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I mentioned John Lahr yesterday. Bright guy and an interesting writer.

 
His first book was a biography of his father, Bert Lahr, Notes on a Cowardly Lion, which is excellent, one of the very best showbiz biographies.

His next book was a bio of the British playwright, Joe Orton, Prick Up Your Ears, another stellar book. Not a bad start, eh?

I read both books when I was in high school and have occasionally read Lahr’s criticism since, mostly on the theater. Can’t say he’s a favorite but I admire his work and will always stop to see what he’s got to say. 

And he’s got a website.

Dig this 2005 Steve Buscemi profile:

Nothing about Buscemi’s physical presence suggests the poetic lineaments of masculine film glamour. He is pale, almost pallid-as if he’d been reared in a mushroom cellar. In a certain light, he can look cadaverous. His eyes are large and bulgy, with a hint of melancholy. When he smiles, his mouth displays a shantytown of uneven, uncapped teeth. And yet that unprepossessing ordinariness is what makes Buscemi captivating as a performer. It gives him the unmistakable stamp of the authentic, and it helps to explain his emergence over the past two decades as an icon of independent films. (Buscemi himself understands the value of his rumpled looks. When his dentist suggested fixing his teeth, he told her, “You’re going to kill my livelihood if you do that.”) “Steve is the little guy,” says the director Jim Jarmusch, who cast Buscemi in his 1989 film “Mystery Train.” “In the characters he plays and in his own life, he’s representing that part of us all that’s not on top of the world.”

…Onscreen or off, Buscemi is never ostentatious. Still, with his simplicity and restraint-an emotional as well as a physical minimalism-he manufactures a truthfulness that always surprises. At lunch, as he tentatively told the story of his working-class upbringing (his father was a sanitation worker, his mother a hostess at Howard Johnson’s), he cast an unexpected light on his own edgy inhibition. We were talking about the terror he’d felt at nineteen, when he first thought of moving from Long Island to Manhattan to try to be an actor. What held him back, he said, was “this feeling that you don’t deserve to be heard, that you don’t really have anything to say or a point of view that’s interesting, because you haven’t been properly educated. I was very intimidated, basically feeling culturally inferior.”

When Buscemi acts, his thinness and his slouch-which seem a product of that original shame-only heighten his odd presence, which is a topic of conversation in many of the seventy-eight movies he’s made since his first major role, in “Parting Glances,” in 1986. In Joel and Ethan Coen’s “Fargo” (1996), the other characters repeatedly make fun of Buscemi’s Carl Showalter, a dopey kidnapper turned killer. When Frances McDormand’s beady-eyed, homespun policewoman presses a hooker for a detailed description of Showalter, whom she has recently bedded, all the girl can say is “The little guy was kinda funny-lookin’ … He wasn’t circumcised…Funny-lookin’ more than most people, even.”

Who you callin’ funny-lookin’?

It is official. Chien-Ming Wang is a free agent.

Never did see this version, have you? Meanwhile, here is more on Cate Blanchett’s performance as Blanche DuBois from The New Yorker’s theater critic, John Lahr:

Blanche is the Everest of modern American drama, a peak of psychological complexity and emotional range, which many stars have attempted and few have conquered. Of the performances I’ve seen in recent years, Jessica Lange’s lacked theatrical amperage, Natasha Richardson’s was too buff, and Rachel Weisz’s, in this year’s overpraised Donmar Warehouse production in London, was too callow. The challenge for the actress taking on Blanche lies in fathoming her spiritual exhaustion, her paradoxical combination of backbone and collapse. Blanche has worn herself out, bearing her burden of guilt and grief, and facing down the world with a masquerade of Southern gaiety and grace. She is looking—as Williams himself was when he wrote the play—for “a cleft in the rock of the world that I could hide in.”

Blanchett, with her alert mind, her informed heart, and her lithe, patrician silhouette, gets it right from the first beat. “I’ve got to keep hold of myself,” Blanche says, her spirits sinking with disappointment at the threadbare squalor of the one-room apartment her sister shares with her working-class husband. “Only Poe! Only Mr. Edgar Allan Poe!—could do it justice! Out here I suppose is the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir!” she drawls to Stella, flapping her long birdlike fingers in the direction of the window and the railroad tracks beyond. Blanchett doesn’t make the usual mistake of foreshadowing Blanche’s end at the play’s beginning; she allows Blanche a slow, fascinating decline. And she is compelling both as a brazen flirt and as an amusing bitch. When Stella explains that Stanley is Polish, for instance, Blanche replies, “They’re something like the Irish, aren’t they? Only not so—highbrow.” It’s part of Blanchett’s great accomplishment that she makes Blanche’s self-loathing as transparent and dramatic as her self-regard. She hits every rueful note of humor and regret in Williams’s dialogue. In one desperate scene, in which Blanche explains her sordid past to Stanley’s friend Mitch (Tim Richards), who has been disabused of his romantic interest in her, she takes a slug of Southern Comfort. “Southern Comfort!” she exclaims. “What is that, I wonder?” Dishevelled, sitting on the floor by the front door, she fesses up to Mitch. “Yes, I had many intimacies with strangers,” she says, in a voice fatigued by heartbreak. I don’t expect to see a better performance of this role in my lifetime.

