Archive for the ‘Sports Bar’ category

SwanShadow Gives Thanks, Volume 22: Reverse SwanShadow Edition

November 27, 2025

Welcome back, my friends, to the tradition that never ends. Okay, truth to tell, it will inevitably end eventually, because I will inevitably end eventually. But fortunately for all of us, that end does not appear imminent. Then again, this is Las Vegas, where anything can happen and often does.

I decided to label this 22nd iteration of this annual post “Reverse SwanShadow Edition” because when I typed the number 22, it looked remarkably like a mirror image of my familiar cygnus-and-umbra logo. If you play Texas Hold ’em, you might refer to a pair of pocket deuces as “ducks,” which I suppose is close enough. (I have it on good authority that bingo aficionados use the same terminology in reference to the call number I-22.)

Knowing my inherent inability to concentrate on anything for very long, I consider it a monumental achievement that I’ve managed to be regular in this particular habit for 22 years. But the fact is, I am deeply grateful for the life I’ve been blessed to live to this point, and for all of the people, places, and things that continue to make it pleasant and endlessly interesting. This annual exercise, as focused on ephemera as it appears to be, remains my personal love letter to everyone and everything I appreciate. It’s a peculiar way of expressing thanks. But it’s my way.

If you’re new to this experience, the following is an alphabetical list — one item for each letter of said alphabet — of items human, non-human, and inhuman (um…?) for which I am thankful this Thanksgiving, as though that weren’t redundant. As random as the collection appears, it represents in synecdoche (Google it) the sum total of everything that is. At least, everything that doesn’t stand on its own, unlike The Daughter and The Son-In-Law and The Little Dudes and The Sunflower and The Nest and Wanda the Scarlet Witch and all else that is truly special and good.

So, on this Thanksgiving Day 2025 (where does the time go?), your Uncle Swan gives thanks for:

A’ja Wilson, star of my beloved Las Vegas Aces: the four-time M’VP, the three-time D’POY, the two-time FM’VP, and quite possibly the G’OAT. I could not imagine a more appropriate place to begin this Number 22 list than with Number 22 her own self. I’ve been privileged to see many legendary athletes — from Steph Curry to Barry Bonds, from Joe Montana to Jerry Rice, from Willie McCovey to Steve Young to Klay Thompson — play in person for my favorite sports teams over the course of my fandom. I’m not sure that I will ever have seen, by the hopefully long-distant end of her still-escalating career, a more singular team-sport athlete on my home team than A’ja Wilson.

Bettie Page, who just might have been the GOAT of iconic image makers. She may not have garnered the undying adoration accorded Marilyn Monroe — whose appeal I’ve never entirely understood, to be frank (sorry, Frank) — but no one ever gave better face than the Queen of the Pinups.

Cornbread dressing, a seemingly simple side dish that it has taken me decades to perfect. Much scouring of cookbooks and Internet recipe sites, in addition to endless trial and error, has brought me to the point where I can almost say that my cornbread dressing (don’t call it stuffing unless you’re cramming it into an animal carcass) is the equal of the dish that annually graced my mother’s Thanksgiving table. Almost.

Dustbuster, the portable handheld vacuum that I don’t know how I ever survived without until I purchased one this year. Well played, Messrs. Black and Decker.

Eighteen B. (Actually, it’s more commonly written 18b, but we make allowances.) The Las Vegas Arts District is an 18-block (18b… get it? someone was clever) expanse just south of downtown proper where all manner of funky galleries, museums, murals, eateries, breweries, and other locations of interest collide. People who think that Vegas has no culture or soul have never been to this part of the city.

Freakin’ Reviews, the YouTube channel hosted by my fellow Las Vegas Valley denizen James White. Originally, James focused on video reviews of “as seen on TV” products. Now that that category of merchandise has been more or less subsumed into Amazon, Temu, and other online retailers, James showcases, for better or worse (often worse), whatever unusual gadget or household item strikes his fancy. James recently added a second channel, entitled Freakin’ 2, where he samples weird foods and beverages so I don’t have to.

Ground News, a Canadian-based news aggregator with a intriguing purpose: helping its readers navigate the sociopolitical “blind spots” both of news outlets, and of the readers themselves. Ground News serves up news articles from a wide array of sources, noting the particular bias of the source so that the reader knows where that source is “coming from,” so to speak. It also highlights news items that sources on either end of the political spectrum are under-reporting. In an environment where it can be difficult to know which media to trust — or whether you simply trust those who happen to agree with you, regardless of their factual accuracy — Ground News is a tool worth checking out. (This is not a sponsored post.)

Henderson and North Las Vegas, Sin City’s twin siblings here in the Valley. Most visitors tend to view the entirety of southern Nevada as “Las Vegas,” but quite a bit of it isn’t (including the Las Vegas Strip, which lies entirely outside the city limits). In fact, two other sizable incorporated cities lie cheek-by-jowl alongside us: Henderson (Nevada’s second-largest city; yes, bigger than Reno) to the southeast, and North Las Vegas (the fourth-largest) to the north and northwest. Both cities have reputations — Henderson as a boring backwater; NLV as sketchy and crime-ridden — that aren’t entirely deserved, and both actually have much to offer their communities. And yes, residents of both get a little annoyed at being lumped in as merely “outer Vegas.”

Isis, the Egyptian-themed superheroine of long-ago Saturday mornings. In civilian life, she was mild-mannered high school science teacher Andrea Thomas (played with understated cool by Joanna Cameron, who passed away in 2021). But when she donned her mystic amulet and uttered the phrase, “O mighty Isis!”, Andrea was transformed (okay, she just changed clothes, really) into a modern-day interpretation of the ancient goddess. Isis could (as noted in The Secrets of Isis‘s opening narration) “soar as the falcon soars, run with the speed of gazelles, and command the elements of sky and earth” — at least, as much of any of those things as a children’s TV budget and 1970s technology would allow. She could even deliver a thoughtful moral message at the end of each episode.

Juneteenth, the national holiday that celebrates the day when enforcement of the Emancipation Proclamation began in Texas in 1865 (two years after the document was signed; no Internet in those days, so news traveled slowly) and slavery formally (if not culturally) ended in the United States. It’s also my half-birthday, which I’d like to imagine is worth celebrating on at least a minute scale.

Kosher salt, the one ingredient I can’t imagine my kitchen without. Did you know that it’s called “kosher” salt not because it meets kosher dietary standards, but because it was the salt used in kashering, a process of dry-brining meats? My preferred brand is Diamond Crystal, even though they confounded me recently when they redesigned the traditional box.

Leona Lewis, whose “Bleeding Love” is one of my all-time favorite pop tunes. Leona is playing her first-ever Las Vegas residency during this holiday season, and I can hardly wait to see her perform live next month. Leona’s included in my list of 31 “magical voices,” spotlighting the female singers whose pipes I adore.

