Media Blame Game and the Whitey Tipster

The drama involving the Icelandic tipster that helped the FBI finally land killer mobster James “Whitey” Bulger is one of those once-in-a-generation confluences of craziness. Naturally, the media had a field day.

But hopefully today marks the end of The Boston Herald’s jihad against the rival Boston Globe for outing the tipster that nailed Whitey and pocketed $2 million.

Like many, when I read the Globe expose Sunday, I wondered if they should have outed the tipster. Even as a Herald alum who loves my former paper, I worried one of Whitey’s pals – and he surely has some left – might scare her, stalk her or worse. I worried the media would have a field day chasing her down.

But some proper Globe explanation and the Herald’s overreach in its coverage has tempered my fears.

First off, it’s obvious to note that the Herald’s outrage was likely fueled by simply being beat. Ask any  honest editor or reporter if they would have printed it and the immediate answer would be, “Hell, yes.” Of course they would. And the Globe was absolutely right to do print it – in almost the way they did.

That is not to say the woman deserved to be outed. She didn’t. It’s a shame she was. “America’s Most Wanted” vet John Walsh, who knows something about tipsters and their impact on violent crime, is right that anonymous tipsters should have a right to privacy.

But the mistake wasn’t the Globe’s or the media’s.

Within hours of Whitey’s arrest, word leaked from law enforcement sources that the tipster came from Iceland. The minute any good journalist knew the tipster was a person from Iceland (a land of just 318,000 – who knew?) who had spent time in Santa Monica, it was only a matter of time before the Globe’s intrepid lead Whitey reporter, Shelly Murphy, tracked the woman down.

So the outrage should be pointed at the leaking feds, first and foremost.

In fairness, the Globe should have done a better job at telling the story behind the story before the controversy hit. It’s fair to say that, once Whitey (and most of the woman’s neighbors and friends) learned the tipster was from Iceland, he figured out exactly who it was. And it is important that the feds didn’t warn off the Globe when they were told of the paper’s plans.

Could they have made more effort to speak to the tipster? Possibly. The tipster was clearly blowing off the reporter in Iceland – twice – so she couldn’t have reasonably done more. But if, as it seems, the Globe had her email address, why not send her an email or letter from Globe editor Marty Baron? Would that have worked in getting her to speak? Probably not. But it would have shown the Globe went far beyond reasonable means to track her down, give her a chance to speak and warn her that the story was coming.

As Dan Kennedy and others noted, the Globe should have explained their rationale as the story was published – either in the paper edition Sunday or online. The New YorkTimes and other media are doing a great job of authoring compelling ‘story behind the story’ pieces online and as subscriber-only content. Sure, they are mostly for news geeks like me and my kind but they help set a historical record of historic pieces of journalism – and follow the wise PR strategy of getting out ahead of your critics.

Lessons learned on all sides. It won’t help the poor woman in Iceland fending off TMZ and nosy neighbors (and hopefully not worse). But don’t blame the Globe for good journalism.

Scott Brown's Revealing "Thank God" Non-Gaffe

We all know that a gaffe in politics is when a politician gets caught telling the truth. But the gaffes that stick are when candidates for high office do or say something that fulfills a notion that the media covering them desperately want to expose as a character flaw.

The best example in my time covering politics was the infamous Howard Dean scream the night he won the Iowa primary. I had covered the Vermont Governor’s rise from obscurity to frontrunner and, like many, had sensed the quirks in his personality. So when Dean appeared to become unhinged on stage, the media (my paper included) played it up – big time.

This has happened in politics countless times (Muskie’s tears, Michael Dukakis’ frigid answer to Bernie Shaw's rape question). So now it appears to be Scott Brown’s turn.

Fair or not, many in the media – and public – have seen Brown as a genuine good guy who is simply in way over his head. They believe the populace was charmed more by his barn coat, rugged looks and pickup than by his positions, stances and intellect.

Brown gifted to that crowd the “Thank God” moment yesterday, responding to Democratic front-runner Elizabeth Warren’s joke that she didn’t have to pose naked for Cosmo to help pay for her college education. The critics have pounced and blamed this as proof of Brown’s “frat house humor.” The media played happily along – in part because it’s just plain fun and politics is personality – but also because it drives home a part of Brown’s personality they have wanted to showcase.

Surely the Brown Brigades will cry media bias and try to utilize the clever but not-so-convincing spin that this somehow showcases elitism by Warren, the Harvard Law professor. That, for now, appears to be an overreach. Of course, it could lay the groundwork for a time when Warren does slip – and the media can turn the tables on her the same way.

For now, keep in mind another so-far ignored political tidbit in all this: Brown’s gaffe – intended or not – may just appeal to one key demographic in this election. Call them the former frat boys, NASCAR Dad’s, the Man Cave set or whatever you’d like but men of a certain persuasion, certain age and certain ideological bent were key to Brown’s tide of independent vote-getting in toppling Attorney General Martha Coakley. It was no accident Brown spent more time on sports talk radio than NPR – and it wasn’t just because they lobbed softball questions.

Is that proof the critics of Brown’s comment are right? Possibly. But is Brown crazy like a fox? The jury’s still out.

For now, I’m calling this gaffe what it seems to be – something that cuts both ways for Warren, Brown and the media.

