cwsox

I left off the three unprovens over time off that list. The great ones will always be the reat ones in every generation. The not so great ones will always be the 4th and 5th piches on a team. Although head to head, why has no one touched Cy Young's victory total? And apart from differences in strategy, why is no one winning 40 or even 30 anymore? I feel old because I saw the last pitcher to win 30. I don't see a player out there and haven't for years approach 30. There is such a thing that the "bigger stronger" has over developed some muscles at the expense of proportional balance so the pitcher of today lacks the physical strength to get 30 wins, let alone 500. What looks bigger and stronger isn't necessarily so. But a Clemens or a Maddux is going to outstanding in any era because of the intangibles they bring and if those two played 50 years ago they would have been great then just as a Walter Johnson or even an Eddie Ciccote would be today.

I disagree. The evolutionary trend is not such that human beings today, athletes included, are just that much superior to those of two generations or one generation ago. Babe Ruth vs a Marlin pitcher - not a fair comparison because of all the variables. Give today's players the same training and equipment as a member of the 27 Yankees would have had and see if they make the AA team. If Ruth had been born in this generation and had access to the training and equipment of this generation, he'd smash all the records still. Can one imagine a Christy Matthewson with access to year round training and an income sufficient to afford the same? Mr Showtime is of course right when he points out the exclusion of the Negro Leagues from white MLB. The inverse: what about the exclusion of pharmaceuticals from this generation? I think a Roger Clemens would make it in any generation as would a Willie Mays or a Ty Cobb or a Eddie Collins because they brought something else to the game rather than a generation's technology. And I suspect a lot of today's major league players would be at bet minor leaguers in generations past. And other sports wise - the 60s Celtics would destroy the current Lakers if all things were equal. Michael Jordan would be Michael Jordan if the game were leaden dead balls in peach baskets. The great players given the same technology and equipment of whatever generation will always be the great ones because what drove them, what was innate with them for the game, is the intangible beyond all else.

My problem is that the article rehashes the past without a clue or without any new insights into what will happen this year and as such was a waste of time to read - and write.

on Bravo

who knows about that but love your avitar - Reanimations is one of my favorite albums and I was just playing it the other day on a road trip - love that album!

i live in fear of that being true

let's see -- higher education........ a concern for other people...... thinking of children as people who have worth and value.... yes, that would make a liberal the "conservative side" as represented in this thread wants to do a workshop on child labor as ao good thing for the exploting capitalist class to further enrich themselves by child labor - yep, that would be sponsered by the Young Republicans One doesn't have to even make this stuff up - it is given to us all tied up in a neat package! The jokes, ridicule, encapuslation, and expose´are given becuase "the other side" has no concept that they have become the charicature.

I do not hope JR sells the team and those who live for that will be disapointed year in and year out.

that is great stuff but if you want somehint different I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge, lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts, who let themselves be f***ed in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate c*** and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy- ment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years. .

I cannot live with You-- It would be Life-- And Life is over there-- Behind the Shelf The Sexton keeps the Key to-- Putting up Our Life--His Porcelain-- Like a Cup-- Discarded of the Housewife-- Quaint--or Broke-- A newer Sevres pleases-- Old Ones crack-- I could not die--with You-- For One must wait To shut the Other's Gaze down-- You--could not-- And I--could I stand by And see You--freeze-- Without my Right of Frost-- Death's privilege? Nor could I rise--with You-- Because Your Face Would put out Jesus'-- That New Grace Glow plain--and foreign On my homesick Eye-- Except that You than He Shone closer by-- They'd judge Us--How-- For You--served Heaven--You know, Or sought to-- I could not-- Because You saturated Sight-- And I had no more Eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise And were You lost, I would be-- Though My Name Rang loudest On the Heavenly fame-- And were You--saved-- And I--condemned to be Where You were not-- That self--were Hell to Me-- So We must meet apart-- You there--I--here-- With just the Door ajar That Oceans are--and Prayer-- And that White Sustenance-- Despair--

Let it be.

as for the other, I disagree - I believe in turn signals - but the not waving when you let them in, those people should never allowed to drive again

my one year anniversary of playing for points - I have like 860000 for one year - not too shabby - I am going on an NTN binge the next few months - a few people in our bar need to be put in their place NTN wise - wish me luck!

