I went to see Avatar last night in 3-D IMAX because, well, when in Rome, right? It is a spectacle, a true epic in the tradition of Griffith and DeMille. The story is forgettable, the dialogue and acting border on camp it is so leaden (I laughed a lot at the corny lines), but who cares when you are witness to such a gluttony of wonderment? The movie feels fully-realized, as if James Cameron got exactly what he was looking for, and it is some accomplishment, in many ways remarkable. But I have to admit, after an hour, I got bored, and found the assault on the senses, tedious. There is so much to absorb, I became numb. Avatar is something to see, but I’m glad I don’t have to see it again.

The 3-D didn’t make me motion-sick, but it still took me a while to get used to the glasses. When it was over, I felt woozy, even ten minutes later when I got on the uptown IRT. Reading will settle me down, I thought, so I pulled out a splashy GQ story on former Colts wide reciever, Marvin Harrison. At first, the words hurt to look at, but I adjusted quickly enough.  The story comes out guns-ablazing. It is so full of adreneline that it picked-up where Avatar left off.

The writer, Jason Fagone, has done some crack reporting but he’s so infatuated with his angle that he muscles-up the prose and steamrolls the reader. It is like an Oliver Stone production, pounding away with self-importance:

Robert Nixon’s jeans are scuffed. His hands are folded in his lap. His glasses give him a sort of professorial, beatnik vibe—a pudgier version of Cornel West. He calls me “sir.” In fact, Nixon is deferential to the point of meekness until the moment I ask him about Pop’s murder. Does he think it was meant to send a message to any other potential witnesses? “Are you kidding?” Nixon says, startled. “Do you think it was a message?” Nixon shoots a look to his attorney, Wadud Ahmad, a powerfully built black man who is sitting in on our interview, and the two of them explode into howls of laughter, as if I just asked the dumbest question in the history of white people.

…Say this for Marvin Harrison: He tried to be his own person. He succeeded on a level that most of us can only dream of reaching. But he either never realized or flat-out denied the destabilizing effect of his presence in a poor and desperate part of the city. Much as he insisted that he was a normal working person like any other, he was never going to be seen that way. He was always going to be a target for the hopes, resentments, and ambitions of other people, a reality that rippled and swirled around him in unpredictable ways. And the proof is still there, scattered across the city, for anyone who cares enough to look.

The writer is aiming beyond The Best American Sports Writing–he’s writing for the Ages. Which is too bad because Fagone is talented, his reporting is crisp and he knows how to tell a story. But he undermines the narrative with his ambition and lack of restraint. It is as if he couldn’t help himself.

Hey, more is more, right?

This one is for the Old Man:

I don’t take any pleasure in watching the misghegoss in Queens. But really, there is no excuse for this–I mean, just what is the problem with the Mets? C’mon.

There is a big new biography out on Warren Beatty. I don’t know if I’ve got the umph to read the entire thing–I admire Beatty’s best movies, Bonnie and Clyde, McCabe and Mrs Miller, Shampoo, Reds, but I have never fully understood his appeal as a sex symbol.

Still, there is a plump excerpt of Peter Biskand’s biography in the current issue of Vanity Fair. In many ways, it is the ultimate Vanity Fair piece–high-class fluff that is not especially insightful but compulsively readable. The excerpt is about the disaster that is known as Ishtar. Amazingly enough, Dustin Hoffman comes across as the sane one.

We deliberately avoid blogging about politcs and religion in this space but it is virtually impossible for me to think about much else this morning than what is happening in Haiti. And that has nothing to do with either. Mr. OK Toyko Jazz passed along this website in case you are interesting in making a donation.  

I just wanted to take a moment to appreciate the devasting situation in Haiti and to all of our brothers and sisters who are suffering.

Death has been on my mind this week–today is the third anniversary of my father’s death, tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of Todd Drew’s passing, Diane’s father would have been 82. Art Rust Jr passed away yesterday and so did the legendary soul singer Teddy Pendergrass.