Get in the Race – Or Get Out

There are key moments in the delicate rhythm of any political campaign - predictable moments like debates, big speeches, fundraising deadlines and even some polls. Those moments must be seized, harnessed and, with a bit of luck and skill, capitalized upon.

That is why the performances of the non-Elizabeth Warren Democratic candidates for U.S. Senate in Massachusetts in last night’s Boston Herald-UMass Lowell debate were so befuddling. Waking up today and seeing the Herald splash of “Bravo” to the Harvard Law professor and the Globe saying frontrunner Warren “stood firm,” must have been heartbreaking for the other five candidates remaining in the primary field.

But while they’re all surely blaming the media for ignoring their fine moments – and, truth be told, there were a few – they truly only have themselves to blame.

This applies more to candidates who actually have a shot, namely Alan Khazei and, to a lesser extent, Bob Massie and Tom Conroy. The moment passed and you let it pass. It’s time to get in the race or get out.

Let’s face it: the media likes a simple storyline. They are spread far too thin these days to be able to care about much more. Warren v. Brown is easy – it’s Democrat v. Republican, liberal v. conservative, Obama ally v. Obama critic, even man v. woman.

Very simply, one of these candidates is going to have to stand in front of the freight train that is becoming the Warren campaign or she will roll right into the general election matchup with Senator Scott Brown that she and her handlers so want.

Does this mean that they need to go negative? Of course not, though the time may come for that if they are within striking distance. The goal now is to stay afloat, to stay viable and to stay competitive at least into 2012.

How? Draw out differences and shatter the inevitability cloak surrounding Warren.

City Year co-founder Khazei and former lieutenant governor candidate Massie probably have the best odds there. Khazei and Warren clearly disagree on President Obama’s jobs bill. Khazei let the moment pass last night but he ought to be out there today drawing that distinction, making the case for his plan over hers and taking the fight to Warren as best he can.

Massie, like Khazei, has rejected political action committee donations – which Warren, to date, has not. Either or both candidates should be trying to widen that gulf and showcase Warren as the creature of the Democratic special interests while they represent the voice of the grassroots.

Are these issues enough to topple Goliath? Surely not. But they will allow at least two of the Davids to fight another day.

With fundraising reports for the latest quarter out soon, expectations are that Warren may well blow away her competitors in that key media measuring stick. Newton Mayor Setti Warren’s hasty retreat will only act like chum in the water for a media only too eager to write a few more political obituaries.

It’s up to the challengers now. They missed the first big moment last night, to their detriment and Warren’s clear gain. There aren’t many more moments like that left before they become afterthoughts and also-rans.

It's 9/11 and I remember

I published this two years ago today, can't say it any better now.

It's 9/11 and I remember.

It’s 9/11 and, more than anything, I remember two friends – Dennis Mulligan and Mike Lynch.

Dennis and Mike were two firefighters among the 343 who died this day six years ago.

They were two among the 2,974 who died as a result of the attacks. They were two friends.

It feels strange now to call them friends, especially when so many knew them so much more than I did and since they’ve been profiled on CNN, in the New York Times and beyond. I Googled them one year on the anniversary and some random guy with a blog carries around a scrap of paper with Dennis Mulligan’s name on it. He never knew him, never met him. But Dennis personifies the brave firefighters and cops who ran into the buildings when everyone else was running out. Pretty amazing.

But to me, Dennis and Mike were pals, guys I played soccer with in high school, had a few too many beers with beyond and who I saw too infrequently – like so many others – once I moved to Boston and left the Bronx behind.

Dennis was 32 that day, assigned to Ladder 2. He had the day off but he jumped on the ladder truck anyway. Mike Lynch was 30 that day, assigned to a rotation on Engine 40. He was due to marry his longtime girlfriend two months later.

So many of my friends are cops and firefighters in New York that I had a nagging feeling one or more of them might have died on 9/11. It took a few days for me to get word about Mike and Dennis. And I’ve thought of them and their families many, many days since.

Today is their day. It’s a cliché but, as so often, clichés are clichés because they are truisms repeated too many times. 9/11 is about remembering them and the thousands of others like them.

It’s 9/11 and I remember.

History ... now and 146 years ago

One hundred and forty-six years ago, a son of Auburn, New York, sat in the White House as Abraham Lincoln shared for the first time his draft of the Emancipation Proclamation.

William Seward, a former Senator and opponent of Lincoln’s for the presidency two years before, wasn’t entirely sure of the bold action Lincoln was about to take – even though Seward was a strong abolitionist and helped Harriet Tubman settle in Auburn near his home. Still, the minute it was done and Lincoln freed the slaves, Seward – who, with Tubman, is the most honored resident of Auburn to this day – heartily defended his president and the decision that would echo through the ages.

Some of my ancestors were in Auburn at the time, likely toiling in the factories that have since peeled away most of their jobs – recent immigrants from Italy, Germany, and Ireland. Lord knows how they felt then.

But I know today, when I turned this morning to my 2-year-old son and told him we were voting for Obama and he smiled and yelled, “O-VAHma!”

Tonight, not three generations later, there’s a darn good chance we’ll be electing our first black President of the United States.

What a difference three generations makes.