it is something to think about, yes? If we had signed Maddux and found a way for the big trade or the big free agent signing - it appears we are following the anaheim and florida route of being small and getting hot at the right time - no doubt if we had some big news, we would be selling a lot more tickets than we are now

I'm not going - but going is the 80 year old mother of one of my Sox buddies - and this woman hangs Sox christmas ornaments on her Xmas tree - (they are small baseballs with Sox logo that are tree lights) - she got an invite to her god daughter's house for February in Arizona and she just called her family and she she'd be home not February 29th but when spring training was over, she had tickets for every game - if you see a short, red haired older woman letting the world know she is a Sox fan, ask her if she is Roni and tell her she is a legend Roni knows more baseball - I love going to the games with her -

pre destination out of that source was really big for Zwingli and especially Calvin of the Reformed (Reformed Church, Presbyerian Church) reformers and crops up in the 1801 Episcopal Articles of Religion

brandofan is being ironical, ripping on antiSemitic hatred - don't take it at face value. Bernard Malumud's book "The Fixer" of antisemitism in Russia is as I see it the source of what brando is saying - of course Malamud pointed to the greater reality of annual Holy Week pogroms in eastern Europe and Russia -

now that we only have PA at nights, something is missing during the days - I can't put my finger on it (nor do I want to) but that unique way that PA has of posting ... it is just missing from soxtalk. You know PA that "jagoff" is a really localized Chicago term; the rest of the country says "jackoff" but Chicago alone is "jagoff." hope you are not going crazy going day hours cold turkey. 2k4 has no one to torment, texsox has no one to zing his lines off of, and as for me, well, it just feels a tad bit safer these days. but you are missed. greatly. who do we contact to get your daytime internet restored? time to stick up for our bud!