Lahr is less enthralled with the rest of the production. Still, sounds like an experience, don’t it?

It appears as if Chien-Ming Wang’s Yankee career is over. Man, it just goes to show how fragile a career can be–a few years ago, Wang was the ace of the staff. Now, who knows what will become of him?

If he’s a goner, here’s wishing him the best of luck. He was an easy guy to root for.

According to the Baseball Twitter Machine known as Jon Heyman: “yanks as much $34 million apart on damon so far–18 mil for 2 vs. 52 mil for 4.”

I imagine Brian Cashman’s reaction to be something like this:

Here’s a couple of goodies for those of you who dig Golden Era Hip-Hop.

First, is MTV’s Yo! MTV Raps page (kudos to Cliff for hipping me to it):

Bada:

Bing:

Secondly, here is an SI.com bonus piece by a guy named Benjamin Wallace on the rise, and apparent fall, of Pete Nash, aka Pete Nice:

Nash sits in a café in lower Manhattan. At 42 he wears cuffed khaki pants and a short-sleeved button-down cotton shirt. He lives in a rental home in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., with his wife and young son, and he has driven a sensible Honda SUV to this meeting. Since his moment of fame as a rapper for Def Jam Records, Nash has achieved a markedly different kind of renown — among hard-core baseball memorabilia collectors who wouldn’t know Def Jam from Def Leppard. Over the past two decades Nash has become known as the most prolific source of the rarest old-school material, especially from the 19th century.

But on this afternoon in late July the tough-guy rapper turned baseball historian is mired in a widening scandal over the holiest relics of America’s pastime. Nash recently lost a lawsuit against a leading memorabilia auctioneer in which he admitted to fraud, and, according to sources, the FBI is investigating whether he sold forged memorabilia. (Nash declined to comment on the investigation.)

Even so, he retains some of the old Prime Minister’s swagger, seemingly confident that he has turned the tables on his antagonist. He riffles through a fat case stuffed with files of evidence he says he has compiled, and tells stories about innocently buying memorabilia that turned out not to be authentic. “In the baseball field, you have to question pretty much every single thing that’s out there,” he says. “It’s like the Wild West.”

As he sits in the café talking, his car is ticketed. The next day a judge in New Jersey will issue a bench warrant for his arrest for repeatedly ignoring court orders.

Long before his unlikely rise to fame as a white rapper, Peter Nash was obsessed with the history of baseball. MC Serch, also of 3rd Bass, recalls the first time he visited the home of Nash’s parents on Long Island, in the late 1980s. “Here was this 20-year-old kid,” Serch says, “and he had all this stuff: three-fingered mitts and Ty Cobb baseball cards. It was his passion, more than I think emceeing was his passion.”

I crossed Broadway in the middle of 13th and 14th street last night, moving from the west side of the street to the east. I had the light, and as I looked to my left, I saw that the street was clear of any vehicles. I love the fleeting sense of room that you find in New York as traffic sits at a red light. It doesn’t last long, less than a minute I’m sure. At first it feels empty and then slowly, the momentum builds up again and then whoosh, the action is back.

But for a brief moment, the buzz of cars and buses and trucks and bikes, comes to a halt, and there is nothing but space. Freedom and space. It is something so routine in daily life here in New York that I often don’t register it, but even subconsciously, it feels like a small treat.

I went to Forbidden Planet to pick up some Christmas gifts–original Star Wars action figures–for my nephews and then, with some time to kill before I met a friend for dinner, went to the Strand to browse. I haven’t been reading much baseball literature these days, but I found myself in the basement anyway, looking at the sports books. And guess what? There on the shelves, near the Roger Angell books and Allen Barra’s Yogi Berra biography were two copies of the book I wrote about Curt Flood. And they weren’t even dirt cheap at ten bucks a pop.

Well, to me, this is a milestone of sorts because I’ve been introduced to so many great books through used book stores. I know it is a backward thing to wish for–most writers hope to be on the best-seller list, and belive me, I’m no exception–but still, it was a satisfying moment.

I don’t think back on the Flood book much these days. It was something I did and now it seems like it all happened a long time ago. I’m proud of it, of course, but it’s not something I identify with too tough. I did it, it’s out there in the world, and now, I’m on to the next thing. But to see it sitting there on the shelves I’ve patrolled all these years, well, that was as sweet a Christmas gift as I could ever ask for.

Do You Want Some More? 