We’ve lived through two World Wars, Korea, Vietnam and both Iraqs. My grandparents did the Great Depression, my parents ushered in the Baby Boom. We’ve helped elect a Catholic but couldn’t quite get a Cuomo. We went from high school grads with blue collars to expecting grad school or beyond.

But today, today is one of those moments where the plates shift, the earth moves and something truly historic happens.

I am proud of my roots in Auburn and the act that William Seward helped write and usher in. I can’t imagine whether he would have imagined today coming – even these long, 146 years later. When I started voting just 20 years ago, I know I couldn’t have imagined it.

Admittedly, I was a Hillary guy in the primary and a McCain guy in 2000. I was slow to drink the Kool-Aid on this guy for reasons of experience, not heritage or race. But I saw McCain run like Bush Lite and Obama take the economic crisis and become a true leader. I had no misgivings casting my ballot and thought not a bit about race.

But now, in the quiet before the polls close and history may become real, it’s a good time to reflect on that 146 year journey from owned property to, very likely, leader of the free world. Far too long for most and far too painful a journey to be sure.

As has been quoted a lot lately, “Rosa sat so Martin could walk, Martin walked so Obama could run, Obama ran so our children can fly.”

I saw it in the eyes of Jake this morning – he didn’t care a bit that we were making history. But he was psyched to be a part of it.

And so am I.

Here's Why You Buy the Paper

I have more than a few co-workers, friends and relatives who have given up on the printed newspaper. How many times have we all heard it, "Why should I buy it when I can get it free online?" This is typically followed by the plea, "And your fingers don't get all inky when you read it online."

Well, the second argument hasn't been valid for the better part of a decade, since newsprint and printing presses improved.

The first one? Some days it is hard to argue with. I realize I'm old school and like to actually flip through the real thing. I like to see the story placement, the front page mix, the layout, the design. I know too that you miss the graphics quite often online and much more.

I do still read online sometimes. Even I admit, it's often easier for the lazyman in me. This morning, I was dog tired and the kids got up too early so while they lounged with a half hour of morning cartoons, it just seemed easier for me to pop open the computer than wander onto the porch to see if the papers had arrived.

Today I went Globe first and scanned the headlines for anything I had to care about, then went on to things I just cared about. Never in the mix was a story simply listed under local news under the header "A healing touch."

Why would it be? It just smelled to me like a sappy feature about a nurse or a doctor or a professional healer. Either way, I'd probably seen it before, I figured, and moved on to reading about John Edwards and paternity tests.

A half-day later, when I hit the mid-afternoon lull of quiet around here, Heidi tossed the Globe Metro section my way and said, "You have to read that." As soon as I saw the front page of the section, I knew I would have even if she hadn't drawn my attention to it. The picture with the story was killer - an elderly man curled up in a hospital bed next to an elderly woman. It drew me right in, along with the story's sub-headline, "Auburndale man uses hugs, kisses to cope, help bring his wife back from the grip of Alzheimer's."

Those two minor things separated a story I was happy to read from one I was happy to skip.

Sure, all of this met me just now when I clicked on the link on the Globe website. But I never got there from the simple header in the morning. The difference between figuring out you want to read "A healing touch" on the main page here and reading this story on its own page here is stunning.

Can this be fixed? Of course. The Globe and other papers have done a lot to try to replicate the in your hands experience online. The local news tab of the Globe offers another avenue for web layout to showcase good stories and good photos. Unfortunately, today's local news page features a photo from the Vineyard story from Metro front - not a bad story, but not the showcase feature as the true news editors who lay out the print edition intended.


The Globe is good at putting a PDF of the front page on its opening page so you can see how the paper looked. That's great. But why not do it for Metro front, Arts, Sports, etc.? I think the Herald completely dropped this feature from its page, which is a shame because some days the Herald page one is a work of art - to wit this week's "Vote for Change" splash about the nickle and dime stealing pol running for reelection.


There was a period when papers tried to reproduce every page online so you could digitally flip through the paper. I always thought that was a good idea, but I guess it didn't really catch on. A quick search tonight didn't find the links to that kind of feature at the major local dailies or the Times. Correct me if I'm wrong, please.


So if you didn't read the story about the Alzheimer's husband, take a minute, click the link above and read it. And, next time, go out and buy the damn thing, will ya?

Billy Joel’s New Heir

I always felt like Billy Joel epitomized that great crooner oddity – that all the ladies, and I mean all of them, love guys who sing. Walking down the street, Billy the Kid wouldn’t get a second glance from women, let alone good looking women … let alone Christie Brinkley.

But the guy sings how she’s got a way, belts out that she ought not go changing to try to please him or how the boys will all go down together and suddenly hot chicks get weak-kneed. This is all well-worn territory and Billy certainly has his company (I’m talking to you Mssrs. Springsteen, Jagger, Bowie and Bono). But Billy always stood out most to me as the best example.

But there is a new heir: Chris Martin of Coldplay.

This guy is all Brit, through and through. He’s got the accent, the lanky frame, the moody affect. But there he is, married to Gwyneth with a kid named Apple and all the ladies – all the ladies – loving him.

I saw Coldplay Monday night and there were honestly moments of screeching young ladies where I felt like I was in Shea Stadium with the lads from Liverpool 43 Augusts ago instead of the Garden with the newest British import. They were absolutely swooning. And one of my good friends, with no prompting whatsoever, leaned over to me about three songs into the show and said, “You know, I think I can see why everyone thinks he’s good looking.” She certainly wasn’t alone.