Myron’s. Speaking of magical voices, Myron’s at the Smith Center is one of my favorite places in Las Vegas to hear them. This year, I saw Sam Harris there — his first tour in several years — and the New York Voices, who are currently winding down their nearly 40-year performing career. Myron’s cabaret-style venue makes a fine, intimate space in which to enjoy talented musical artists and their craft.

I’ve only just begun working on my NOKbox, an organizing tool designed to assist one’s next of kin (“NOK”) in event of one’s disability or demise. (That’s a polite way of saying, “It’s for when you croak.”) The NOKbox helps you put together all of the information and documentation that your loved ones will need in order to resolve your estate. With luck and a fair wind, my sunset is hopefully yet a long distance away. But it’s comforting to have a handy tool that will make things somewhat easier for The Daughter when the inevitable arrives. (Boy howdy, there’s a boatload of stuff to pull together, though. I’d better step it up.)

The Osmo Pocket 3 is one of the handiest devices ever made for recording video on the go. It’s a small handheld camera (it also mounts to a stand or tripod) with a built-in gimbal, plus numerous other features that lend themselves to quick and relatively easy shooting. I’m still figuring out how best to put it to work on the creative ideas that percolate in my brain, but I’m confident that the device will be up to the task even if the operator is not.

The Plaza Hotel and Casino is one of the downtown hotspots that I can see from my front window. What I love most about the Plaza is not the hotel-casino itself, but rather the free fireworks displays they host on major holidays (including Formula 1 weekend, which I suppose is now a public holiday here in Vegas), as well as every Friday night during the summer season. It’s like having a front-row seat to the Fourth of July every weekend from Memorial Day onward, as well as on the actual Fourth of July.

Quail eggs are delicious. I feel a little bit sorry for the quail. But only a little bit.

Rush, one of my favorite rock bands of all time, are reuniting next year for their first tour since legendary drummer Neil Peart passed in 2020. I know that some fans are up in arms at the audacity of Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson carrying on without The Professor, who in addition to his nonpareil percussion skills also wrote the band’s lyrics. But I for one am thrilled to have another opportunity to see Geddy and Alex perform live — I never got to experience Rush in concert while Neil was still with us — as well as thrilled for them to enjoy playing their music together again. I’m excited too to see how Anika Nilles, a phenomenal talent whom I’ve followed for years on YouTube, fits in behind the drum kit. And yes, I already have my ticket for one of the gigs in LA.

South Point is the place I point to (pun intended) when people tell me that “Vegas is dead,” because this locals-friendly joint is always packed. One of the few hotel-casinos left in the market that’s still privately owned by a single individual (longtime industry executive Michael Gaughan), South Point makes it work with customer-focused service, an array of reasonably priced dining options (including the best value buffet remaining in Vegas), and entertainment options that appeal to their target demographic. South Point also hosts numerous events including bowling tournaments (their bowling center is massive) and rodeo competitions (they have an arena specially built for horse-related activities). I tend to avoid the place when the cowboys are in town, but you do you.

Calling a business Terrible’s seems like a poor marketing strategy, but that is in fact the name of the outfit that holds the franchise on Chevron gas stations in these parts. Apparently, the company’s founder, nicknamed “the P.T. Barnum of gasoline” for his outrageous promotional schemes, decided to lean into the fact that his competitors found his business approach “terrible,” and ran with it. For the record, the gasoline does not seem terrible.

“Unchained” is one of my favorite Van Halen tracks. Go listen. That’s all I need to say.

Vitamix held a 40%-off sale on Amazon earlier this year, so I finally broke down and purchased one of their world-class but usually insanely expensive blending machines. And I love it. It’s added smoothies to my daily routine, so I can truthfully say that I’m doing something health-forward. (You can’t taste the spinach. You really can’t.) I also enjoy making the occasional soup in it. Who knew that you could make hot soup from cold ingredients in a blender? The wonders of modern technology.

Winnie and Ethel’s has fast become one of my favorite local dining spots. (And by “local,” I mean “five minutes from my house.”) Originally just a breakfast/brunch option — their malted pancakes are incredible, and don’t sleep on the grits, either — they now open a few evenings each week for equally excellent dinner. It’s the kind of place where the staff greets you like an old friend when you walk in the door, and serves you coffee in a mug from the most random collection of drinkware ever assembled outside of a Goodwill store. Get off the Strip and go there for a meal. You will not regret it.

Xanadu was: (1) the summer palace of Kublai Khan; (2) a classic poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge; (3) the title character’s mansion in the film Citizen Kane, based on the real-life Hearst Castle; (4) a dreadful slice of cinematic cheese served up in 1980 by director Robert Greenwald, and starring Olivia Newton-John; and (5) the title song from said film, which will now be stuck in your head for the rest of your Thanksgiving Day. You’re welcome.

Yermo, the weird little California desert town on Interstate 15 just a few miles east of Barstow that every SoCal traveler passes through on the drive to Las Vegas. Yermo is noteworthy for such touristy stops as Eddie World, allegedly California’s largest gas station (you’ll recognize it by the ginormous milkshake out front); the Liberty Sculpture Park, an assortment of found-materials artworks visible from the freeway; Peggy Sue’s ’50s Diner, what a Denny’s might be like if American Graffiti vomited inside it; and the Marine Corps Logistics Base, a massive storage facility for earth-tone military vehicles. The fast-food chain Del Taco also originated in Yermo, although there isn’t a Del Taco there now. Or much of anything else, except as noted above.

Zucchini, because your neighbor planted some and now has a ton to give away, including to you. There’s always zucchini bread.

As is ever the case, I am grateful for you, friend reader. If you’ve continued to drop in here every November for this feast of word salad, you have earned my respect, admiration, and even love. I hope that you and those you cherish will enjoy a wonderful and thoughtful Thanksgiving, and that all of us will still be around to celebrate another at this time next year.

SwanShadow Gives Thanks, Volume 21: Winning Blackjack Hand Edition

November 28, 2024

Twenty-one — an ace plus a face card or 10 — means a win in blackjack (or at worst, a tie or “push”). In Texas hold-’em poker, the same hand might have great potential (especially if the face card is a king or queen) that could go undeveloped if the board fills up with middle-value cards.

Is our 21st annual edition of the Thanksgiving Day blog post an immediate winner, or merely awash with unfulfilled potential? That, friend reader, will be for you to decide.

