Green Landscape, By Marc Chagall (1945)

Roots:

Those in the know understand that I’m talking about gefilte fish. And no, I’m not even going to post an image of the brownish grey lump of mashed whatever, cause I’ve got a heart. What I love is how gefilte fish  is traditionally served with a piece of carrot on top, as if that would salvage it–never mind the gelatin (shudder).

As kids, my brother, sister and I were expected to eat what was on our plate. Jewish side of the family, Catholic side of the family: same rules. At home, but especially when we were guests. I became a master at putting a spoonful of creamed spinach, or in Belgium, steak tartare, in my mouth and then gulping it down with a big swig of water. Fun, it was not.

There were two things that we were spared, however: lobster and gefilte fish. The former because it was too expensive and too good to be wasted on the likes of us who didn’t care for it, and the latter because, well, I guess because our elders had compassion.

But hey, that’s just me. I know some perfectly reasonable people who love gefilte fish. As for me, bring on the matzoh ball soup.

The 1970s featured some of the greatest films of all-time. On my list is Network, which starred Peter Finch, William Holden, Faye Dunaway, Robert Duvall and Ned Beatty, among others. I believe it’s one of the greatest of all-time in large part because it’s still relevant. The theme of ratings ruling success, damn the people responsible for creating the programming, hasn’t changed. Corporations who own the networks need a positive return on their investment. Money rules. Always has, always will.

Howard Beale, portrayed by Finch, who won an Oscar for the role, is a network anchor who is fired due to low ratings. Then, he is allowed to stay on the air and responds by announcing he’s going to kill himself on television during his final broadcast. The stunt, plus his famous rant, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” leads to huge ratings over the next two weeks, in which time the network exploits Beale’s insanity rather than take him off the air.

How does Howard Beale pertain the New York Yankees? Consider the case of Joba Chamberlain. The once-upon-a-time can’t-miss phenom has come full circle. He’s back in the bullpen for the 2010, where he’ll have to “earn” his spot as Mariano Rivera’s 8th-inning bridge. Or maybe he’ll pitch the seventh inning or be a swingman. Joe Girardi still doesn’t know.

Pitching coach Dave Eiland has told anyone who will listen that even in the event of an injury to starters ace through four, or mediocrity from Phil Hughes in the fifth spot, Joba will remain the bullpen. GM Brian Cashman called him a “starter who can relieve.” Joba is taking this like Cush from Jerry Maguire: “I just want to play baseball.”

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Pat Borzi has a post over at Bats about Joba Chamberlain’s Yankee future…as a reliever.

Man, it’s nippy in New York today.

Kicking off a week of countrified beats, let’s go back to the old school:

Dude, what happened to the spring? The sun is out but man, it’s winter cold again.

Might as well warm up with some of this:

Nude, by Amedeo Modigliani (1912)

Here is part two and three of Pat Jordan’s spring break piece for Deadspin (and here’s part one):

It was almost 2 a.m. now, and I decided to go back to the hotel to get some sleep so I’d be sharp for the wet t-shirt contest the following afternoon. I walked back toward the hotel and passed Molly Brown’s Ladies. I asked the guy at the door if they had any kids in there, figuring a strip club was too expensive a proposition for college kids. “Yeah, we got a lot,” he said. I smiled and said, “You got any age-appropriate chicks for me? Maybe 65, 68, but without aluminum walkers?” He did not laugh. I decided, what the hell, might as well go in, but he stopped me. “I don’t want you in here,” he said. I flashed him my Gawker/Deadspin letter, but it did no good. I let it drop and walked back toward my hotel, with two thoughts: No one will let me in anywhere, and kids on Spring Break today are different from the kids in Fort Lauderdale in the ’80s. The Lauderdale kids had no money and slept in their vans. These kids stay in hotels, go to strip clubs and nightclubs and bars that are expensive. The Lauderdale kids ate at McDonald’s, and if they were lucky enough to have the cash, they stayed 10 kids to a hotel room, which they destroyed. It’s the times. There’s no free lunch anymore. Only kids with cash and plastic get to play.

