I think we all experience those strange situational bits of surprise which throw us for the semioccasional loop.
It happened to me Friday as I was completing the errands I'm forced to do in the absence of my lovely wife, who chose to travel to see her mother and leave me in the lurch. Having received XM Satellite radio for Christmas and still not quite used to the million of channels it receives, the lack of advertisements, the remote control, the ability to get two channels of Fox News--well, I mean one channel of real news and one channel of Fox chat and america Right--to say nothing of all the other options, music, sports, new wave, C&W and what have you, I heard the most surprising thing.
Plus, if you care to, you can also pick up air america somewhere among the numbers, if you're into that sort of wild exclamatory anti-business pro-government nightmare riddled brain addling acid driven riff--most of which is lifted directly from the Janeane Garofalo owned Tim Leary tapes of a Ken Kesey acid driven free-speechathon, which was put on with a good solid dose of scopalamine to smooth out the rough spots combined with the occasional curare tipped dart to keep the speaker on track.
However, being used to Paul Shanklin and his shenanigans and it being St. Patrick's Day and all, I wasn't sure if I'd really heard something factual or if I had blundered onto air america. Then I heard it again. But being forced to drive and not being able to look at the tiny illuminated screen all the time to verify the rather heady prouncement, I guessed it must be real and drove on.
Out of the blue of a New England sky I received notice that March Madness would be covered by none other than James Carville and Bill Clinton and some other gadfly of a vaguely political or industrial note. The stupendous import of this announcement didn't fully strike me until I finally reached the safety of my home, where I could digest the news at my leisure in the relative safety of my living room, mop my brow and sit down to think in the company of the dogs, cats and the Weather Channel.
So being a halfway factual, at least every now and then, especially when the greatest living political geniuses of our time--and probably the single most important movers and shakers since, oh, I dunno, maybe alexander the Great and Julius Caesar or at least Charlemagne and Chum Frink, I checked it out on line.
and there I found this brace of extreme basso profundos all written up and ready to go. James Carville, with all his ready wit and shaky capacity, Bill Clinton and his open and honest demeanor and head full of sporting facts and Luke Russert, who ever the hell he is. and they're going to do March Madness.
Though I have now learned, courtesy of a New Yorker article that Tim Russert's favorite movie is Cool Hand Luke, which I'm guessing is some indication of how the spalpeen derived his now famous moniker from his old man. But you do have to give Luke some credit--he apparently has amazing chemistry, or so it says somewhere, is a keen sports fan, plans to finish college real soon and couldn't wait to be seated next to these two progressive wordsmiths and freshly minted basketball fanatics. So fresh, in fact, that Carville, waggish as ever, has carried fresh paint signs into the broadcast booth and affixed them to his chair. Clinton, of course, not one to besmirch a pristine character like his own, has opted out of this bit of humor and has gone with the more heady and understandable--genius at what purports to be work.
Come to think of it, friends had alerted me to the fact that Bill Clinton had been observed lugging two rather large books on his repeated visits to church of late. and now, with all of this March folderol in mind, and thanks to the enhancement capabilities of today's computers, the two books have now been brought into focus. The King James Bible has been accompanied by How March Became Madness by Eddie Einhorn and Ron Rapoport. Bill, you're studying up. No wonder you're so smart, and reading in church, to boot.
While all this is a ringing endorsement for Luke, what is going on with that unbridled loud mouth Carville and his erstwhile sidekick and neauveau billionaire Bill Clinton? I mean won't they be fighting over the microphone? Will they let go of the squawk box long enough for any of them to get a word in edgewise? Or do they each get a mike? Will the game of basketball ever rear its ugly head in the endless droning drawling patter of Bill's deathless reminiscences? Will Carville ever be able to get over the 2000 and 2004 elections, his failed strategies, the nefarious machinations of the Republicans, and the hated promise keeping of George Bush long enough to remember that a round ball game is going on somewhere on a rectangular court between about 10 or so people below where they're sitting? Once he remembers all that, will he then remember what he's there for?
Can that veritable broadcast neophyte Luke Russert, that babe in the woods when it comes to those two torque wrench tightened wing nuts--despite his love for the game, his penchant for tangy Buffalo wings, his best laid plans after finishing college, his favorite pizza toppings, his off hand swipes at the lads for missed dribbles, his growing concern about the insensate and nonsensical hogwash spewing out of Jim and Bill, his difficulties with high priced and rare Manhattan parking--which he likens to his steaks--his concern about his expensive haircut and how his voice will sound with a background besotted with senseless southern braying and mawkish blubbering, his lack of his father's sartorial achievements, which he finally realized won't matter because it's radio, the misplacing of his most cherished swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated before the inaugural show-- handle the truth as presented by left's two premier salesmen?
So, the big question is this. Why was this team of boyos put together? Was it because they know something about basketball? Because they're neat guys? Because Carville and Clinton are big draws since XM lost the bidding war for my classmate Howard Stern? I mean, really. But if Joe Stalin could write papers on genetics and Jimmy Carter can win the Nobel Prize--why not? If Rosie Ruiz can win the Boston Marathon for a few minutes and Hugo Chavez can carry a fair election, monitored for fishiness by a Nobel Prize winning peace activist, then James Carville and Bill Clinton are sports announcers. and if that's true, then doggone it, Luke Russert's one, too.
So, when did Clinton score his first triple double? When did Carville first note his own double triple? Does Luke know what goal tending is? Do any of them remember Tommy Heinsohn? are they wearing beanies and sweats? are they wearing Converse classic red high-tops? Can any of them remember Kareem abdul-Jabbar's original name?
In the end of things, I would've figured that it'd be Hillary schmoozing around for a college basketball announcing job rather than Bill--where she could lend some of her really famous tough colorful table talk to the game. Her background, love of NY sports, her intensity, her ability to nuance a play, to call a foul, to tell off a referee in no uncertain terms, to go cold as ice at the end of a tight contest, to soak a crowd for donations to a tax exempt PaC or two operating under her name, to play the sympathy card, to look pretty in pink, to jive with the best of them, to fire up a flagging team at half-time, to run the same play over and over, to display her incredible number of talents, would've insured her any position to her liking--announcer, coach, player, owner, team doctor, trainer, or US Senator. But it seems that Bill trumped her and stole the part of a lifetime-- the role that would've insured her election as President, cemented her relationship with the middle as no other, and garnered her the college vote.
But March madness is here. The masses are turning their weary eyes and ears to the tubes and the airwaves to catch the slightest glimpses and hear the most minute whispers about the games, which will determines the lives of college players and the fates of colleges forever.
and somewhere in a studio, fully wired and plugged right in, sit two mad March hares--James and Bill--hollering, mewling and blathering about college basketball as if they knew all about it. While somewhere in an unknown print shop a brand new old varsity basketball letter in the name of William Clinton is being delicately aged for a sudden magical appearance at the end of this latest show, when Bill suddenly remembers this forgotten aspect of a storied career and ponies up the proof.
and saddled between these two flouncing termagant mud hens sits a kid who wonders if the money, the upcoming jokes at college, the belly laughs from his old man, the fleeting fame and the disappearing show money is worth the rasping jibes, the endless meaningless stories, the self-centered puffery and the mythical absonant fables.
Pursuant to Title 17 U.S.C. 107, other copyrighted work is provided for educational purposes, research, critical comment, or debate without profit or payment. If you wish to use copyrighted material from this site for your own purposes beyond the 'fair use' exception, you must obtain permission from the copyright owner. Views are those of authors and not necessarily those of Canada Free Press. Content is Copyright 1997-2024 the individual authors. Site Copyright 1997-2024 Canada Free Press.Com Privacy Statement