I thought, “Right, that white afro and five-day growth really does it for the ladies these days.”

But I watched, and I learned. Give the man his due, he is quite a performer, a great singer and very engaging. And I will give full credit that Chris Martin knows he’s ugly, he even went on a riff at the show when they played an acoustic number in the crowd, saying, in effect, we aren’t as pretty up close are we?

Do I have a man crush? No. Maybe on Bruce and Bono but I draw the line when the guys get downright homely, sorry.

I am just jealous? Well, other than the fact that I love my wife and wouldn’t trade her for Gwyneth, Christy or anyone else, you betcha.

But that’s not the point. The point is, well, wait, what was the point? The point is, I see through you Chris Martin, I know your game. I’m on to you. And I’m just glad Heidi couldn’t make it to the show Monday. You can have all the rest of them.

Soundtrack Blashphemy

Now, I'm not exactly a child of the 60s - though I suppose I was conceived then, but that's a story I don't even want to know. Still, there are some 80s-60s movies that are somewhat sacrosanct to me - "Platoon" being one, "The Big Chill" being another.

I think I liked The Big Chill for the college friendships, the great lines ("I'm going to wash my hair and puke." "Puke first").

But it was also the music. My dad got the soundtrack and it turned me on to Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Otis and even the great one-hitters of the day, Procol Harem. But there was one scene in the film and one song I loved that didn't make it on - I always figured the Stones felt they were too good for it - that was "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Great song, perfectly used in the movie.

"And now," the priest says at the funeral of Alex (bonus point, who played the dead Alex?) "Karen Bowan, an old college friend of Alex's will play one of Alex's favorite songs." She strides to the organ and blasts out the chorus - much to the amusement of friends in the audience. But the film moves it right into the acoustic opening and on into the song. Perfect for the scene. Etched into my memory to this day.

So you can imagine my horror last night when I saw the attempt to have it used, ridiculously, to the same effect in "21." All in all, an average movie, the book, "Bringing Down the House," was great. But just as the movie made-up storyline of Harvard Med comes to pass, in comes that same acoustic guitar.

Now I don't blame the Stones, they can use the money, I'm sure. I blame the director. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but this is Hollywood theft and, to me, soundtrack blasphemy. Sure, the Stones sold out to car ads years ago and the song even ended up in the show 'House' at one point. But a movie, with the same acoustic opening at a key part in the plot, shamefully non-inspired.

Hey, you might say, Procol Harem was used in "The Commitments" and "The Big Chill," same song, "A Whiter Shade of Pale." But in truth, I don't even remember what scene it was used in during "The Big Chill," but I do in "The Commitments" - so what's that tell you? And "The Commitments" used it in an inspired scene (can't beat a priest joking about vestal virgins leaving for the coast).

So there you have it, a good reason to blow off "21" - that and, well, it isn't nearly as good as the book.

As you were.

4th of July, Asbury Park

Two days from now, DJs around the states will cue up a lot of trashy Independence Day songs. One you will be lucky to stumble upon is the one I always love to hear driving around in the summer - the 4th and beyond - with the window down ... "4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)."

It's just got that feel, the boardwalk, the sights and sounds. And it's got the characters, led front and center by Madam Marie, the fortune teller I didn't know was real until I saw her myself my first trip down to Asbury. I figured, like most, I'm sure, that she was as made up as Sandy was, a device or a fake name for the real fortune teller who might dare to tell fortunes better than the cops do.

Anyway, it's a great song and a great image.

Thanks to my good buddy Tronz, I learned that Madam Marie died the other day, 94 years old. The Asbury Park Press had a great little obit. Even better, I found the last interview she did, also in the Press. In that interview a couple years ago, she talks about a punk kid named Springsteen who used to come by and, as the story goes, she predicted would become famous one day. It's a great read ... and a good reason we should invest in local newspapers (imagine a blogger trying to get an interview with a 90-year-old Jersey lady who'd been telling fortunes on the boardwalk since the 1930s?).

Anyway, Marie is gone. The boardwalk probably too, maybe even Asbury Park. But the song will live and the tales will probably get taller as time passes. But that's what's great about music and storytellers like Springsteen, the legends are sometimes better than the real thing.

Speaking of which, I wandered by Marie a couple times the two days I spent down the Asbury Park boardwalk. I never went in though. First, fortune tellers really creep me out. But more importantly, I think I knew the legend would be better than the real thing.

Here's to Marie, to Sandy, to Bruce and the song.

Happy 4th.

UPDATE: Bruce posted on his own blog, check it out here. Among other things, he says "She always told me (my future) looked pretty good - she was right." Indeed.

It's 9/11, and I remember

It’s 9/11 and, more than anything, I remember two friends – Dennis Mulligan and Mike Lynch.

Dennis and Mike were two firefighters among the 343 who died this day six years ago.
They were two among the 2,974 who died as a result of the attacks. They were two friends.

It feels strange now to call them friends, especially when so many knew them so much more than I did and since they’ve been profiled on CNN, in the New York Times and beyond. I Googled them one year on the anniversary and some random guy with a blog carries around a scrap of paper with Dennis Mulligan’s name on it. He never knew him, never met him. But Dennis personifies the brave firefighters and cops who ran into the buildings when everyone else was running out. Pretty amazing.