As always, I have so much more to be grateful for than a simple list can encompass. Thus, our customary exercise: I’ve chosen 26 seemingly random items — one for each letter of the alphabet — to stand in for everything and everyone in my life that I love, admire, treasure, and appreciate. I began my Thanksgiving Day chatting via FaceTime with The Daughter and the two Little Dudes (The Son-In-Law peeked in briefly for a hello and a “Happy Thanksgiving” as well), an interaction that reminded me again how fortunate I am to have loved ones and to be loved. There’s much more love in the enumeration below, if you know where to look.

And with that, let’s do the do.

On this Thanksgiving Day 2024, I’m thankful for…

Agatha All Along. Marvel Studios has taken a fair bit of heat for some of their latter-period offerings, but for my money (and as a Disney stockholder, it kind of is my money, to some infinitesimal degree), the MCU smashed it out of the park with the most recent made-for-streaming-TV event. Agatha All Along, the followup series to the acclaimed WandaVision from a few years back, gave us everything we expect from Marvel — engaging characters, exciting action, a compelling and twisty storyline, and a sense of both drama and fun that hearkened back to the Marvel Comics of old. Kathryn Hahn made the most of her star turn as the ageless witch on a quest to regain her lost mojo. Her supporting coven, led by Sasheer Zamata, Joe Locke, Patti LuPone, and the ubiquitous Aubrey Plaza (who seems to be in everything these days), each brought their own flavor of awesomeness. Personally, I’ve been happy with most of the MCU Disney+ product — I even enjoyed the widely derided She-Hulk: Attorney at Law — but Agatha All Along served notice that Kevin Feige and Company still can pull magic out of their pointy hat.

Bluesky. Like many of you, I pretty much gave up on Twitter as it entered its Age of Elon a couple of years ago. While the jury is still out, Bluesky seems at least for the moment a viable alternative to what the Twittersphere once provided. I’m SwanShadow there as here, so feel welcome to follow if you’re inclined. Also, here’s a tip: You can obtain a download from the former Twitter of all your content posted there. I pulled one in advance of abandoning my account altogether, so that I can repurpose some of my classic tweets for future use on Bluesky.

Concierges. There are both pluses and minuses to living in a vast concrete jungle. One of the true upsides in my highrise life is the concierge staff who man/woman/person the front desk in my building. I never have to worry about a package being porch-pirated or a DoorDash delivery going misdirected. And more often than not, I get a smile and friendly greeting when I walk past on my way to the mailroom or the Amazon Hub.

Dominant eye. One might suppose that when one has inhabited a body for as many decades as I’ve inhabited mine, one would know all there is to know about this mortal frame. But in fact, I only recently learned something fascinating about my physical self: I am one of the roughly 18-20% of humans who are cross-eye dominant. That means that while I am naturally right-handed, my brain favors my left eye. It’s especially a challenge for things like target sports — think shooting or archery, even darts — but also partially explains my lifelong lack of hand-eye coordination. Now that I know that my cross-eye dominance exists, I can learn to compensate for it. (You can test your own eye dominance thusly: Extend your arms in front of you. Make a triangular space by partially crossing your hands; your thumbs will form the base of the triangle. Center the triangle on some fixed object across the room. Now, keeping both eyes open and focused on the object, draw your hands slowly toward you until your hands touch your face, and the triangle lands over one of your eyes. That eye is your dominant eye.)

Eggnog. People who know me in the real world know that I’m not a huge fan of the holiday season in general. One feature of this time of year that I do enjoy is eggnog, which can be difficult to find outside of the fall-to-winter window. The Kroger store brand is surprisingly decent.

Fans. When one lives in a high-desert location that can reach peak temperatures of 120 (as Las Vegas did one day this past summer), anything that provides cooling air circulation is a godsend. The three powerful tower fans around the Nest — one in my office, one in the living room, one in the master suite — help keep the HVAC system from working too hard during the long hot Mojave summer.

Graduation. The Daughter collected her hard-earned master’s degree in library and information sciences at a ceremony this past June. She deserves abundant plaudits for completing her coursework while holding down a full-time job and — not insignificantly — giving birth to and caring for two children. Fortunately, she inherited her late mother’s determination. I could not be more proud.

The House, a.k.a. Michelob Ultra Arena, home to my beloved Las Vegas Aces. A championship three-peat escaped our grasp during a challenging season, but I thoroughly enjoyed every home game… even the ones the Aces didn’t win. The House draws great crowds (every game this season was a sellout, and season tickets are already sold out for next season as well), and the Aces’ enthusiastic fan base always shows up and shows out. (Some show out a little more than others.)

“I Can’t Drive 55.” I have been a major Sammy Hagar fan since he was the lead vocalist in Montrose in the early 1970s. In the ’80s, seeing Sammy perform live became an annual ritual; I caught the Standing Hampton, Three Lock Box, and VOA tours in consecutive years. This summer, I got to see Sammy alongside his former Van Halen bandmate Michael Anthony, guitar wizard Joe Satriani, and drummer Jason Bonham, playing a mix of tunes from across his career. The guy still can sing up a storm (unlike certain other former VH frontmen who shall remain unnamed here), and he brings plenty of fire to the stage even now in his mid-70s. Sammy might not be able to drive 55, but he is outliving it in style.

Josh Johnson. In case you’re unfamiliar with Josh, he’s a standup comedian who’s also a correspondent on The Daily Show. His standup is nothing short of brilliant, especially considering that — unlike most working comics — he performs a set of brand-new material almost every night, often drawing inspiration from current events. He’s topical and socially aware without being overtly political (usually); adult in orientation without working blue (usually); and his onstage persona is engaging and charismatic without any of the grotesque bravado that characterizes a lot of today’s standup. Check out his YouTube channel — he posts clips from recent performances frequently — and catch him live if he comes to your town. I will challenge you not to laugh.

Kamala Harris. She made the best of a tough campaigning circumstance, and carried herself with dignity and grace to the very end. Thank you, Madame Vice President.

Las Vegas Boulevard. Not just that roughly four-mile portion known to the world as The Strip, but all of its nearly 50-mile length. Drive along the Boulevard for a while, and you’re bound to see something you’ve never seen before, and most likely would not see anywhere else.

Mucha. My love for comic art is well known to those who have frequented this space in earlier years, but I also have a deep appreciation for many other kinds of graphic art. One of my all-time favorite artists is the Czech-born illustrator and painter Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939), famed for his creations in the Art Nouveau style. Mucha is one of the most renowned artists whose most familiar work was done in the field of advertising. He created hundreds of theatrical posters, product advertisements, and print illustrations in an ornate style that was compelling, immediately recognizable, and often imitated. Mucha’s art never fails to bring a smile to my face and peace to my heart.

Neewer. I’ve been working for some time on a video project (more about this, soon). Neewer makes a wide assortment of photographic accessories, from lighting to tripods, several pieces of which I now own. I find their products to be of good quality, easy to use, and competitively priced. This is not a sponsored ad — I just like their stuff.