The high priest and the Jews had no power, zero, zilch, none. About the time of Jesus' birth the Roman armies had devastated Galilee and Judea to put down rebels. And to exercise total contriol, that is why the Romans placed a Roman governor in Judea (Jerusalem and environs) while letting vassal rulers beholder in Rome in charge of other areas such as Galiilee (hence, Herod). When Pilate became governor, after some more problems with the locals, Pilate erected the Roman ensigns in Jerusalem - never done before - never was a symbol of other gods especially the self-proclaimed Son of God Ceasar allowed iin Jerusalem. There was resistance to this and Piate slaughtered all the resisters. Pilate sezied the Temple and the Temple vestments. Pilate appointed on an annual basis the high priest who served purely at Pilate's pleasure. Pilate only let the high priest have the priestly vestments when when Pilate decided - and that meant the high priest could only act as priest when Pilate decided. Annas and Caiphas were quislings, toadys, sychophants who only did what Pilate wanted them to do. They had no power whatsoever so to add lines about Caiphas leading a revolt is absolute invented falsehood. If Pilate suspected Caiphas of such a thing, Caiphias and every person conencted with the Temple would have been on a cross. Pilate had no compunction, no reservation on killing the people fo Judea. he was famous for his slaughters. To imply that Caiphas was responsible for the crucifixion is the beginning of implying the guilt of the J.e.w.s and it is absolutely historically not true. Crucifixion was not a Jewish practice. It was a Roman practice reserved for rebels (terrorists, insurrectionaries, etc). Remember Spartacus ----- anyone who rebelled against Rome was hung up on a cross for all to see. For other criimes, dispatch with a sword was the method. Crucifixion was reserved for rebels. Note the internal evidence in the Biblical texts. "We have no king but Ceasar" was never a phrase uttered by any J.e.w. of the time - not even Caiphas and Annas would have saiid that. "You are no friend of Ceasar." That was not somerthing that any J.e.w. of the day would have wanted to be. Remember the story of the coin, what shoudl be rendered to Ceasar - that was a political question and nnote thta Jesus didn;t even carry a coin on his person. No J.e.w other than traitors would carry Roman coins because on each Roman coin was the inscription that Ceasar was the Son of God. Caiphas and Annas would have had no concern for a new "Messiah." Judea in 30 CE (Common Era) was crawling with self proclaimed Messiahs. What would get Pilate's attention is a Galilian coming down from the north with a large following who talked about a kingdom. It may have been a kingdom not of this world but Pilate was no theologian. The words of Jesus to Pilate, "you have no power over me, any power you have is from my Father" was exactly revolutionary talk that would get the person who said it crucified post haste. To imply therfe was a stroner power than Rome - that J.e.w.i.s.h peasant was dead meat to Pilate. External evidence: who was responsible, accoprding to the creeds? "He was crucified under Pontius Pilate." Why not name Caiphas if the early Christians who lived through that at thought Caiphas was responsible? No, they knew who killed Jesus: imperial Rome because Jesus was considered by them to be a revolutionary who spoke of a Sovereign that was greater than Rome. To add lines like Gibson does about Caiphas is to distort the story and one reason why this movie is antiSemitic because it adds and goes out of its way to say "the Jews" killed Christ. And the blood guilt was passed down from generation to generation culminating in Inquistion, pograms, Holocaust. Since all of the Gospels were written after the fall of Jerusalem and were written knowing Rome was reading every word, it was expedient to make Caiphas and the Temple folk look guilty and play down Rome. Caiphas had his pomp and ceremony as Pilatge's lap dog and would hardly have concerned himself with another Jewish peasant messiah which were a dime a dozen in those days. But the intrinsic evidence is all there in the Scriptures. Remember Pilate controllled the Temple. Pilate was skimming (or a surcharge or user fee or tax) off of all the transactions in the Temple for revenue. When Jesus cleansed the Temple and through the money changers over - who were placed there by Pilate, not by whoever Pilate allowed to be high priest that year - the challenge was to Rome, not to the Temple. Again, check out conservative Biblle scholar Paul Maier. Yes, I know Paul Maier. Hey, this is my vocation and so to enough seminars, you meet people. Actually Paul and I once tried really fast to figure out from memory the exact words of the Aaronic blessing at a prayer breakfast we were at because at the last second they said I was to do the benedictuiona nd we had no Bible or book of liturgy at hand -- so we both tried to remember what it was and we wrote it ona napkin for my use. Paul Maier is a most conservative scholar, he is Missouri Synod Lutheran which is very conservative, Paul wrote First Christmas, First Easter, etc. Paul has not weighed in yet on the Gibson movie to my knowledge but to get a fuller account of what happened in those hours, in that week, that it was Rome and not the J.e.w.s - then read his books. He writes very well, it is very readablle, I think he is way too conservative, but you won't!!!! :-) But I know you and I know Paul's work and you will realy enjoy, please trust me and do yourself a favor on this one. Irony is that after Jerusalem fell, Christianity has no "center" and to fill the vacuum, the Christian community in Rome became preemminent and you know what they developed into... being the power center in the Roman capitol of Rome, it served them well to downplay Pilate's role and make the J.e.w.s responsible. Although they could not change the creeds - "he was crucified by Pontius Pilate." That is why it was so momentous when in Vatican II (and ina post Holocaust world) Rome through John XXIII and Paul VI said the old teaching was wrong, it was not the J.e.w.s, And it was then that Gibson's family broke away from the Roman Catholic Church and said a false pope was on the throne. Of course, the elder Gibson has denied the Holoicaust ever existed and how I do say this nicely, who enies the Holocaust other than Nazi sympathizers and extreme antiSemites? And then rememeber that Anna Catherine Emmerich's visions (which were laced with antiSemitism and the warnings that a false pope would arrive and steal the church) of the crucifixion that informs Gibson, not the Bible as prime text. Anna C Emmerich had stigmata (as they say) and thus her ecstatic revelations based on the stigmata are the authority that what her visions say haopened are indeed the reality. If the movie had been billed Anna Cartherine Emmerich's Version of the Passion a lot less concern and a lot less profit. So it is that Gibson for the purpose of hype says "it is what it is" when it is not, it is not based on the Gospels, he ahs added things and showing it through his own lens which is not one that is the Gospel lens.

Ishmookie, thank you you got it right

turn off the radio? change the station?

So who is your favorite Bronte sister?

I split this off because this sounded too interesting in have in that other thread! AT last to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side, The rest of life to see! Past midnight, past the morning star! Past sunrise! Ah! what leagues there are Between our feet and day!

you are now cleared for boarding, Mr Bin Laden

happy birthday from all your Blue friends