Granderson and Pettitte are official.

So, what next? Scott Boras is talking up his client, Johnny Damon, right on cue.

What about Halladay? Coming to the Yanks? Not likely, opines Joel Sherman.

The Yanks done at these meetings? What do you think?

UPDATE: From Buster Olney at ESPN:  “Heard this: The Yankees are in the process of negotiating with Johnny Damon’s camp.”

UPDATE: Chad Jennings, who has been doing a terrific job covering the winter meetings, just posted a few final words from Brian Cashman as the Yankees General Manager was on his way out of town:

“I am definitely not in a position right now where I feel like I’m ready to do anything,” he said. “The next step isn’t ready to happen now, based on my conversations. There shouldn’t be another shoe to drop immediately.”

Cashman has options, and he has little need for urgency. He has to act, obviously, but the past four days have surely eased any need for desperation. Yesterday, Cashman acknowledged having talked to John Lackey’s agent. Today, he acknowledged talking about Ben Sheets. He’s met with the agents for Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui. He’s been engaged with multiple trade talks. As soon as something makes sense, he’ll be ready to move.

“Patience can benefit you, (or) it might not,” Cashman said. “You can wait something out and see if it falls in your lap, but by doing that you risk losing something that you want. It’s a little riskier for us to play that game. If we really want something and it fits in our criteria at some point, waiting it out to see if it gets cheaper, I’m not sure that’s the way we go about it.”

Much as I miss Pete Abraham over at Lo-Hud, I’ve got to give credit to Jennings, Sam Borden, and Josh Thomson for maintaining the blog’s high standard.

More from Indy…

Trading for Curtis Granderson does not take the Yankees out of the Roy Halladay Sweepstakes, according to Joel Sherman. But while Curtis is center stage, here is what Sean Casey and Andy Van Slyke have to say about the man.

Welcome to the Big Apple, dude. Here’s the first of what is likely to be many musical nods in your general direction.

First up today, a note from ESPN’s Buster Olney: “If the Yankees sign Johnny Damon, that will increase the likelihood that they will attempt to trade Nick Swisher. It’s increasingly unlikely that the Yankees are going to re-sign Hideki Matsui, regardless of what happens with Damon.”

UPDATE: According to Jon Heyman, Andy Pettitte will sign a one-year, $12 million contract to remain in New York. The deal could be announced as early as today.

Jon Heyman reports that Andy Pettitte and the Yanks have agreed to a one-year deal worth $11.75 million.

Rob Neyer doesn’t understand the Brian Bruney deal from Washington’s perspective. I liked Bruney, liked his mug, but I ain’t complaining over this trade, are you?

“Pitching, pitching, pitching, and then left field,” General Manager Brian Cashman said. “Those are the obvious areas we need to focus on.”

Here’s the big rumor from yesterday…

…In the meantime, while you wait…

UPDATE: According to a Tweet by Jon Heman: “yanks to get granderson, e. jackson, i. kennedy to dbacks, scherzer, schlereth, a. jax, coke to tigers….teams in agreement on trade. assuming medicals check out, it’s a go.”

I can’t imagine the Yankees getting E. Jackson as well. I’m sure he’ll be headed to the Dimaondbacks too.

UPDATE: According to this press release, Peter Gammons is leaving ESPN.

More on Curtis from Sweeny Murti:

And over at the Times, Tyler Kepner makes a case for Granderson.

This is where the heavy hitters in the Scoop Industry make their living.

First up…According to Buster Olney, Andy Pettitte will pitch in 2010, likely in New York. Jon Heyman has more.

Details to come…

UPDATE:  According to a tweet, Joel Sherman reports that Brian Bruney has been traded to the Nationals.

As Diane pointed out to me in an e-mail, we’d be remiss not to bow in appreciation of Dave Brubeck who turns 89 today.

How about his signature cut?

Happy Sunday Everyone.

A Halladay, a Lackey…which one of these?

It’s gray Saturday, and raining in New York.

Stay warm y’all.

The Fellas…

Groucho: Say, if you get near a song, play it.

Chico:…I can’t think of the finish.

Groucho: That’s strange and I can’t think of anything else.

Chico: You know what I think, I think I went past it.

Groucho: Well, if you come around again, jump off.

Chico: I once kept this up for three days…

The A-Side (instrumental) of Eddie Kendrick’s classic Keep on Truckin’:

Here is the full-length vocal, just cause:

By Bruce Markusen

This week’s passing of Tommy Henrich brings to mind the understated value of a terrific ballplayer who sacrificed part of his career for a larger cause.