Olympics. This year’s Paris Games provided some of the finest spectacle in sport. From the triumphant return to competition of All-Everything gymnast Simone Biles to the home-crowd-pleasing successes of French swimmer Leon Marchand; from the continued US domination of men’s and women’s 5×5 basketball to the even more dominant performances in the diving pool by Team China; from the constant thrills of insanely close races on the athletics track to… whatever that breakdancing thing was; the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad had it all.

Pizza Rock, serving the best pizza in Las Vegas in this pizza connoisseur’s estimation. To be fair, I haven’t tried every single pizza available in the Valley. But I’d be hard-pressed to find any that outclasses the offerings from Tony Gemignani’s downtown hotspot.

Quokkas. Because the world needs all the furry cuteness we can get right now.

Richard Osman’s House of Games. I adore British quiz shows in general, but I hold a special fondness for this quirky series presented by the former Pointless creator and co-host (and now, bestselling mystery novelist) Richard Osman. Each week, four “famous faces” (translated: “celebrities” familiar to much of the British TV-viewing public, but completely unknown to most Americans) play five days’ worth of quizzes, ranging from simple word games (“Rhyme Time”) to find-it-on-a-map geography (“Where Is Kazakhstan?”) to merging clues with pictures (“Answer Smash,” which concludes each day’s proceedings). The “celebrity” who wins each day’s contest gets to select from a motley assortment of tacky prizes, all of which bear Osman’s silhouette; the player amassing the most points over the course of the week takes home a cheesy trophy cup that most bowling alleys would be embarrassed to give away. It’s all in good fun, and plays much better than I’ve just made it sound.

Sunflowers. They are magnificent and magical, regal and radiant. They stand out in any arrangement. Artists and artisans throughout history have drawn inspiration from them. Their beauty is undeniable, and beyond compare. Who doesn’t love sunflowers?

Trots and Bonnie. I’ve been revisiting at times throughout this year the wonderfully creative cartooning of Shari Flenniken, whose strip appeared originally in the legendary humor magazine National Lampoon from 1972 until 1990. Trots and Bonnie features the everyday exploits of two junior-high school teens — bright-but-naive Bonnie and her more precocious friend Pepsi — and Bonnie’s sharp-witted talking dog Trots. As was typical of the Lampoon‘s fare, Trots and Bonnie skews quite adult at times, but Flenniken’s charming artwork and thoughtful, realistic sensibility set the strip at a higher level.

Unsung Titles, the theme of my ninth One-Day Special quiz for the Internet’s premier daily trivia competition, LearnedLeague. I’ve enjoyed presenting each of the 1DS quizzes I’ve written over the years, but I was particularly fond of this one, which focused on popular songs whose titles never appear in their lyrics. It was a fun set to create, and people seemed to enjoy playing it. Here’s a sample question (I’ll put the answer at the end of this post):

You might think this song is called:
“We Come From the Land of the Ice and Snow” (1970, #16 US Hot 100)
It’s easy to see why this song became Thor’s walk-on music in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, what with all that Norse mythology “hammer of the gods” and “Valhalla” stuff in the lyrics.
But you know what’s not in the lyrics? Passports. Or visas. Or the actual title of this song.

Video editing, a new skill I’m struggling to acquire. As mentioned above, I’m working on a video project. The thing is, despite many years of experience editing audio files — and I consider myself a pretty solid audio editor — I haven’t worked with video since college, back in the Dark Ages. Some necessary skills translate from the audio world; others are brand new to me. You know that old saying about old dogs and new tricks? Well, I’m an old dog.

Wakizashi and katana. Most mornings, the first thing I see when I open my eyes is my daisho, a matching pair of Japanese swords of the style originally carried by samurai. I am not a samurai, or trained in the art of swordplay. For me, these beautiful swords are strictly display pieces. But I like to think that a master martial artist could make great use of them, should the occasion arise. And speaking of swords…

… there’s the xiphoid (“sword-shaped”) process. It’s that tiny piece of your skeleton at the end of your sternum, to which your diaphragm and your rectus abdominis muscles — colloquially known as your abs — are connected. What’s interesting to me about the xiphoid process is that it isn’t fully developed until around age 40. Think of the fontanelles (or soft spots) in a baby’s skull, which harden into bone during the first 18 months or so after birth. The xiphoid process is like that, only it takes until middle age to harden. Weird.

Y&T, one of the great underappreciated bands in the history of rock. Frank Meniketti, Y&T’s co-founder, lead vocalist, and lead guitarist, should be a household name given his prodigious talents. But for whatever reason, his band never quite vaulted over the hump into superstardom. Despite years of touring and recording excellent, tunefully catchy hard rock music, Y&T just never found that one killer song or released that one killer album that might have made their career. The band’s name — a truncation of their original moniker, Yesterday and Today — probably didn’t help. And yet, they’re one of the acts whose CDs I frequently pop into my car player on long road trips. I always find myself wondering… why weren’t these guys a much bigger deal?

Zarfs. You know that little cardboard sleeve around your cup when you order a hot beverage at your local Starbucks? It’s a zarf. And when you don’t get one, you wish you did.

As I am every year — and increasingly as the years roll past — I am sincerely thankful for you, friend reader, especially those of you who’ve kept coming back for this annual experience for the past 21 Thanksgivings. If you’re here for the first time, I’m grateful for your presence too. I hope you realize how much you have to be thankful for, and that you’ll exercise some of that gratitude in the way you live your life and interact with the people around you. I hope we’re all here next year to be thankful again, and still.

*Answer: “Immigrant Song” (Led Zeppelin)

SwanShadow Gives Thanks, Volume 20: Double Decades Edition

November 24, 2023

Be honest now, who thought I’d still be doing this 20 years later?

Seriously, who even thought I’d still be doing anything 20 years later?

Never bet against your Uncle Swan, o ye of little feathers. (But not Sacheen Littlefeather. That’s a can of worms I don’t want to open, especially on Thanksgiving.)

Last year’s Thanksgiving Day post leaned heavily on Las Vegas: the reasons that brought me to reside in the Entertainment Capital of the World, and the things I was only then beginning to appreciate about my new neon hometown (to borrow a phrase from YouTuber Las Vegas Gal). There will be a lot of Vegas in this year’s list also, as I’ve come to love even more people, places, and things in this one-of-a-kind desert metropolis. But there’s still much that I’m grateful for in the greater, wider world, so there’s a bit more of that sort of reflection this time around.