But to me, Dennis and Mike were pals, guys I played soccer with in high school, had a few too many beers with beyond and who I saw too infrequently – like so many others – once I moved to Boston and left the Bronx behind.

Dennis was 32 that day, assigned to Ladder 2. He had the day off but he jumped on the ladder truck anyway. Mike Lynch was 30 that day, assigned to a rotation on Engine 40. He was due to marry his longtime girlfriend two months later.

So many of my friends are cops and firefighters in New York that I had a nagging feeling one or more of them might have died on 9/11. It took a few days for me to get word about Mike and Dennis. And I’ve thought of them and their families many, many days since.

Today is their day. It’s a cliché but, as so often, clichés are clichés because they are truisms repeated too many times. 9/11 is about remembering them and the thousands of others like them.

It’s 9/11 and I remember.

Good luck, Sully

Good luck.

It was always what I remember Paul Sullivan saying at the end of a conversation - light or heavy or in between: “Good luck.”

It’s what he said after we first met him for what I later figured out was a job interview back in 1998. It’s what he said when he finally hired me. It’s what he said when he offered up any of thousands of news tips when he was political editor and I was State House Bureau Chief of The Sun (“Lowell’s great newspaper, 15 Kearney Square.”)

It always seemed a strange way to end a conversation. Luck? How much of this dance we call life is really about luck, anyway? But for Paul Sullivan, you had to believe in luck.

He would hide behind luck as one of his many masks. It wasn’t hard work and good reporting that got him this great news tip, it was luck. It couldn’t have been hard work and performance that landed him his dream job at WBZ radio, it was luck. It couldn’t have been his magnetic personality, quick wit or charm that gave him a great family and friends, it was luck.

I always liked to be in the room when someone “important” met Sully for the first time. It was kind of a blast watching them try to figure this guy out. He wasn’t your typical pol and he wasn’t your typical media blowhard. As he said in a clip I heard replayed today, when he hit, he tried to hit with a pillow, not a nail. That’s rare, in media and in politics.

I met Paul Cellucci with him, met John McCain with him, even George W. Bush with Sully. All were immediately wooed by Paul’s sense of Everyman. They felt like they had an ally in Paul, even if they didn’t (and would soon learn in print). For Sully, sort of like luck, charm usually won out.

We shared many meals, typically breakfast up in Lowell or on the campaign trail in New Hampshire. Sometimes dinner, once even with wives – of course, the wives loved him more than even we did (he and Heidi had some bizarre connection over Three Stooges episodes).

As when anyone dies who you know and love, I’ve been thinking a lot these past few days of the last time I saw Paul Sullivan. It was in July, on Charles Street in Boston. He had a scar from the top of his head to his neck and a smile still plastered on his face. He was full of cheer, eager to hear what was up at the State House and in Massachusetts politics – probably looking for a story.

He told me what he told everyone. He was doing great, he had the easy part compared to doctors and family. He said it wasn’t fatal but couldn’t be cured. I think he, and we, all knew better. But this was Sully, after all, anything was possible. And he was lucky.

“Good luck,” he said, walking down Charles Street toward MGH as I walked up toward the State House.

Sully, it was good knowing you and I’m lucky to have had the friendship, the mentorship and, more than anything, the laughs.

You are on your own path now, entertaining those in the great beyond and, finally, feeling no more pain. Thank God for that.

Those of us whose lives you touched are thankful, and will eternally be thankful. I’m certain I speak for his friends, family, listeners and admirers when I say, good luck, Paul Sullivan.

Good luck.

My Day with The Left-Turn Loonies

At the risk of flooding Guarino-Blog with a wave of hate mail and some Patricia Cornwall-esque cyber stalking, I need to say this: I have now been to my first, and last Nascar event.

I think my brother-in-law said it best walking out of the Charlotte speedway, “That was a once in a lifetime experience – truly.”

This is not to say we didn’t have fun, it was a hoot. It was a slice of Americana that I’d always been vaguely fascinated and perplexed about but always wanted to see. I saw it. I’m done.

The experience started before race day. We flew to Charlotte on Saturday of Memorial Day weekend for a visit with the wife’s sister, who moved there two years ago. Charlotte , by the way, is a beautiful place and I truly can see why so many northerners are moving there (that’s a post for another time, though).

So we left the kids with their grandparents for the night and headed out to what was, no surprise, called “Speed Street” – an all-night street fair in downtown … no, wait, Uptown Charlotte. Cheap Trick was playing at one end, some country band at the other and in between was a mass of drunk southerners downing Buds and eating massive turkey legs … literally just holding on to the bone. Good times.

I downed a few beers myself and must say I truly enjoyed the fried Twinkie and fried Three Musketeers the wife and I shared. It was like nothing you’d see up here, and that’s a shame. Once you got past the shock of it, it was a rousing good time.

Race day had us tailgating by like 1 in the afternoon, which wasn’t early enough for me or my brother-in-law but we made up for lost time by enjoying some tasty beers and truly fantastic grilling by Jeff and his buddy Josh. It was so hot that me and Josh’s wife, Jodi, and their friend, Maura, huddled under the one sun umbrella and finally broke out their actual rain umbrellas to use as parasols. Yes, there’s a picture out there somewhere of me with the umbrella parasol and a beer in my hand. Truly, that’s as un-Nascar moment as they come.

