The Curse of Chango

The story varies from person to person. Everyone agrees that it occurred after the 2000 Subway Series, shortly after yet another Yankee championship, their fourth in five years. Some say it may have been spurred on when over zealous Yankee fans taunted the wrong group of Mets fans. Some say it took place in a basement on Roosevelt Avenue, where Chango, the God of Thunder, was summoned amongst sacrificial chickens and Santeria candles. Still others point to the story of a Jamaican voodoo priestess whose hex began when she was arrested for attempting to steal dirt from the pitcher’s mound of Yankee Stadium on Halloween night 2000. Regardless of which story you point to, there is more than a little belief that the newest curse in Major League Baseball is alive and well somewhere around 161st Street in the Bronx.

Yankees fans tend to scoff at the idea of this curse, fearing it no more than they do the Mets themselves. But with the latest turn of events, including the worst collapse and greatest choke in Major League Baseball history, shortly followed by a World Series Championship by their arch-nemesis, the Boston Red Sox, those in Pinstripes, and those who support them, might do well to start believing.

In early 2001 the curse was in its infancy, still whispered about by confident Mets fans, and dismissed by just about everyone else. On November 4, 2001 the tide began to turn. The Yankees went into the ninth inning with a 2-1 lead and Mariano Rivera on the mound, usually a recipe for postseason success. But with a charge from the broken bat of Luis Gonzalez and a little help from the heavens above, a soft liner reached just beyond Jeter's grasp and Jay Bell scored to give the Diamondbacks a 3-2 win for their 1st World Series victory. Some say the hit was a fluke, a freakish occurrence that could never be duplicated. Others, still mostly in Queens, knew better, and left fruit baskets outside Shea as a tribute of thankfulness to Chango.

2002 found the curse gaining steam in the ALDS against the Angels. Entering the playoffs yet again as the best team in baseball, the Yankees thought that they would make quick work of the wild card Angels. They thought wrong. Only twice in their storied history had they given up a 5 run lead in the playoffs and never before had they lost back to back leads beyond the 8th inning in a playoff series. Both of those statistics, as well as the Yankees themselves, were put to rest though, behind phenom Francisco Rodriguez and the dreaded Rally Monkey. Yet again, gifts of thanks were bestowed upon Chango by Met faithful, who were quite aware that the Spanish translation of monkey is Chango.

Soon the curse began gaining some steam, and with the Yankee's 2003 series shortfall against the Marlins, it went national. Fresh off of defeating the Cubs with fierce determination and some help from another well-known curse, the Marlins faithful, full of Hispanic pride, and led by Ivan Rodriguez, Luis Castillo, Juan Encarnacion, played with a confidence they betrayed their experience. Scraping out runs, these players jumped all over the favorite Yankees and brought jubilance not only to Miami, but back to Queens as well. The ju-ju was now on and the word was out. The Yankees would never win another Series until the Gods over Flushing were appeased.

This year brought another whirlwind season in the Bronx, another 100 wins, another division title, and another showdown with the rival Red Sox. Victims of the Curse of the Bambino for 86 years, these Sox, self-proclaimed idiots, played without regard, sometimes for sanity, sometimes for health, and always without regard for history. 86 years proved to be enough, so after spotting the Yankees a long thought to be unbeatable 3-0 lead in a best of 7 series, the Sox went about tearing out the hearts of Yankees fans pitch by bloody pitch. The collapse of the Yankees will be spoken of for a seemingly eternal time to come, as it came without warning or precedence, and humiliated the storied franchise in a manner that had never before been seen. This was not merely shocking, not simply embarrassing, this was a display of ineptitude on a scale of historical proportion. This was an event that could only have occurred when curses collide. Here was a perfect storm of destruction and demoltion, on one side the destruction of the Red Sox long held belief of inadequacy, on the other the demolition of the myth of the unbeatable Yankees.

It si said that 'Payback is a bitch' and more than a few think that a form of divine justice would be served by a prolonged Yankees curse of say, 86 years, which while rivaling that of the Red Sox, more importantly pays homage to 1986, a time when it was the Mets, not the men in pinstripes, that owned New York. And while we are not certain just how strong this curse is, or just how long it may indeed last, we can all agree after witnessing the events of the past 4 years that it is out there. We cannot dispute that Chango is alive and well and watching over all who pay tribute to both his power, and to the pride of those in blue and orange.

The curse is dead, long live the new curse. The Curse of Chango.