Just a brief introduction to what this is all about, for the benefit of any newcomers who’ve found their way here for the first time. Every Thanksgiving for the past two decades, I’ve posted in this space a list of 26 items — one for each letter of the alphabet — for which I am particularly grateful. These 26 items are not intended to be comprehensive. Instead, most of them represent, by way of synecdoche (I’m sure there’s an app where you could look that up), many other people and things that I hold precious, even dear. It’s just a mechanism for compelling myself once a year to think deeply about all that truly moves me to gratitude.

Some mean too much to attempt to find place for them in this little exercise. The Daughter, whom I love with the ferocity of a thousand suns and would sacrifice anything for, tops that list, along with The Son-In-Law and the two Little Dudes, the second of whom arrived since the writing of the previous post. Others find their place in the subtext within the list, or simply transcend it. They know who they are, and what lofty status they hold.

And with that said, let’s forge ahead. (Have I really done 20 of these? Wow.)

On Thanksgiving Day 2023, I’m thankful for…

Ahsoka Tano. I’m not a huge Star Wars guy. I’ve made no secret these past 46 years that I never completely understood all of the fuss about what we now call Episode IV: A New Hope (what I’ve called from the jump, a super-cute Carrie Fisher plus a bunch of derivative space opera and oblique Jack Kirby references). But I have very much enjoyed several of the latter-day spinoffs, especially The Mandalorian and its brand-new companion series, Ahsoka, starring the sublime Rosario Dawson in the title role. There’s a statue of Ahsoka Tano in my living room. Not everyone gets that kind of recognition.

Buckaroo Banzai. I was honored this year to write a One-Day Special quiz for the online trivia site LearnedLeague about The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension — a film that, unlike the aforementioned Episode IV, I have loved since the day I first beheld it, goggle-eyed, in a local movie theater. If you don’t grok the unique sensibility of Buckaroo Banzai, I can’t explain it to you. I also can’t explain why there’s a watermelon in the lab.

Cats In Space. People who know me IRL have heard me opine more than once that good music stopped being made by 1989. Of course, this comment is intended to be facetious. There’s plenty of excellent music being created even today, by artists whose careers began long after the ’80s ended. Case in point: the delightful British rock band Cats In Space. When you listen to a Cats album — and you should — you can detect their influences: Queen, Styx, Boston, a little ELO here, a little Supertramp there. However, you won’t hear anything that sounds exactly like any of those bands, or anything that sounds like a tribute, nostalgia, or novelty act. Cats In Space are legitimate unto themselves, keeping alive the classic arena-rock flavor but adding their own modern interpretation (and considerable musical chops) to it. Try their most recent album, Kickstart the Sun, or Diamonds, a 2021 selection of their best catalog numbers re-recorded with their current lead vocalist, Damien Edwards. If you enjoy any or all of the bands I mentioned earlier, I strongly suspect you’ll dig Cats In Space.

Dita Von Teese. The undisputed Queen of Neo-Burlesque, Ms. Von Teese (her birth handle is Heather Sweet, which seems like a perfectly appropriate name to me, but what do I know?) has been almost single-handedly reinventing the art of cabaret for the past 30 years. She earns huge props from me for helping to keep alive (along with graphic artists such as Olivia De Berardinis, Jim Silke, and the late Dave Stevens) the legacy of 1950s pinup legend Bettie Page. Ms. Von Teese recently premiered a new show in the Jubilee Theater at Horseshoe Las Vegas (formerly Bally’s), utilizing some of the famous costumes from Jubilee!, the last of the old-school Las Vegas revues. The show has drawn rave reviews, and I’m looking forward to seeing it next month.

Esther’s Kitchen. If your entire perspective of Las Vegas is strictly bounded by The Strip and Fremont Street, you’re missing a ton of the sweet spots Neon City has to offer. One such spot is the Arts District, an 18-block swatch of Downtown Las Vegas that’s home to numerous restaurants, quaint shops, and entertainment venues. Among the excellent eateries to be found in the Arts District is the newly expanded Esther’s Kitchen. It’s nominally an Italian restaurant, but it’s nothing like any Italian restaurant you’ve ever tried. The menu is seasonal and constantly changing, but you’re sure to find something you’ll love.

Fontainebleau Las Vegas. Since it was topped out back in 2008, the Fontainebleau has been the tallest building not only in Las Vegas, but in the entire state of Nevada. Also since 2008, the Fontainebleau has been a ginormous, empty blue husk at the north end of The Strip. A victim of the Great Recession (and probably some mismanagement along the way), the Fontainebleau, while mostly completed, never opened. In the years since, the property has changed hands several times (and names at least twice), while locals wondered if the monstrosity might just get imploded someday. But in fact, the Fontainebleau was reacquired by its original developer in 2021 and has undergone a flurry of construction and redesign since then. It’s now scheduled to open — at long last — on December 13. People who’ve seen the inside say it’s magnificent. I’m eager to see for myself.

Glittering Lights. Every holiday season, the Las Vegas Motor Speedway (not to be confused with the recent Formula 1 contest, the Las Vegas Grand Prix… don’t get me started) transforms its racetrack into a drive-through electric spectacular called Glittering Lights. It’s a two-and-a-half-mile cruise through more than two million… well… glittering lights, in the form of cheerful holiday images. Put some classic carols on the car radio, and get into the spirit of the season. If someone as notoriously Grinchy as your Uncle Swan enjoys it, you might too.

Huntridge Theater. I’m not old-Vegas enough to recall when the Huntridge Theater on Charleston Boulevard was a happening joint. That said, I was privileged earlier this year to take a fascinating tour of this historic building, which began life in 1944 as a movie palace, then segued into its second act as a performing arts venue in 1992. The roof of the vintage structure — built during wartime with wooden support trusses rather than then-rationed steel — collapsed in 1995. Efforts to save the facility ultimately failed, and the Huntridge shuttered — seemingly forever — in 2004. Then in 2021, a local developer purchased the Huntridge and vowed to restore it within three years. The theater’s iconic Art Deco neon sign was relighted for the first time on April 7, 2023. Soho Playhouse has signed on to operate the theater once the reconstruction is complete, and will book it for live performances.

Injera. Among Las Vegas’s many hidden gems is its Ethiopian corridor, which gained official recognition as a cultural district this year. “Little Ethiopia” is home to around 90 restaurants, shops, and other businesses owned by members of Vegas’s 40,000-strong Ethiopian community. If you love Ethiopian food — and I do — it’s the neighborhood where you can stuff your face with spicy meats and veggies, all transported into your mouth with injera, the spongy, slightly sour flatbread made from teff flour that doubles as both an accompaniment and a utensil.

Juan’s Flaming Fajitas. Las Vegas is also home to some of the finest Mexican cuisine you’ll experience north of the border. Although Tacos El Gordo (four Las Vegas-area taquerias) is my local go-to for quick Mexican bites, when I’m in the mood for a sit-down feast I might head to one of the three locations of Juan’s Flaming Fajitas. When they say “flaming,” that’s not just marketing-speak. They mean actual fire. The fire of deliciousness.