The race started at 5:30 I think but we got in early enough to find our seats in the massive stadium (170,000, I was told). We of course were right smack in the sun so I grabbed massive lemonade and settled in. There was a military tribute – complete with fighter jets and attack helicopters that were damn cool. LeAnn Rimes performed the national anthem and the entire cast of the Fantastic Four was there (yes, I saw Jessica Alba but Michael Chiklis wasn’t dressed as The Thing).

Then it was time for “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

The race was cool, at first. The cars went flying by and were so loud I actually did pop in the earplugs Jeff had brought. But while the pole allowed you to know which numbered car was in which place, once the lead cars lapped the losers in the back, the race was pretty much impossible to follow without a TV in front of you (which, yes, some people had).

The thing that convinced me not to go back, though, was the crowd – pretty much everything you’d imagine and worse. The women behind us – yes, women – had brought in about 40 plastic containers filled with little jello shots. By the second hour of racing, the guys around us were doing the shots off the women’s chests. And let’s just say that even a single guy there really shouldn’t have been glad to see these "women" in bikinis. I'd compare it to the scene in Return of the Jedi with Lea and Jabba the Hut, but this time Jabba was in the bikini. It burned my eyes.

One of them decided to join the guys behind them in tossing water on the crowd, which felt nice at first and then Jeff rightly remarked, "I hope that isn’t urine," and I suddenly hated it. Thankfully, someone else in the crowd did too and, within minutes, about four different law enforcement/security entities converged and the chicks were gone … one was apparently hauled off in cuffs. That was followed by two batches of guy fighting with their shirts off … nice and sweaty.

At about three hours into the race, we all looked at each other and wondered why they were only half-way through the 400 laps. We stuck around for another 50 or so laps and then called it quits – and we were exhausted.

For me, it’s not so much a cultural thing, it’s an annoyance thing. I’ll admit it, I don’t like to watch Sox/Yankees games from the Fenway bleachers, it was truly not a good experience to sit in the blue seats atop Madison Square Garden for a Rangers game, and I don’t like the crowd at Nascar.

Not to worry Nascar fans, it’s not you, it’s me. I must be crazy not to think un-showered guys with mangy beards and mullets are sexy, that fat women in bikinis truly get the motor running and that six hours of watching cars take left turns is major league excitement.

My bad.

3:30 of rock genius

So I was driving in to work this morning and, as I often do when extreme measures need to be taken in my life, I turn to raw, loud music for a brief escape. I had the window down along the ocean and up onto my iPod mix came "Porch" by Pearl Jam.

It was 3 minutes, 30 seconds of pure joy ... pure rock genius, really.

If you are a fan of the rock and the roll and don't know Porch, I do recommend checking it out. It is a modern classic, Pearl Jam at their very best. And, unlike many, it's actually the reason I started liking and then loving Pearl Jam.

It was watching MTV's great old show "Unplugged" that did it. I had heard of these guys Pearl Jam, liked "Alive" enough (until I found out what it was about, that is) and saw enough of "Jeremy" on MTV to make me think they might be legit. So, this being the late college days of 1992, I had nothing better to do ... so I tuned in when they played "Unplugged."

Legend has it they taped the show at midnight one night at a studio in Queens. That's cool. Anyway, they put on a great set and Porch was toward the end, as it was then and always should be.

I didn't know the song before so was a bit shocked at the bleep Eddie Vedder got at the first lyric....

"What the fuck is this world, running to ..."

I thought, boy, I could like this song. And it went from there. With each, "oh," as the song built, it just gets better. There is a long instrumental break in the middle and this was the show Eddie, standing on the little stool they'd given him, grabbed a sharpie and decided to write on his arm in huge letters "PRO CHOICE." Cool moment, but nothing for what came after ... the crescendo kicks in,

"Hear my name, take a good look/This could be the day/Hold my hand, lie beside me/I just need to say/I could not take a-just one day/I know when I would not ever touch you/hold you/feel you/in my arms...never again...Yeah...
Yeah...
Yeah...

Great, great rock and roll.

Perhaps surpassed a few short years later. April 10, 1994. They'd found Kurt Cobain's body two days before and this was only the second show Pearl Jam had played since then. They skipped the memorial service to play the show, almost cancelled. And Ed said a couple times he thought they shouldn't play. But they did, and they blew the doors off the old barn.

Again, Porch was the climax ... and Eddie was slamming the microphone stand down so hard at one point (I think it was Porch), that he smashed a hole in stage floor - and then jumped through it to end the song. Wow.

Shame they fell down in subsequent years. If they could have bottled this, I'd still be hooked. Now, it's left to the random song like this that I remember the once-greatness. Sad, but still great. Thanks boys.

Oh, and if you want to watch it, here's a couple things you need to see. First is the video of the Unplugged set. I can't find just Porch, but this is the whole show. And then this is a great live video of Porch that shows Eddie at his best at the famed Pink Pop festival in 92. Very nice stage diving.

Living Large at Casa Guarino

So the Guarinos have treated themselves pretty well lately, and, right about now, it feels nice.

Thanks to a sweet offer, we dumped the hard lines and got wifi, allowing me to sit in my overstuffed chair, in the flannel, blogging with my feet on the ottoman. Nice indeed.