On the surface, Henrich’s Triple Crown numbers don’t sound like that of a Hall of Famer: .282 batting average, 183 home runs, and 795 RBIs. But let’s look at what could have been. Henrich missed three full seasons in the midst of his prime—his age 30, 31, and 32 seasons—while serving in the U.S. military during World War II. If Henrich had been able to play and post even “average” seasons during that span—let’s say 20 home runs and 85 RBIs per season—he would have finished his career with over 240 home runs and over 1,000 RBIs. Those are far more impressive numbers, especially within the context of Henrich’s percentages. For his career, Henrich compiled an on-base percentage of .382 and a slugging percentage of .491, both favorable numbers. On top of that, Henrich was a smart, disciplined hitter who walked nearly twice as often as he struck out. He also played a solid defensive right field, helping to form one of the great outfields in baseball history, teamed with Joe DiMaggio in center and the similarly overlooked King Kong Keller in left. Finally, let’s throw Henrich’s four world championship rings into the argument, and suddenly we have a far more viable candidate for the Hall of Fame.

I’m a firm believer that Hall of Fame candidates who lost playing time during the war deserve some kind of “war credit” for what they might have achieved. After all, these men often had no choice but to enlist in the military; many of them also felt a civic and patriotic duty to do so. Their responsibility and bravery should not be held against them. The crux of the matter is this: exactly how much war credit do we give these players for time lost in service? Each case varies, given the length of military service and the time that it occurred within a player’s career. In the case of Henrich, he enjoyed three of his finest seasons after the war, so it’s reasonable to assume that the three years he lost fell in the midst of what we should rightfully consider his peak or prime. That becomes a huge chunk of war credit, and perhaps it’s enough to put Henrich right on the Cooperstown village limits.

Beyond the Hall of Fame argument, Henrich has drawn plenty of praise for his solid standing as a teammate and his sterling reputation as an excellent player under pressure. He was widely known as “Old Reliable,” but I like his other nickname even more. He was occasionally called “The Clutch.” How cool is that? I can just hear one of today’s broadcasters saying, “The bases are loaded, the game is on the line, and hear comes ‘The Clutch.’ ” Henrich’s ability to produce in important situations has led some in the media to compare him to Derek Jeter, which is a reasonable comparison. I’ll offer another one. Henrich was Paul O’Neill without the footspeed. They both played the same position, both hit left-handed, both hit with similar levels of power. Of course, O’Neill is not a Hall of Famer, but he was an underrated player who was hugely important to the Yankee dynasty from 1996 to 2001. Henrich was a similarly underrated player who spread his contributions throughout the decade of the 1940s. And with that extra war credit, maybe he was a little bit better than O’Neill, maybe good enough to be knocking on the front door of the Hall of Fame…

(more…)

Here’s Tom Verducci’s Sportsman of the Year profile of Derek Jeter from the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. I like how he ends it:  “The great wonder is not that Jeter has won so much but that he has won so well. He is the good son, the good winner.”

Marco Scutaro, an appealing middle infielder who once hit a game-winning home run off Mariano Rivera, has signed a two-year deal to play shortstop for the Boston Red Sox. Scutaro was a featured player in the low-budget but winning 2004 documentary about life in the minor leagues, A Player to Be Named Later.

One of my favorites from one of my favorites:

If you haven’t seen this terrific piece by Jeanne Marie Laskas on concussions and the lasting effects of playing football, you should, it is outstanding:

On a foggy, steel gray Saturday in September 2002, Bennet Omalu arrived at the Allegheny County coroner’s office and got his assignment for the day: Perform an autopsy on the body of Mike Webster, a professional football player. Omalu did not, unlike most 34-year-old men living in a place like Pittsburgh, have an appreciation for American football. He was born in the jungles of Biafra during a Nigerian air raid, and certain aspects of American life puzzled him. From what he could tell, football was rather a pointless game, a lot of big fat guys bashing into each other. In fact, had he not been watching the news that morning, he may not have suspected anything unusual at all about the body on the slab.

The coverage that week had been bracing and disturbing and exciting. Dead at 50. Mike Webster! Nine-time Pro Bowler. Hall of Famer. “Iron Mike,” legendary Steelers center for fifteen seasons. His life after football had been mysterious and tragic, and on the news they were going on and on about it. What had happened to him? How does a guy go from four Super Bowl rings to…pissing in his own oven and squirting Super Glue on his rotting teeth? Mike Webster bought himself a Taser gun, used that on himself to treat his back pain, would zap himself into unconsciousness just to get some sleep. Mike Webster lost all his money, or maybe gave it away. He forgot. A lot of lawsuits. Mike Webster forgot how to eat, too. Soon Mike Webster was homeless, living in a truck, one of its windows replaced with a garbage bag and tape.

It bothered Omalu to hear this kind of chatter—especially about a dead guy. But Omalu had always fancied himself an advocate for the dead. That’s how he viewed his job: a calling. A forensic pathologist was charged with defending and speaking for the departed—a translator for those still here. A corpse held a story, told in tissue, patterns of trauma, and secrets in cells.