Karen Avenue is a largely nondescript street running east-west from the general area of the Las Vegas Convention Center. It makes my list because the one non-nondescript fact about Karen Avenue is that a section of it — the part between Joe W. Brown Drive and Maryland Parkway — was recently renamed Liberace Avenue, in honor of the late pianist once lauded as The World’s Greatest Showman. At the peak of his lengthy career in the late 1950s and early ’60s, Liberace was the highest-paid entertainer on the planet — a planet that at the time still headlined people like Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, and Elvis Presley. I never saw Liberace perform live, but I remember watching him countless times on television when I was very young. It’s nice that Vegas finally got around (35 years after the man’s death, but who’s counting?) to honoring someone whose name spun box office gold for decades on The Strip.

Leilani’s Attic. My love for all things Hawaiian knows no bounds. I spent my earliest formative years in Hawaii and still regard it as the place where I’m “from,” to the degree that a constantly transient military kid could be “from” any one place. Part of the appeal to me in relocating to Las Vegas was the city’s status as “the Ninth Island,” where many Hawaii residents vacation, and where many former islanders come to find paying jobs and affordable homes. One of the greatest assets of the Ninth Island is Leilani’s Attic, a treasure trove of Hawaiian foods and beverages, as well as clothing and souvenirs. It’s my local resource for saimin (Hawaii’s version of noodle soup) and Hawaiian Sun juice drinks, among other treats.

The Marvels. Don’t believe the pouting keyboard warriors who trashed the latest installment of the Marvel Cinematic Universe without even bothering to view it. (Here’s a tip, fanboys: When you begin a screed about any entertainment product with the words, “I haven’t seen/read/listened to [INSERT TITLE HERE], but…,” your opinion lost any credibility three words in.) The Marvels proved itself — to this person who actually bought a ticket — fun, engaging, and heartwarming, with the interplay between the three leads alone worth the price of admission — which I, unlike many online pundits, actually paid. Is it the MCU’s best film? No, not by a long shot. (The villain, in particular, is tragically underwritten… which can be said of the villains in at least half of the MCU outings. It’s neither a new nor a unique problem with this film.) But not every MCU movie has to be Avengers: Endgame or Black Panther, nor could they all be. The Marvels is very good for what it is — a mid-tier film in the Marvel canon. If that’s the sort of thing you like, you’ll probably like this one. I certainly did.

The Nest, my not-terribly-clever code name for the Vegas iteration of Casa de Swan. It’s taken over a year, but it finally feels fully and completely like home. It even has a thermostat on the wall with its own name on it.

Outlet shops. The Las Vegas North Premium Outlets are right in my neighborhood. I’m not really an outlets shopper, but every time I pass, they appear to be doing a land-office business. Plus there’s a Cheesecake Factory.

The Palms. Thought to be on the verge of extinction as recently as a couple of years ago, the Palms — the off-Strip hotel and casino that was once home to both a Playboy Club and a season of The Real World — appears to be thriving under the new ownership of the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians. It’s the first Las Vegas casino to be owned and operated by a Native American tribal band. (The casino at Virgin Las Vegas, formerly the Hard Rock Hotel, is operated by the Mohegan band out of Connecticut, but the property is owned by Virgin Hotels.) The new owners reopened the buffet — it’s a pretty decent one, in an era of vanishing buffets — and maintained most of the better dining and imbibing venues, including the iconic Ghostbar. The Pearl Concert Theater is a great place to see a show; I caught Cheap Trick there on their current tour.

Queen Latifah. She’s had stunning success as a music artist and as an actor. Her current TV venture, a retooling of the classic crime series The Equalizer, is pretty solid — though I’ll admit that I prefer the film series starring Denzel Washington… because Denzel. Props to The Queen, though, for doing it her way.

Repeat champions. Speaking of Queens, all hail to the Queens of the WNBA, the back-to-back world champion Las Vegas Aces! What an exciting (and sometimes crazy) season the Aces put forward on their way to their second consecutive title. Even the mid-campaign, season-ending injury to newly acquired superstar Candace Parker, and the equally season-ending arrest and subsequent banishment of super sub Riqana Williams, couldn’t derail the Aces as they marched to collect another trophy. When “Tha Point Gawd” Chelsea Gray went down during the Finals, the team rallied to finish off the archrival New York Liberty, almost without missing a beat. I can hardly wait to see what happens as coach Becky Hammon and all-World forward A’ja Wilson (the Finals MVP, who should also have been the regular season MVP) lead the squad in search of a threepeat in 2024.

The Scarlet Witch. I might be referring here to one of my all-time favorite comics (and later MCU) heroines. But I’m actually referring to the crimson Subaru that replaced my previous vehicle (nicknamed the Blubaru, for reasons you can probably guess) at the end of last year. She’s red, and she does a ton of technological tricks that seem like magic. What else could I have called her? (She answers to Wanda — as in Maximoff — for short.)

The Tropicana. I’m going to miss the old Trop, which as of recent events is officially doomed to be razed in the near future, to make way for the new stadium home of the soon-to-arrive Las Vegas Athletics of Major League Baseball. The Trop was my go-to lodging spot when I came to Vegas as a visitor, for the better part of a decade. In fact, I enjoyed one final stay at the Trop last year when I pulled into town as a new resident, while I waited for the truck ferrying my belongings. So long, old friend. We’ve shared many good times and made many cherished memories. I hope the implosion isn’t too painful.

Uzo Aduba. I read in an interview that the talented actor, who recently headlined the reboot of the TV series In Treatment, got her breakthrough role as Crazy Eyes in Orange Is the New Black in an interesting way. Apparently, Aduba auditioned for another role in the same show. When her agent called, they had “bad news” and “good news.” The bad news: Aduba didn’t get the role she’d read for. The good news: The producers wanted to cast her instead as Crazy Eyes. To which Aduba said that she responded: “What was it about my audition that made them think I’d be right for a character called Crazy Eyes?” Whatever it was, it was worth two Emmys. Indeed, Aduba is the only performer to win a “Best Supporting” Emmy for both comedy and drama for the same role in the same series. Sometimes, as Mick Jagger once noted, you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.

The Venetian Theatre. In the past year, I saw five terrific concerts in this gorgeous venue: ZZ Top; Styx; Smokey Robinson (when you can see a legend, go see a legend); Ringo Starr and His All-Starr Band (when you can see a Beatle, go see a Beatle); and Earth, Wind and Fire. I also saw the national touring company of the Broadway show SIX here. I’m hoping to see many more shows at the Venetian in the years ahead.