Roger Ebert recalls his drinking days over at Granta:

Above all we drank. It is not advisable, perhaps not possible, to spend very many evenings in a place like O’Rourke’s while drinking Cokes and club soda. Sometimes I attempted to cut back, by adopting drinks whose taste I hated (fernet branca) or those with low alcohol content (white wine and soda). Night after night I found these substitutes relaxed me enough to switch to scotch and soda. For a time I experimented with vodka and tonic. I asked Jay Kovar what he know about vodka ‘as a drink’. He said: ‘Sooner or later, all the heavy hitters get to vodka.’

The MAN:

With that fully formed mustache, Tom Brookens looks like a throwback to one of those tough Irish players of the 19th century. He also looks as ready as any infielder could possibly be on his 1990 Upper Deck card. As it turned out, Brookens had to be readier than most. He didn’t have much natural talent; he lacked a smooth swing, possessed little power, and had only average speed. In the absence of superior skills, Brookens compensated with an extraordinary work ethic and a high level of intelligence. Those qualities allowed him to last 12 seasons in the big leagues, while preparing him well for a second life as a coach and manager.

Originally drafted and signed by the Tigers’ organization, Brookens made it to the major leagues shortly after the arrival of Sweet Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammell, two fellow infielders who had come up through the Bengal system. Prized as prospects, they had far more ability than Brookens, forming one of the game’s best double play combinations for about a decade and a half. So Brookens settled for a role as a combination of semi-regular third baseman and utility infielder. He would play most of his games at third, but also be available to relieve Whitaker or Trammell at either of the up-the-middle positions.

Young third basemen often challenged Brookens along the way. There was Barbaro Garbey, who was once called the “next Roberto Clemente” by manager Sparky Anderson. Other prospects, like Howard Johnson and Darnell Coles, also received shots at the hot corner. They all had more talent than the incumbent, but Brookens outlasted all of them in a Tigers uniform. Even by the late 1980s, Brookens remained the Tigers’ No. 1 third basemen on the depth chart.

As far as third basemen go, Brookens was considered a subpar player, because of his inability to hit for either high average or power. But as a utility infielder, Brookens was regarded as one of the most accomplished role players in the game. Never complaining about his irregular role, the surehanded Brookens became a reliable defender, usually hit about .250, smacked an occasional home run, stole the odd base here and there, and gave Anderson the kind of versatility that every manager craves. By the end of his career, Brookens had played at least one game at every position, with the exception of left field and pitcher. If given the chance, he probably could have filled those slots, too.

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“Hot Tub Time Machine” is getting good reviews. Looks like it could be good for some cheap laughs (and is there a better kind of laugh than a cheap one?).

From A.O. Scott’s write-up in the Times:

“Hot Tub Time Machine” is the poignant story of three men, adrift in their 40s, who try to recapture the lost joys and squandered possibilities of their youth. I’m not entirely joking, though the movie itself is a nonstop barrage — somewhere between a riot and an orgy — of crude, obnoxious gags and riffs. If you are a connoisseur of sexual, scatological or just plain stupid humor, you will find your appetite satisfied, even glutted. But viewers of a certain age and background — let’s say those who know the lyrics to “Jesse’s Girl” by heart, even if they never really liked that song — are likely to endure the merry anarchy with a twinge of pained, slightly nauseated nostalgia.

…The undercurrent of misogyny and homophobic panic that courses through most arrested-development, guy-centric comedies these days is certainly present here. But unlike, say, “The Hangover,” which sweetens and sentimentalizes its man-child characters — allowing them to run wild and then run home to Mommy — “Hot Tub Time Machine” is honest in its coarseness and pretty tough on the fellows who are the agents and objects of its satire.

I’m downski.

Blue II By Joan Miro (1961)

Check out this great site if you’ve got the stomach. It’s about as depressing as it gets:

Scrolling through pictures of the wreckage, all I hear in my head is this tune:

Phil Hughes has been named the fifth starting pitching in the Yankees rotation. This report from the AP has the details.

Kalustyan’s:

Cheap it ain’t, but if you don’t feel like schlepping out to Queens, it’ll do the trick.