An Exceptional Case of Bad Timing

I am cursed with an exceptional case of bad timing.

Creatively speaking, I feel as if I have had several great ideas over the years. I can say this because I have a habit of turning around just after completing something and seeing someone beat me to the publication of it. I'm not bold enough to state that this is not a case of stolen ideas, but I have to add that with each example, this grows weirder.

The most blatant case came my freshman year in college. For my freshman seminar, back in 1994, I wrote a thesis paper entitled, "Die Hard on a Bus," comparing Speed to the Bruce Willis franchise and making parallels to other "Die Hard on a ____" films that took place on planes, trains, boats, etc. In a class where original ideas were often exposed as anything but, my professor drew attention to my paper for its creativity and conceptual thought. That is why it was most disturbing to see an identical article, with the EXACT same criteria mentioned, in Cinescape Magazine three months later.

It was two years later, after reading an article about the first cloned sheep, Dolly, that I wrote my first screenpay, entited "Original Sin." Though I basically disowned this script, fearing that it was too cheesy, I was soon surprised to see Arnold in The 6th Day a few years later. Was I surprised to see a movie about cloning? Not one bit. I was however a bit surprised to see a film featuring the same action sequence featuring identical, missing part humor.

The next example hit me harder, if only because it really sidetracked an idea of mine. After laboring for 6 months on a follow up screenplay, the true Civil War tales of Joshua Chamberlin, I was hurt to see that Ted Turner put Gods & Generals on the fast track. I was well aware of his earlier Gettysberg when I began, but this tale was never on the horizon when I started. This is not to say that two similar true stories cannot exist simultaneously. But again, the timing sucked ass, since everyone and their mother mentioned the other movie when I discussed mine.

Now, I could make mention of other examples, but I'll simply fast forward to Friday's USA Today and "The Team a Horror Writer Could Love."

Yes, a mere two days after writing my thoughts about being a writer and being a Red Sox fan comes an article about Stephen King and his new book, "Faithful."

And I quote...

Novelist John Cheever once said, "All literary men are Red Sox fans." To which King adds, "All literary men are not baseball fans." But he agrees that writers who like baseball should like the Red Sox, "because they know in their hearts that books are lost causes."

I won't exaggerate because much of the article is devoted stickly to the lives of the writers, King and Stewart O'Nan. Still, I can't say that it didn't deflate me quite a bit to see arguments made that were similar to work that came straight from my heart, yet published by another.

Then again, I can flip the argument and say great minds think alike, couldn't I? I just need to think quicker I suppose.

A Uniter, Not a Divider

It concerns me that I am surrounded by so much divisiveness. One must only look at the latest electoral map to see the “Two Americas” that John Edwards speaks of. The Red States and the Blue States. North and South. Rural and Urban. City, Country, and Suburb. I will now attempt to speak to none of this and direct you simply to the state of New Jersey, which while it is as torn apart as the rest of the country by such national divisiveness, also suffers from a case of instate strife.

I mention this because I was called a Benny today.

Now if one were to dissect the origin of the word "Benny" they might find that it has many different meanings. If you ask a polite local from South Jersey, they might tell you something quite benign, such as "Back in the older days, they used to be a train line called the Benny that went from New York to Belmar and all of the shore points."

The truth, as I have now discovered, is that Benny stands for people coming from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York. I, currently living in New York, despite being raised in North Jersey, qualify as just such a Benny.

Now the truth is that I grew up in Bergen County, New Jersey and only visited Point Pleasant to a) have sex with my girlfriend when her folks were away, b) have sex at the beach when my girlfriend’s parents were home, and c) have sex with my girlfriend quietly when her parents were in the next room. This would properly mean that, as far as being a visitor to the beaches, I have always been a Benny and simply never known it.

On the surface I can accept this. One cannot change who they are or where they are from. One cannot hide the truth or have it both ways, unless I suppose, they are running for President. Then anything goes.

Unfortunately the underlying connotation behind being a Benny is not quite that simple. The argument would be that a Benny is characterized as one who comes down to the Jersey Shore to rent, trash the place, make lots of noise, and leave on Labor Day. Ultimately Bennys are viewed similarly to Rickey Henderson in a MLB clubhouse; pretentious invaders upsetting an otherwise peaceful existence.

Having never done that, and having never really like the way Ricky always referred to himself in the third person, I am more than slightly offended.