Watch Art Grand Exhibition. This year, for the third time, I was privileged to be hired by the world-renowned Swiss watchmakers Patek Philippe to narrate the audio guide to one of their Grand Exhibitions. I first narrated the Grand Exhibition held in New York in 2017, then provided the English-language version of the guide to the Singapore Grand Exhibition in 2019. This year, Patek Philippe took their display to Tokyo, and I again got the call to narrate the English-language guide. I now understand far more about the craft of artisan horologerie than I ever imagined that I would. If you ever get to see one of these periodic exhibitions, I highly recommend that you check it out.

X. I’m just going to give the letter X the year off. I’m not really thankful for anything — or anyone — related to X (regardless of what X may or may not have been called previously) this year. (If you know, you know.)

“Ya Mo Be There.” If I hear this song one more time, ya mo… well… not burn this place to the ground. Maybe I’ll butt-dance in my seat instead.

Zippy’s. After an interminable period of years since the original announcement, the Hawaii-based diner chain Zippy’s has finally opened its first location in Las Vegas. The day I considered stopping in, the waiting queue wrapped around the building. I’ll definitely get there sometime soon, after the initial furor dies down a bit. That’s assuming, of course, that it dies down. People here on the Ninth Island have been waiting an awfully long time for a Zippy’s.

And of course, as always, friend reader, I am deeply grateful for you. I appreciate your time and attention. My hope is that you’ll be inspired to list a few of the things and people you’re happy to have in your life, and give grace according to whatever belief system you subscribe to. I hope you’ve had a most excellent Thanksgiving, and that you’ve been able to share it with at least some of the people for whom you’re the most thankful. May we all be here in 12 months to be grateful yet again.

Comic Art Friday: The Jackie Robinson of comics

April 15, 2016

Allow me to begin today’s festivities by wishing you a happy Jackie Robinson Day.

In the event that you’re not a baseball aficionado — in which case, I might think somewhat less of you, but we can still be friends — I’ll explain that April 15 marks the anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s first appearance with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947, becoming the game’s first black player since baseball banned participation by African Americans in the late 1880s. The integration of the national pastime led not only to revolutionary change in the sporting world, but in society as a whole. No less a civil rights champion than Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. credited baseball’s black pioneers with “making my job easy” by demonstrating that people of color could work successfully alongside their white counterparts, and even excel, when provided opportunity.

Variant cover for Black Panther #1 (2016 series), original art by Ryan Sook

It seems appropriate, then, to celebrate Jackie Robinson’s historic accomplishment with an artwork featuring the Black Panther, whose advent in Fantastic Four #52 (July 1966) represented to mainstream comics what Robinson’s arrival did to baseball. It’s Ryan Sook’s variant cover for Black Panther #1, the first issue of the new Marvel series that hit the stands last week. I acquired the original black-and-white ink art from Ryan last month at Silicon Valley Comic Con. I don’t usually have much interest in buying published covers or pages — my collection largely consists of commissioned pieces, as regular readers can attest — but I couldn’t pass up the chance to own this amazing cover. Thanks, Ryan! (You can see the published version, in full color, below.)

These are good days to be a Black Panther fan, which I’ve been since he began appearing regularly in The Avengers in 1968. Not only are we getting a fresh run of Panther stories in the comics — with scripts by award-winning author and social commentator Ta-Nehesi Coates, and art by the incredible Brian Stelfreeze — but T’Challa is also poised to make his big-screen debut next month in Captain America: Civil War. Portraying the Panther is actor Chadwick Boseman, who coincidentally also played Jackie Robinson in the film 42. Boseman will continue the role in a Black Panther solo film scheduled for release in July 2018. You’d best believe I’ll be among the first in line to see that one.

Black Panther #1 (2016 series), Ryan Sook variant cover

It’s worth mentioning that while the Panther was the first black superhero in mainstream comics, he wasn’t the first character of African descent to star in his own title. In December 1965, Dell Comics — best known for its licensed comics based on popular TV shows — published Lobo, a Western adventure featuring an African American gunfighter as its titular protagonist. The series, created by writer D.J. Arneson and artist Tony Tallarico, lasted only two issues. Not until Luke Cage, Hero For Hire arrived in June 1972 would a black superhero headline his own book. (The Black Panther took over the lead feature in Marvel’s Jungle Action comic beginning in July 1973. He moved to his own eponymous series in January 1977.)

I still remember the first time I stood in front of the spinner rack at the local supermarket and saw the Black Panther on the cover of a comic book. My younger self could scarcely have envisioned the day when the Panther would stand at the brink of multimedia superstardom, as he does today.

As I said earlier… good days indeed, for us T’Challa fans.

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

Comic Art Friday: Why ad men don’t write comics

March 28, 2014

I never think in advance about what one of my Common Elements artworks will look like when I commission it. As I’ve written on other occasions, much of the fun for me is the surprise of seeing how an artist decided to use the characters I assigned.

In the case of today’s spotlight piece, however, I did have one thought: How will Dheeraj Verma make NFL SuperPro not look lame?

Because NFL SuperPro just might be the lamest superhero in the history of comics.

At the very least, he’s in the top three.

Wildcat and NFL SuperPro, pencils by comics artist Dheeraj Verma

Sir Alec Issigonis, the man responsible for the British car we know today as the Mini, once said, “A camel looks like a horse that was planned by a committee.” NFL SuperPro looks like a superheroic camel dreamed up by a sports marketing firm. And not a top-shelf sports marketing firm — a midlevel agency trying to get in good with the biggest dog in American professional sports, the National Football League.

You can almost imagine the conversation…

“Wouldn’t it be awesome if, like, a football player became a superhero?”

“Yeah, but not just a football player… like, the literal embodiment of the NFL.”

“Dude, I think you’re onto something! And what if this NFL superhero had, like, his own Marvel comic book? Y’know, with Spider-Man or Wolverine or whoever guest-starring?”

[Pregnant pause]

“Make the phone call.”

I don’t know for sure that’s how it went down, but I’m probably not all that far off.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. If NFL SuperPro is so completely ridiculous, why are you using him in a Common Elements commission?

Because, friend reader, that’s the magic of Common Elements. The element of surprise. Bringing together characters you’d never expect to see in the same frame — perhaps even a character or two that you’d ever expect to see, period.

And because, hey — the very idea that Marvel actually published nine issues of a comic book about NFL SuperPro makes me chuckle. I mean, what could be sillier? MLB Bat-Man? NHL Iceman? Luke Cage as a literal cage match fighter? (Wait… I actually like that one.)

For an example of a professional-athlete-turned-costumed-crusader done right — or at least, less wrong — there’s Wildcat. Although he’s a perennial C-lister, Wildcat holds a place alongside some of the longest-running superheroes in comics. He first appeared in July 1942’s Sensation Comics #1 — the very same issue made famous as the debut of Wonder Woman. If nothing else, Wildcat stands the test of time.

