlam. It was wonderful. Men had been slugging it out for eons, and there had been 220 years of prizefighting, and there would yet be Marciano and the two Sugar Rays and Ali, but this was it. This was the best it had ever been and ever would be, the 12th and 13th rounds of Louis and Conn on a warm night in New York just before the world went to hell. The people were standing and cheering for Conn, but it was really for the sport and for the moment and for themselves that they cheered. They could be a part of it, and every now and then, for an instant, that is it, and it can’t ever get any better. This was such a time in the history of games.

Only Billy Conn could see clearly—the trouble was, what he saw was different from what everybody else saw. What he saw was himself walking with Mary Louise on the Boardwalk at Atlantic City, down the shore, and they were the handsomest couple who ever lived, and people were staring, and he could hear what they were saying. What they were saying was: “There goes Billy Conn with his bride. He just beat Joe Louis.” And he didn’t want to hear just that. What he wanted to hear was: “There goes Billy Conn with his bride. He’s the guy who just knocked out Joe Louis.” Not for himself: That was what Mary Louise deserved.

Billy had a big smile on his face. “This is easy, Moonie,” he said. “I can take this sonuvabitch out this round.”

Jawnie blanched. “No, no, Billy,” he said. “Stick and run. You got the fight won, Stay away, kiddo. Just stick and run, stick and run. There was the bell for the 13th.

And then it happened. Billy tried to bust the champ, but it was Louis who got through the defenses, and then he pasted a monster right on the challenger’s jaw. “Fall! Fall!” Billy said to himself. He knew if he could just go down, clear his head, he would lose the round, but he could still save the day. “But for some reason, I couldn’t fall. I kept saying, ‘Fall, fall,’ but there I was, still standing up. So Joe hit me again and again, and when I finally did fall, it was a slow, funny fall. I remember that.” Billy lay flush out on the canvas. There were two seconds left in the round, 2:58 of the 13th, when he was counted out. The winnah and still champeen. . . .

“It was nationality that cost Conn the title,” the Herald Tribune wrote. “He wound up on his wounded left side, trying to make Irish legs answer an Irish brain.”

On the radio, Billy said, “I just want to tell my mother I’m all right.”

Back in the locker room, Jawnie Ray said not to cry because bawxers don’t cry. And Billy delivered the classic: “What’s the sense of being Irish if you can’t be dumb?”

Ohhhhh ... She wants to sell my monkey!!! Call Arnold Slick From Turtle Crick! Scratch My Back With a Hacksaw!!!

Get Dressed, Grandma, This Bingo Game is Ready to Roll!!!

The lights go out in Philadelphia, one by one.

There Will Be Blood, Philly Fans Will Boo ... Let's Go Pens! Let's Go Pens!!

From Sports Illustrated, for cryin' out loud ...

"Ever since they booed Santa Claus, Philadelphia fans have had a reputation as the nastiest in all of sports."

From Answers.com ...

"The incident occurred in 1968. The Eagles were having a miserable season under Joe Kuharich, who may have been the most disliked coach in team history. The team started off the season 0-11 (back then they played 14 games), but the lone bright spot was that the team would be in position to select O.J. Simpson with the first overall pick in the 1969 draft. The Eagles then went on a two-game winning streak and lost out on the first pick. So even when they won, they lost."

"The Santa Claus incident occurred during halftime of the last game of the season, a game in which the Eagles were defeated by the Vikings. Back then, the regular season ended before Christmas, so they had a show at halftime. An older person was supposed to be Santa but he didn't show up (or was too sick or drunk depending on which version of the story you hear). In his place, they found a guy in the stands who had come to the game dressed in a Santa suit. He was young, skinny guy who didn't look the part. There have been accounts of the person being drunk, but it's unclear whether that's ever been verified."

"The fan reaction was a combination of a poor portrayal of Santa, frustration with coach Kuharich (who was fired after the '68 season) and the team. Philadelphia had become a football wasteland at the time. Between 1962 and 1977, the Eagles had exactly one winning season. On this day, fans took their frustration out on Santa."

Men In Black ... Well, in Black 'n Gold: Let's Go Pens!

Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.

Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.

Let's Go Pens!

This is good, from Doubt About It.

Behind Blue Eyes

This post is not about football. Sorry.

And we're just asking, although it probably wouldn't make people smile during polite dinner conversation ...

Did you know one in every 100 Americans is in prison?

So, we're just asking: Do you know anybody in prison? In a county jail? City lock-up? In a federal penitentiary?

Personally, I don't (except for Michael Vick).

I don't know anybody in jail or prison.

Damn, though, that statistic seems high. Is it accurate? I sure don't know.