Now, I cannot dispute the fact that Benny’s do exist, nor can I say that people have the right to disparage them for their behavior. But we must be more careful about our classifications in the future. To call anyone that doesn’t live at a Shore Point a Benny would water down the meaning and impact, making the phrase hold as much weight as Winner of the Popular Vote or Yankees 27th World Championship.

I am trying to be a uniter, not a divider here, so I ask New Jersey to be more selective when disparaging those who do not tread softly on their sands. I ask Jerseyites who feel that they are actually street smart (everyone thinks they are, 1 out of 27.6 by my calculations actually are) to remember how they felt when New Yorkers greeted them in Washington Square Park with a curse word and a mugging. I ask Jerseyites who are greeted as the “Bride and Tunnel” crowd to think about how that makes them feel.

We must work together to unite this sacred swampland that we all call home.

Art of Immeasurable Brilliance

 

It occurred to me late last night that my writing career is on life support. It was a 'Jerry Maguire' type moment, waking up in a cold sweat, hands shaking, the perpetual motion of life seemingly faster than usual. Fortunately, in tossing this over and over in my head, I was able to put my finger on the problem at hand.

I am not a Red Sox fan.

The fact that two such different ideas, that I’m a failure as a writer and that I don’t root for the Boston Red Sox, could be associated may confuse many of you, but I can assure you that my theory is not unfounded.

Some might dispute this claim by stating the obvious, such as the fact that I work long hours that don’t leave much time for personal writing, that I often lack the focus necessary to completely commit to an idea, or that I’ve spent much of my career outside of the literary profession, thus making it harder to break in. Some of you may even go so far as to psychoanalyze me and say that the only thing holding me back is my own fear of failure.

I feel that that is neither here, nor there. That’s just crazy talk.

John Cheever once declared that, "all literary men are Red Sox fans,” and there are facts to back this statement up. For instance, I could mention how many noted authors and journalists list the Red Sox as their favorite team. If I was to do this I would begin my list with names like Stephen King, John Updike, and William Faulkner. If I chose an obvious path, I could even list some of the best sports journalists of the past and present, people like Peter Gammons, whose reporting evokes classic baseball erudition, or ESPN’s Bill Simmons, whose use of humor and irony tackles the modern sports world in an all together unique fashion.

With evidence this strong we must rule out coincidence as a factor. There must be a reason why so many eloquent professionals root for the same team. And examination of each individual might aid in our search, but I chose to instead focus on the similar underlying motivators for each.

The best writing often conveys an intense understanding of the human condition. Without that, a writer could never grasp the depths that human emotions can fall to anymore than they could dream of the heights that we all aspire to. Successful authors write best from what they know and it is the experiences that shape them that often spur on their most creative leaps. Unfortunately, lives lead by such men and women are often fraught with pain and anguish, and the literary journeys that they undergo often stem from the ill-fates of their own lives. The evidence for this fills every volume around us, whether they be in the words of James Joyce or Mark Twain (whose last name it should be noted was actually Clemens).

Of course, one need only turn to the tragic end that befell one of the master’s of conveying the human spirit, Ernest Hemingway, to understand the how depressed one whose work is tied to the complexity of humanity often becomes. I could continue, but to list those with artistic merit who have met an untimely end would be an exercise in exhaustion. Needless to say, Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in the oven while trying pull out her latest batch of brownies.

And so it becomes obvious that a full understanding of the human condition, which along with it brings a deeper view into the human soul, can only be accomplished by someone who shares a familiarity with pain and suffering. And thus a theory is born.

Had we experienced a World Series win from the Sox since 1918, the history of this storied organization might read more like that of many others, and we might be more inclined to think of the moments granted us great Teddy Ballgame and his magical .406 season, Yaz’ and the last Triple Crown in MLB baseball history, or the mastery of the mound shown in the Cy Young seasons of Clemens and Pedro.

But the Sox have not won a Series, and so those memories are obscured, as we choose to focus on the continued eulogy of No No Nanette and the ill-fated Ruth deal, Bucky Dent and the Green Monster, the ball rolling through Buckner’s legs, and Aaron ‘$%#!’ Boone.

Enduring these hardships, season after season, undoubtedly shapes men of great talent. The Red Sox are the trampled dreams of the proletariots. The Red Sox are the mighty whale that eludes our capture. The Red Sox are the great love that we never realize. And with each passing collapse, we feel great pain, and with each collapse we discover art of immeasurable brilliance.