The bigger reason for my joy is that Heidi is just a great wife. See, we decided last year to change the nature of our wedding anniversaries a bit - opting to change the gift for him and gift for her stuff to a gift for us. We figured birthdays, xmas, Mother's/Father's Day gave us enough alone gifts - we wanted treats we could both enjoy.

Last year, for anniversary four, we bought a big ole bed. No comments, please. This year, Heidi somehow let me talk her into a 37-inch HD for our fifth anniversary (by the way, it's noted that you didn't send a card, I'm keeping a list).

But, oh the glory of it. Now I sit, on said chair, with said ottoman, blogging on the wifi, watching the Sox/Yanks in HD beauty from The Stadium. I don't even really care that the Sox are losing.

My question is this - what have they been doing wrong all these years with the TVs? I mean, HD just takes things to a level that I, for one, couldn't quite imagine before. Just how cheap and poorly made were those old screens and tubes? The answer is obvious, but still a bit troubling considering how much we all sank into TVs, VCRs, DVDs, etc.

But the past is where it belongs. My future involves some ice cream and the DVR'd two-hour finale of "24" we still haven't watched as soon as the wife finishes up a phone call. Time to ditch the computer. Wifi doesn't come with ice cream cleanup yet.

Yet.

Good times, good times.

Early Ouchies Hurt Too

All this talk about the early, early presidential campaign has clearly gotten to John McCain.

He must be laughing at the pundits who say the mere fact that the campaign started a year too early meant it would be a bit more tempered, a bit more sedate through these 'tween months leading up to the fireworks late this year in advance of the January primary fiesta. Today, McCain put the hard in hard-chargin'.

This courtesy of ABC's "The Note," now providing an early look at tomorrow's news with a "Sneak Peek" feature.

In a phone conference with conservative bloggers, McCain all but unloaded on former Gov. Mitt Romney. No, strike that, he unloaded. The topic, of all things, immigration ... that long-predicted third rail of the 08 cycle. McCain was asked about Romney's new ads criticizing the immigration reform bill McCain is championing in the Senate, ABC reported.

"Maybe I should wait a couple weeks and see if it changes," McCain said of Romney’s position on immigration. "Maybe he can get out his small varmint gun and drive those Guatemalans off his yard."

Wowchie, that's an ouchie.

Will early ouchies hurt? Yes, yes they will. I think the problem with conventional wisdom on this stuff right now is that people - not all of them, but the ones who vote in primaries - are paying attention. And this kind of critique does a great job not just of cutely reminding folks that Romney is a phoney hunter and that Romney had illegal immigrants mowing his lawn but it does a phenominal job of reinforcing the growing national consensus that Romney is completely full of crap.

So, for those of us who love a little bare-knuckled politics with their heaping portions of policy, I say bring it on.

Spidey's Lemon?

Ok, file this one under: This is why I’m glad and kinda freaked out by what I get in my Google alerts.

So I’m looking through my guilty-pleasure U2 alert and find a reference to U2 (or Bono and The Edge, anyway) working on a soundtrack for a Spider Man musical in New York .

Check it out, here at something hysterically called superherohype.com.

This could mean one or all of three things.

1. U2 are about to get involved with something totally cool that will only expand their base.

2. U2 are about to get involved with something totally lame that will be this year’s version of the “Pop” album and tour (remember the 40-foot lemon?)

3. My wife will be very, very excited.

See, as much as I love U2, Heidi loves Spidey. She makes me watch every damn trailer that comes on for Spider Man 3 (which, I dare say, looks pretty lame). We own the first two movies (two was far better than one, end of discussion) and apparently she loved the comic book as a kid. How this turned into the woman I love and mother of my children, I don’t know and what she did with the dork who read the comics, I’m not going to ask.

But it’s apparently the real deal for the musical, they’re casting for Peter Parker, MJ and even a “Geek Chorus” starting in July.

The boys in U2 have shown interest in both movies and superheroes in the past – doing “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me” for the Batman Forever soundtrack. And they did the Passengers album for a movie that didn’t exist but which spawned the great track, “Miss Sarajevo.”

And, way back in 1986, Edge did the soundtrack for a putrid little movie called “Heroine” – the title song marking the premiere of a beautiful young Irish singer named Sinead O’Connor.

Could this be U2’s “Tommy”?

One can only dream. But, I admit it, I’m starting to hear distant refrains of “lemmmmmon” and I’m scared.

Governor Seatbelt

My good friend Bruce wrote well about the New Jersey highway experience when he sang about riding through mansions of glory in suicide machines. Of course, that was before the Turnpike, when Highway 9 was the road of choice. But that's besides the point.

The point is, New Jersey's governor almost put the suicide back in the machine the other day.

Maybe it's that I was in Jersey when it happened and in Pennsylvania for the few days afterward but why is this story not bigger news 'round here?

You've got Governor Jon Corzine, a gazillionaire who is already interesting just because he's spent millions to buy a Senate seat and a Governor's mansion. But on Friday, Corzine was being driven by a Jersey Statie on the way to the mansion. He was on his way to help host the oh-so-newsworthy meeting between Don Imus and the Rutgers women's hoop team Imus made the focus of his latest racial tirade.