A moment of silence is in order followed by the overwhelming gratitude I have  for life, family, and love.

R.I.P. Art Rust Jr.

Art Rust Jr used to talk about sports on WABC radio when I was a kid. I loved his show, which was the first sports talk radio I remember hearing. One day, must have been in 1981 or ’82, I was home sick. I got to stay in my parents bed that afternoon. Nobody else was home. I listened to Art and was desperate to ask him a question. At the time, it seemed to me to be the most important question in the world: Will Reggie Jackson hit 500 home runs?

I dialed the number to the show on our red rotary-dial phone, over and over. Once I heard the busy signal, I hung up and started to dial again. Finally, the pattern was broken by a voice. “ABC: hold.” Then silence. I was startled, so I hung up. Only to realize that I had just blown it.

I never did get through again. But for years I listened to Art Rust Jr. I don’t recall much about him. I know he was a big boxing fan and his voice was knowing and assuring and made me feel safe and in good company.

How does it feel?

I’ve always loved Scorsese’s short from New York Stories because he pokes fun at himself through the obsessive mentor-muse relationship between Notle and Arquette.

Here’s another goof record, a sports comedy classic, featuring George Harrison on lead guitar, Carol King on the electric piano and Billy Preston on the organ:

That is what the Yankees apparently have left to spend on a second left fielder and according to Joel Sherman that makes bringing Johnny Damon back the longest of long shots. No real news here but I figured it’d give you guys some baseball stuff to schmooze about that doesn’t have to do with Big Mac. I like the idea of Reed Johnson, but really, I like most of the options that are being discussed because we are talking about a role player not a key figure. And if things fall apart, we know the Yanks can always swing a trade before the trading deadline in the summer…

Last night I got a call from one of the women I served jury duty with last summer. We’ve e-mailed occasionally but her computer was on the fritz and so she found my number and called to say hello. Funny how being on a grand jury for a month with complete strangers can forge a bond. We aren’t close friends but we like each other.

“I’m not rich, but I feel blessed,” she said. “I live paycheck-to-paycheck, I don’t do well saving, but I feel rich. Even more than people who have a lot of money. I’m happy. Do you know I came into work the other day and said good morning to a co-worker and she looked up at me and said, ‘What’s so good about it?’ I said, ‘You woke up, didn’t you? You have a job, right? You have your health?’ I mean, really. Sometimes I think people just like to be miserable.”

Last night my wife and I sat on the couch, facing each other and she told me about her day. We didn’t turn on the TV all night, a rarity. At one point, she showed me the cartoons from last weekend’s Week in Review section. I told her how those were the only cartoons we ever saw in my house growing up. She said they always got the Sunday Funnies and I told her the Times never had comics. I said maybe her parents got one of the tabloids.

“Can you see my parents reading a tabloid?”

“I’ll bet your mother grew up reading the Post.”

“What!?”

“Sure, it was a liberal paper back then. I’m sure they got the Post along with the Times. Maybe the Herald Trib too. Or the Journal-Amer–”

She burst out laughing.

“The Herald Trib?”

Laughing at me. In my face.

“Well, that’s what they called it,” I said, raising my voice in mock fury.

“Yeah, right. You are such a dork!”

“That’s what they called it!”

She curled into a ball as if to protect herself from attack and I picked up the phone and called her mother.

Her mom answered and Em and I took turns talking to her, laughing. She called it the Herald Tribune. But they read the Post in their house.

“See, I told you,” I said.

Emily spoke to her mom and her voice dropped, “Oh-no.”

Emily’s folks had to put down their dog in the morning, a fourteen-year old Dalmation. We stopped giggling and Emily’s voice became soothing and concerned. As childless parents, our two cats are like our kids. The thought of life without them is dreadful. I often day-dream about what will happen when Emily’s parents die, how I’ll feel when my mother dies. In two days it will be the third anniversary of my father’s death. And I think about when our cats will die until I force myself to think about something else.