Though I’m not a Red Sox fan, I’ve had my Red Sox moments. I’m sitting underneath a gorgeous cherry blossom tree on a breezy spring day. I’m holding my love in my arms one moment, then suddenly she pulls back to speak of the outcast classmate she slept with the night before. The one she is leaving me for. I’m the failure of Mike Torrez.

Years later, I’m friends with a woman of incredible passion who draws me into her web. She is bi-sexual, but declares devotion only to me. I know that being with her is wrong. That this can only end badly. And yet I am convinced to trust her. And soon she leaves me. For a woman. I am the foolishness of John McNamara.

I sit at my desk each day, at once feeling less and less sensation in my body, and yet more and more pain in my soul. I am not writing. I am not doing what I am meant to do, yet I excuse my fear as practicality, taking in another paycheck, all in the name of escape. Time continues to pass and the only change I sense is the metamorphosis of my dream of into an overwhelming nightmare. I watch and I do nothing to stop the onslaught. I am the inevitability of Grady Little.

And yet despite this, I am not a Red Sox fan. I now am forced to wonder if the sum of my Red Sox moments is enough to propel me to literary excellence. I’m forced to consider the possibility that my only chance might be to sacrifice my own beliefs, and my dedication to the Mets, in order to accomplish my dreams. I feel as if my only chance is to declare myself faithful and dedicated to a lost cause, which in turn might actually aid in my attempt to accomplish a lost cause. It is a type of Catch-22, whose irony is could only be multiplied greater by the fact that Bill Buckner once wore number 22.

And so, I greet this year’s playoffs hesitantly, torn between rooting for the Red Sox and rooting for a greater understanding of the pain and anguish is at the heart of the human condition. And it is here that I forge an understanding worthy of a magnum opus. I realize the cruel irony that ultimately what I root for, in both cases, is one and the same.

Political Abstract

Cheney stated last night that Kerry voted 98 times to raise taxes. FactCheck.org clearly states that nearly half were not for tax increases per se and that many others were on procedural motions that passed practicaly unopposed.

It's a problem that statistics make for great soundbites because they can also be manipulated to serves any purpose. I'm not going to start researching the numbers, but hypothetically speaking, what if Edwards had shot back, well yes, Kerry voted 98 times to raise taxes, but he votes 498 times not to raise taxes. Had he said that, where would the public be left? What would mean more to people? Or would everything be rendered meaningless?

Obviously statistics can suport a good argument, for instance an anti-war stance undoubtably should mention that The United States as of yesterday has had 1,061 deaths and 7,730 wounded in Iraq. That statement makes for a powerful argument because it quantifies the anger we feel.

But if its not too much to ask the American public for, try looking beyond the numbers at the same situation. Think about Cheney's forceful stance on how Edwards didn't include Iraqi casualties, as if their contributions didn't count. Edwards stammered briefly, seeking a proper and promopostional response. Unfortunately, he didn't realize an interesting fact, which is that this administration doesn't even bother to count the casualties or injuries for the Iraqi people. Now who do you think is disrespecting the people more?

So we're left with two ways to view the situation.

Non-numerically, we can say that an administration that is so morally bankrupt as to not even bother to weigh the sacrifices made by the very people they are trying to free does not belong in office anymore.

Or we can say that as of 2001, there are 0 United States Presidents that respect the sacrifices being made by the people of Iraq.

Resolve is the New Ignorance

Amazingly, every poll that I have read about last night's debate has Kerry having decisively won it, with most margins in the 60/40 range.

Yet, in early electoral polls the only change was the Kerry helped shore up his base. In other words, last night Kerry helped win what he already won. While it's a step in the right direction for Kerry, it frightens me that after last night's display minds were not changed.

The biggest argument against Kerry has been his 'indecisiveness.' This is the weapon of mass distraction that gets thrown around by the Republican Party as proof of why Kerry would make an inadequate Commander-in-Chief. Problem is, even if you ask any informed Republican, this is completely a BS argument. The whole flip-flop argument is based on the notion that once a decision is made we should never go back on it. For instance, initially we were not going to enter WWII, as it did not concern us. So by that logic, we should never have let the new information that about 6 million people were being killed, or a little thing like Pearl harbor change our mind. You might say that my logic is narrow minded, BUT THAT'S THE POINT!!! Changing your mind based on new information should be encouraged, not shunned.

Unfortunately, the base for Bush's support is not interested in making informed decisions. They apparently share Bush's 'Resolve,' which apparently is Republican slang for 'Ignorance.'