A pickup cut off one car that knocked into the Gov's SUV, sending it careening into the guardrail. Governor's in critical with no less than half his ribs broken, his sternum cracked, a collarbone broken and his femur - the biggest bone in the body, cracked ... twice. Yeesh.

But the topper here is the Gov wasn't wearing his seatbelt. Why is this such a tantilizing fact? Because Jersey was the second state to require seatbelt use by law (next to my home state, the ever-ahead-of-the-curve New York, I believe) and one of the first to allow coppers to pull you over just for failing to belt up.

For now, the story is rightly about the Gov's health and recovery. Tonight's reports say he's still not out of the woods yet, is still on a ventilator and might need more surgery.

But, already, questions are being asked about why the Gov wasn't belted up. As they should. Corzine's chief of staff joked, sorta, that people don't usually tell the Governor what to do. But what about the state trooper driving his car - isn't it his duty to protect the Governor? Yes, and not just by driving carefully, by making sure he isn't the target of an assassin's bullet or whatever. He's supposed to keep the Govenror safe, even if it means safe from himself. That same chief of staff joked, again sorta, that the trooper perhaps should have ticketed the Governor. Funny, real funny.

The truth is, there probably isn't much a trooper could do if Governor Seatbelt wants to throw his own life away. Same as the morons who don't wear helmets on motorcycles. I usually chalk something like that up to natural selection. And I guess that kind of behavior extends to Governors too. Sad but true.

For Edwards, Cancer = Cash?

I didn’t think much would make me question the Edwards family these days. I was definitely among those who turned against Katie Couric for her berating of Elizabeth Edwards on “60 Minutes” and of the hyperventilating media that wondered how on earth the candidate could choose to campaign when his wife had cancer. To me, the answer is simple: He and she said so. End of discussion.

But now, I hedge.

The New York Post (I know, I know, but keep reading) has the Edwards camp confirming that they have been collecting email addresses from supporters who have sent Elizabeth get-well notes and using them for fundraising requests.

According to the Post, the link to Edwards’ campaign website invites people to “send a note to Elizabeth and John” and features what The Post calls a “sad letter from the former senator penned just after the couple found out her breast cancer had spread and is now incurable.”

Turns out those people have then been hit up for cash by Team Edwards and, if they provide it, their email is added to the campaign’s online database.

The campaign, contacted by reporters, said they would add an option to allow well-wishers to decline getting future emails.

All together now: Ewwww

The Chinese Zax

Today in China , the disputes aren’t quite what they were in 1989 in Tiananmen Square – when a student protester boldly stood in front of tanks rushing in to break up anti-government protests.

We all know now, the students won that round. But the images today are no less telling, and inspiring.

Today’s tale is brought to us courtesy of The Washington Post. Wu Ping and Yang Wu live(d) in the outpost of Chongqing , 900 miles outside of Bejing. Ping and Wu owned a small house among 300 in an area that developers wanted torn down to make way for the latest, massive bit of sprawl popping up in that land.

All the other owners sold out and moved. Ping and Wu held out. Eventually, all the other houses were raised. Wu and Ping held out. Their story became the stuff of legend around China , where they stood up to the government and the developers who refused to meet their demands – whatever those were - for three years.

It was shades of my good friends the Zax. Yes, the Dr. Seuss Zax. The north-going Zax ran into the south-going zax out on the Prairie of Prax one way and neither would budge. All around them, society rumbled on. And they kept standing, toe to toe, those Zaxes did, until the highway was built right around them.

But back in China , Ping and Wu caved – or their price was met, we’ll never know. And, under cover of night, the house was bulldozed over and the shopping plaza will now get built.

The picture of the house standing on its own tells the whole story. Was it stubbornness, fairness or just Nimbyism on a grand scale? I’m not sure and I don’t want to know.

But it is impressive – particularly in a place like China – to see the power of one or two people, committed and resolute, is still an immovable force.

Smoking Keith Richards

Now, it all makes sense.

For years, Keith Richards topped our annual dead pool – he still does. The guy is a walking corpse. Every year, as we toss names out, people nod knowingly when Richards’ name comes up. I mean, look at him:

Given the life he’s lead and, the theory goes, the drugs he’s taken, it’s only a matter of time, right? Wrong. This has been going on for years and the guy keeps on tickin’.

Well now we know why.

In an interview published by NME, a British music magazine roughly equivalent to Rolling Stone here in the states, Richards is quoted as saying:

“The strangest thing I've tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father. He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared, he didn't give a shit. It went down pretty well, and I'm still alive."

Of course, now that it was published, Richards is saying it was all a joke – that he would never take cocaine now and that he truly planted his father’s ashes with a “sturdy English Oak.”

Riiiight.

The halarious part of this is that Denis Leary called this exact scenario, years ago. Well, ok, sort of.

Back on his funniest comedy album, “No Cure for Cancer,” Leary actually joked about smoking Richards’ ashes for a high after the guitarist had died.

“I was reading an interview with Keith Richards in a magazine and in the interview Keith Richards intimated that kids should not do drugs. Keith Richards! Says that kids should not do drugs! Keith, we can't do any more drugs because you already fucking did them all, alright?There's none left! We have to wait 'till you die and smoke your ashes! Jesus Christ! Talk about the pot and the fuckin' kettle.”

Irony, oh, sweet irony.