This morning, I sent Emily’s parents an e-mail, letting them know that I was thinking about them. Em’s mom sat on a rug in the Vet’s office a few hours later and held her dog as it was put to sleep. 

Em and I talked about that tonight. The pain of losing loved ones. We talked about the shrine we’d make for our cats when they go. She was back on the couch. A re-run of The Office played in the background. I got up to get some some cereal. I found an unopened box and brought it into the living room and handed it to her.

“Why can’t you open it?” she said.

“Because…things…happen.”

“Oh, I don’t think opening it is the problem. I think it’s when you leave it on the counter all night, wide open so that you make sure that it gets completely stale. That’s the problem.”

She laughed at me again.

“Hey, listen,” I said, “I’m trying to be pro-active here, and what’s with the editorializing?”

“I figured it might work well in the Herald Trib.”

A pause. She scrunched into a fetal position and then filled the room with laughter.

Here’s a couple of humorous cuts from Disco Bill.

Unfortunately, my two favorites–What You Think ‘Bout Lickin’ My Chicken? and Boogie on Your Face–aren’t available. So these will just have to do:

Roger Angell was the first baseball writer I can remember. Actually, it was the two Rogers–Angell and Kahn–whose books were in my father’s collection, and sometimes–I’m sure I’m not alone here–I confused them. But when it came time to actually reading them and not just noticing the jacket cover of their books, Angell was my guy. Years later, when I started this blog, Angell served as a role model. Not because I wanted to copy his style or his sensibility, but because he was an example of fan who wrote well and loved the game.

So long as I was authentic and wrote with dedication and sincerity, I knew I’d be okay. Angell came to mind recently when I read a blog post by the veteran sports writer, David Kindred:

Bill Simmons is America’s hottest sportswriter. Fortunately, at the same time I came up with an explanation that enabled me to continue calling myself a sportswriter. Bill Simmons has succeeded because he is not, has never been, and will never be a sportswriter. He’s a fan.

Lord knows, there’s nothing wrong with being a fan. I love sports fans. Without the painted-face people, I’d be writing ad copy for weedeaters. But I have I ever been a sports fan. A fan of reporting, yes. Of journalism. Of newspapers. A fan of reading and writing, you bet. I am a fan of sports, which is different from being a sports fan of the Simmons stripe.
The art and craft of competition fascinates me. Sports gives us, on a daily basis, ordinary people doing extraordinary things and extraordinary people doing unimagined things. I love it.

But I have never cared who wins. I am a disciple of the Pulitzer Prize-winning sportswriter Dave Anderson, whose gospel is: “I root for the column.” We don’t care what happens as long as there’s a story.

My readings of Simmons now suggest he is past caring only about the Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Patriots winning (though if they all won championships in the same year, the book would be an Everest of Will Durant proportions). He now engages, however timidly, in actual reporting of actual events; he even has allowed that interviewing people might give him insights otherwise unavailable on his flat-screen TV. Clearly, though, he is most comfortable in his persona as just a guy talking sports with other guys between commercials – which is fine if, unlike me, you go for that guys-being-guys/beer-and-wings nonsense and have infinite patience for The Sports Guy’s bloviation, blather, and balderdash.

Even though Bill James has written almost exclusively about baseball, for traditional newspaper and magazine guys, I doubt that he’d qualify as a sports writer. Not without reporting, or going into the locker rooms. Then where does that leave guys like Joe Sheehan, Tim Marchman, Jonah Keri and Rob Neyer (to name, just a few)? They aren’t fans like Simmons, but they write soley about sports.

The definition of what it is to be a sports writer is changing.

I have done some freelance writing for SI.com, gone into the locker rooms and filed stories. I’ve also worked on longer bonus pieces too. I enjoyed both experiences because it gave me an appreciation for the rigors of journalism. I also came to realize that being a beat writer, for instance, is not a job for me–I’m too old and I don’t have that kind of hustle and I don’t care enough about where being a good beat writer would take me.

