bouncing bubbie

The holidays are plenty stressful, if for no other reason because it suddenly makes you aware of how many damn people there are. The frenzy of holiday activities – traveling, shopping, shipping, visiting, cavorting – puts everyone on a collision course to all the same destinations at the same time, pushing our communal patience to the limit at the very time we're supposed to be practicing goodwill. Throw a family emergency in the mix, and you have the potential for breakdown-inducing panic.

My step-grandmother (an unwieldy and sterile title for such a wonderful lady) passed late last week, setting hurried plans in motion for a funereal visit to NYC. Last minute travel is never easy, and the options are fewer and more precious the week before Christmas. But I managed to get flights to NYC via Raleigh-Durham, a heretofore unknown "hub," aboard a 48-passenger commuter plane, a heretofore unknown "jet."

Novelty aside, the travel went smoothly. I was more concerned about attending the funeral, an activity I have only experienced a handful of times. A sense of foreboding surrounded my preparations, whether due to the holiday stress or the pending event I couldn't say for sure. But any trepidation I felt was washed away by the short 24 hours spent with family, mourning the Bubs' passing.

The Bubs was buried, according to Jewish tradition, in a bare pine box. I've never understood the desire to lavish death with opulence, as though each of our deceased were a Tutankhamen of the modern age. Perhaps it's guilt that drives some to laud the dead in ways that were never matched in life. For others, splendor might be equated with respect for a life worthy of a grand exit. But whether your beliefs in the afterlife are guided by Scripture or Sartre, I can't help but think that a big funereal show is ultimately a distraction to spirituality. Why tie such a pretty bow around misery, as if to celebrate death itself? It is the life lived and the afterlife earned (however you envision it) that truly matter, and neither of these require a princely burial for validation.

And so, instead of talking about caskets or floral arrangements, we simply talked about the Bubs. She brought us together once again, although this time it was her memory rather than her smile that bound the occasion. But even in her absence, the Bubs was still the life of the party.

not rickets

I went to see Tim's new band, The Bad Rackets, last Thursday. They're pretty good, what with their accessible post-punk power pop-ish vibe. I'd like to hear them in a venue with better sound, as the vocals were pretty much non-existant in the mix. Maybe if them damn kids didn't play their twangy gee-tars so loud I could hears 'em sing. Then again, maybe that's the point.

I hadn't been to Room 710 for awhile. In addition to having explicit paintings of a co-worker plastered all over the place, it's an excellent dive music club in the spirit of The Black Cat, Electric Lounge, and several other low-rent venues that have since disappeared in favor of more gentrified establishments. When I first moved to Austin in '92, only exceptionally popular local bands or roadshows could charge $10 covers, which now seems to be the minimum for the smallest of shows at most clubs. Thank God for places like the 710, where you can still listen to some raw live music and suck down Lone Stars at a buck a pop.

Cover: $4
Beer: $3
Appreciating the remnants of Austin's low-rent music scene: Priceless

charlie don't dope

The hot stove league caught fire this week with Jason Giambi's open admission and Barry Bond's increasingly tenuous denial of steroid use. In leaked testimony reminiscent of Clintonian wrangling, Bonds admitted to a grand jury that he had used questionable substances without knowledge that they contained steroids. Verbal end-arounds might indefinitely cloud Bond's individual guilt, but the current steroid controversy is merely the latest reminder that Major League Baseball is anything but innocent.

In fact, impurity is a proud part of the baseball tradition. The modern home run record was defined by a carousing drunk in the 20's, only to be re-written (in pencil, hopefully) twice in the last five years by two guys filled with more juice than Orange Julius. Even forgetting drugs and alcohol, infamous icons abound in baseball. Ty Cobb led with his spikes and erupted in racist assaults. Shoeless Joe was embroiled in the Black Sox scandle to throw the 1919 World Series. And of course the modern baseball pariah, Pete Rose, bet on baseball while still in the Major Leagues.

In my opinion, Pete Rose is the greatest baseball player of all time. I like the way he played, becoming the ultimate blue-collar sports hero through drive and dedication as well as talent. While not the most gifted athlete, his longevity and accomplishments speak for themselves. But as a human being, Pete Rose is a hard-headed dolt with a haircut as bad as his lies. He has dodged culpability through half-hearted admissions and continues to push for reinstatement without addressing the gambling problem at the heart of his banishment. Rose's forced exclusion from the Hall of Fame says that breaking rules is more significant than breaking records.

There's no clear indication that the gambling exploits of Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe had any impact on their performance; theirs is a punishment based on principle. But anyone watching home run records falling at the feet of unnaturally pumped athletes cannot question that drugs have boosted performance and left an indelible imprint on baseball. And so the great irony in the steroid controversy is that Bond’s career will be honored because it flourished in benign collusion with a league that kept the steroids issue in the closet longer than Rock Hudson. If Bonds remains a first-vote shoo-in for the Hall of Fame, as most commentators assume he will, it says that breaking records is more significant than making rules.

This lack of stewardship is threatening to bring governmental involvement, because Tom Delay's Congress has a surfeit of ethical wisdom to dispense on the subject of principled leadership. I couldn't care less if the government decides to smack MLB down, although it might be fun to watch the spoiled millionaires in the clubhouse and owner's box squirm under a brighter spotlight. All I ask is that baseball figure out what it wants to be. If it wants to serve up entertainment with a side-dish of moral casualness, then fine; let Barry hit his homers, but put Pete Rose in the Hall beside him. We'll marvel at their accomplishments, and still get a good laugh out of Pete's thinning crewcut and Barry's impending man breasts at induction ceremonies for many years to come. On the other hand, if we're to believe that baseball is an American institution worthy of respect and monopoly exemption status, then some shit better start hitting the fan, and quick. Baseball fans would love nothing more than to see Barry Bonds forcibly humbled, and the players who followed the rules deserve to have their deeds protected.

Given their past performance, however, the baseball leadership will probably come up with a cowardly and misdirected solution to this whole saga. Since he is unwilling to stand up to Don Fehr and the player's union, Bud Selig might opt to revise past records in light of their uncompetitive anti-doping origin. As part of some "throwback weekend" ceremony, Bud could dictate that an asterisk be returned to Maris' name, since his home run record was the only one earned without a foreign substance coursing through his veins. It would be business as usual in the ethical wasteland of Major League Baseball.