What I do know is this: There is a company out there called Corrections Correction of America.
ttp://www.correctionscorp.com/

It's a big company.

From CCA's own boilerplate statement:

"Corrections Corporation of America is the nation's largest owner and operator of privatized correctional and detention facilities and one of the largest prison operators in the United States, behind only the federal government and three states. CCA currently operates 63 facilities, including 38 company-owned facilities, with a total design capacity of approximately 67,000 beds in 19 states and the District of Columbia."

Hey, just throwing it out there.

Okay, cut me a break: It's the off-season.

Comments, insults, stories, jokes and jibes are welcome.

When Pigs Fly

Paging Mr. Waters.

Paging Mr. Waters.

Would you please claim your pig.



INDIO, Calif.—When things go bad for a huge inflatable pig, don't expect it to be pretty.

A helium-filled swine, released into the night sky during Roger Waters' headlining set Sunday at the Coachella music festival in the Southern California desert, has been found in pieces.

Two couples found tattered halves of the pig Monday in their yards, a few miles from the festival grounds.

Concert organizers had offered a $10,000 reward for the swine's return. On Tuesday, the pieces of the plastic carcass were examined.

"That's definitely our pig," producer Bill Fold said.

Susan Stoltz found a plastic heap in her driveway Monday, but said she didn't know what it was until she read about the missing pig in the Desert Sun newspaper.

"My kids are going to think I'm so cool," she said.

Another resident of the same neighborhood, Judy Rimmer, said she found a piece of the pig draped over a front-yard plant.

The two couples will split the cash reward, Fold said.

As tall as a two-story house and as wide as two school buses, the pig was led from lines held on the ground Sunday as Waters played a version of Pink Floyd's "Pigs" from the 1977 anti-capitalist album "Animals." Then it just floated away.

"It wasn't really supposed to happen that way. I don't have the details," festival spokeswoman Marcee Rondan said.

The pig displayed the words "Don't be led to the slaughter" and a cartoon of Uncle Sam holding two bloody cleavers. The other side reads "Fear builds walls" and the underside reads "Obama" with a checked ballot box for U.S. Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama.

Let's Go Pens! Let's Go Pens!!

Let's Go Pens! Let's Go Pens!!

"Dispatch these foul beasts*
back into the abyss from which they crawled."

(*pictured: New York's Jaromir Jagr, who looks like he should be playing for the Devils, not the Rangers)

______________________

And while we're at it, "Let's Go Bucs!" (yeah, well, we know)

The Post-Gazette's Dejan Kovacevic noted the following about the Pirates' two best position players this season:

"Xavier Nady's 26 RBIs in the season's opening month were the most by any Pirates hitter since Willie Stargell's 27 in 1971. And, if that were not enough, his average is .337, he has hit safely in 21 of his first 26 starts and he has played a good, sometimes very good right field. … Maybe more impressive in its own way, Nate McLouth's RBI total is 25, this despite batting leadoff on a team that has gotten little production from the bottom of the order. His average: .342. Between them, Nady and McLouth have driven in 40 percent of the Pirates' 126 runs. No other player has more than 10 RBIs."

We're Number One!

Headlines across the nation proclaim: "Pittsburgh Beats Out Los Angeles As U.S. City With Worst Air Pollution"

But don’t blame us. It's not our fault!

According to ABC News:

Pittsburgh scored poorly in short-term particle pollution, overtaking habitual offender Los Angeles. Pittsburgh also came in second on the list of most polluted cities for year-round particle pollution.

George Leikauf, a professor of environmental health at the School of Public Health at the University of Pittsburgh, found the results of the study only "a little surprising."

"I'm not an apologist for Pittsburgh. … Particulate has been associated with more deaths than ozone. If you had to pick your poison, you'd rather have ozone than particulate matter."

Although much of the country may have a stereotype of Pittsburgh as a blue collar, steel mill town, Leikauf says that's no longer the case. According to him, more than 80 percent of western Pennsylvania's particulate matter actually drifts from Ohio power plants.

They're probably Browns fans.

Anywhoo, according to the UK's Reuters News Service (and what do they know?), the American Lung Association concludes: "In Pittsburgh, the biggest source of particle pollution is a steel plant in nearby Clareton."

For the record, asswipe, it's spelled "Clairton." Get it right.

For all that, Leijauf (the guy from Pitt) says,

"It turns out we don't have very many steel mills at all anymore," Leikauf said. "These are fine particles. They stay suspended in the air. You can detect them in the Antarctic. In fact, some of California's air pollution is coming from China."

Just great: American jobs get exported to China, and Chinese air pollution gets exported back to us.

Whatever. Let's go Pens!