Nobody grows up dreaming of beinga  columnist anymore do they? I suspect they dream of growing up and writing, or blogging, so that they can be on TV.

Here at the Banter, I’m more like Simmons or Angell. I’m not a reporter or a columnist or an analyst, and I’m certainly no expert (I’m lucky to have a sharp mind like Cliff writing analytical pieces in this space). I think of myself as an observer. More than a strict seamhead, I write about what it is like to live in New York City and root for the Yankees. Often, I’m just as interested in writing about my subway ride home or the latest Jeff Bridges movie as I am about who the Yankees left fielder will be next year. Which makes the Banter more of a lifestyle blog than just a Yankee site, for better or worse.

So I’m no sports writer and that’s cool but I’m not sure what a sports writer is anymore.

…Oh, and along with Kindred, the inimitable Charlie Pierce has started a blog at Boston.com. Pierce is a welcome addition to the landscape. Be sure to check him out.

It was brick cold last night when I got off the subway, walked down the stairs to Broadway and then headed up the block to the bus stop. I kept my head down, my nose tucked into my scarf, as the wind cut through me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman with a cup in her hand standing outside of Dunkin Donuts.

Actually, I didn’t register her at all, just the outline of her form as I heard her say, “Can you spare a dollar?”

Walking quickly next to me, an older woman bundled in a winter coat, laughed and said, “The nerve, asking for a dollar.”

I look at her and nodded, not sure I liked where she was going. 

But she continued, “I remember when they used to say, ‘Can you spare some change?’ Now, it’s so specific.”

I said, “Spare a dollar thirty-five and a cup of coffee.”

She laughed and I thought about this classic bit:

Let’s Get Stoopid Week starts with Peter Sellers singing the Beatles:

Mark McGwire admits that he used steroids in a statement sent to the AP today:

I never knew when, but I always knew this day would come. It’s time for me to talk about the past and to confirm what people have suspected. I used steroids during my playing career and I apologize. I remember trying steroids very briefly in the 1989/1990 off season and then after I was injured in 1993, I used steroids again. I used them on occasion throughout the ’90s, including during the 1998 season.

I wish I had never touched steroids. It was foolish and it was a mistake. I truly apologize. Looking back, I wish I had never played during the steroid era.

Garry Wills pens a fine appreciation of David Levine, his longtime colleague at the New York Review of Books.

Levine was a man of high intelligence, wide reading, and solid artistic training. He composed, shaded, and drew with the eye of a practiced painter. But more than that, he had great psychological insight into his subjects.

The wife and I were on our way home Saturday night, riding the IRT back uptown to the Bronx. Two young, heavy-set women sat across from us with a stroller in front of them. One of the women drank a can of orange soda and played with her infant son; the boy gripped her fat fingers and laughed. The other woman tapped her cell phone and complained about how long it was going to take for them to get ready–showered and dressed–to go out.

“It’s nine o’clock, you gunna take forever to get your ass in gear. I don’t even know what I’m going to wear.”

The women chattered along–giggling and talking loudly like teenagers–and the child became restless.

“What are you bothering me for?” the mother said to him. “Why do you keep saying, ‘Papi’? Your father isn’t here.  Papi, Papi, Papi. I’m here. He’s not here. You want me to call him so you can talk to him? I brought you into this world, why you need to always bother me? I’m the boss. You do as I say.”

The Mrs and I were tucked into the two seats at the end of the car. We were distracted by the mother, our conversation halted. Finally, Emily turned to me and said, “Can we move?” I had been thinking about changing our seats for several stops. At 168th street, we moved to the next car.

It’s not about being judgemental it’s about comfort. If you can do something about it, why expose yourself to something that makes you uncomfortable, anxious or upset? Yeah, when I’m aware of it–and both Emily and I are exceedingly sensitive to this kind of thing–I don’t think, I just move.

Watch the closing doors.

Prince Moseph Green, chillin’ watching football.

Happy football and happy eating. Ya hoid?