When he’s not running around dressed like a ginormous black cat, Ted Grant is a retired heavyweight boxing champion and expert martial artist. (Because if you’re a superhero, and don’t have superhuman abilities, martial arts expertise is de rigeur.) A longtime member of the Justice Society of America — formerly the alternate-Earth version of the Justice League, now more like a mentorship program in which older heroes show younger crimebusters the ropes — Ted has helped train several up-and-comers, most notably the current iteration of Black Canary.

At various times, Ted has also shared the Wildcat identity with junior heroes. A young woman named Yolanda Montez became Wildcat for a while in the 1980s. Later, Ted’s long-estranged son Tom Bronson morphs into a werecat (I kid you not) and joins his dad in the JSA, both of them calling themselves Wildcat. Tom eventually opts to be known as “Tomcat” instead, which is both less confusing and more comical at the same time.

It’s a good thing that artist Verma chose to depict these two athlete-avengers as fighting on the same side. Should there ever be a battle between Wildcat and NFL SuperPro, Wildcat will kick SuperPro’s hindquarters nine ways from Sunday.

Why?

Because NFL SuperPro is lame.

And that’s your Comic Art Friday.

If I had a ballot…

January 8, 2013

…I’d ballot in the morning. I’d ballot in the evening, all over this land.

And assuming that ballot were for the National Baseball Hall of Fame (“the Hall” for the remainder of this post, because I’m not typing that entire name over and over again), here’s who’d be on mine this year.

  • Barry Bonds
  • Roger Clemens
  • Jeff Bagwell
  • Mike Piazza
  • Jack Morris
  • Lee Smith

Tomorrow, the members of the Baseball Writers Association of America (hereafter “the BBWAA,” because, well, see above) will announce their selections. I fully expect, based on the electors who’ve already publicized their votes, that Bonds and Clemens will not make the Hall in this, their first year of eligibility. Indeed, I would not be surprised if Bagwell doesn’t make it either, though the case for his election or omission is more easily argued from either side, in my opinion. (I doubt that Morris, who’s on the ballot for the 14th year, and Smith, who’s on year 11, will ever be elected, for different reasons than the aforementioned players.) Piazza? Hard to predict.

But let’s get this on the table right now: If Bonds and Clemens — the greatest offensive player and pitcher, respectively, of their generation — are not elected to the Hall tomorrow, as I suspect they will not be, it’s a travesty.

Most, if not indeed all, of the electors who left Bonds and Clemens (and possibly Bagwell and Piazza) off their ballots will say it’s because they cheated the game by using performance-enhancing drugs (“PEDs,” because… you know). Here’s the first problem with that: We don’t know whether they did or didn’t.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: We do know. Game of Shadows, and all that. Well, I read Game of Shadows right after it came out, and it impressed me at the time as the work of two muckrakers trying to make a name for themselves. There’s a ton of speculation in the book, and a lot of “he said, they said” scuttlebutt from sources the writers declined to identify, but not a great deal of what folks in the legal profession call “evidence.” The fact remains that we’ve never seen the results of a positive test for PEDs that Bonds failed, and I’m not sure we ever saw one from Clemens either. Bonds was tried in federal court, and was not convicted of perjury regarding PED use. (He was convicted on a single count of obstruction of justice, which may yet collapse on appeal.) The last time I checked, our legal system still operated on the principle of “innocent until proven guilty.”

But what about the evidence of our own eyes? Bonds grew from Bill Bixby (or Eric Bana, Edward Norton, or Mark Ruffalo, take your pick) into the Incredible Hulk right practically in front of us. Don’t get me wrong — I think he used PEDs. I don’t know whether he took anabolic steroids, but I’d guess he at least took human growth hormone (HGH). But what I think and guess is essentially irrelevant. My inferences, deductions, and suppositions are not proof. Like most people, I believe in a lot of things I can’t prove, and I’m entitled to those beliefs. I can’t, however, prove that someone is guilty of something simply because I believe it to be so. Two years ago, I was the foreman on a jury that convicted a man of murder. My fellow jurors and I convicted the defendant on the basis of evidence, not because we looked at the guy and said, “Yeah, I think he did it.” I believe Bonds, Clemens, and every other player suspected of PED use deserves the same consideration.

There’s another factor in this that frequently gets brushed aside. PED use, while clearly contrary to the spirit of fair play and integrity, was not against the rules of baseball during most of what today gets referred to as “the Steroid Era.” Make no mistake, using those substances was against federal and state laws. But unlike, say, cycling or the Olympics, baseball itself did not explicitly prohibit their use, nor test for said use, until well after PEDs were epidemic in the sport. Was that a loophole? Sure. But you can’t penalize people for taking advantage of a loophole if one exists. All you can do is close the loophole, and say, “No more.” Baseball has now done that — we might argue about how effectively — but that creates no retroactive license to go back and slap the wrists of players who might have engaged in activity that was not prohibited by the rules of the sport that then stood. If San Francisco starts metering parking on Sundays (which, not coincidentally, the city did on January 1), the meter reader can’t send me a ticket for not feeding the meter on a Sunday before the law changed.

One more point, and I’ll stop the ranting. People inside the game, whose expert opinions I respect, have estimated that at the height of the Steroid Era, as many as 75 to 80 percent of MLB players may have used PEDs to some degree. That means guys like Bonds and Clemens — and what the heck, throw Bagwell and Piazza in there too — were not outliers if indeed they used. They were part of the flow of traffic, just as you or I are when we nudge our cars upward of the posted speed limit to keep pace with the cars around us. (And we do. Let’s not be all sanctimonious here.) Does that make it right, if they did it? No. But it does mean there was a clear majority of players who were equally in the wrong. Which, to my mind, levels the playing field. It’s no longer “cheating” — and again, as noted above, it actually wasn’t cheating under the then-prevailing rules of the game — if everyone, or nearly everyone, is cheating. Ask the NFL Players Association, which turns a consistent blind eye to the widely intimated idea that perhaps 75 to 80 percent of its membership uses HGH to this very day, even though such usage is currently against the rules of their sport.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love baseball. It has been part of my life for more than 40 years, a part that I now love sharing with my daughter. And I consider myself a purist in a lot of ways — I prefer the National League style of play in which pitchers came to bat, and I enjoy seeing the fundamentals of the game practiced at the highest level. It makes me sad that we had a Steroid Era (assuming we’re not still having a PED Era in some fashion, which may be another example of assuming facts not in evidence). But let’s not kid ourselves: We did have such an era. We did not have a period in which a random handful of players — Bonds and Clemens included — used PEDs. We had a period, probably 20 years or more, during which the majority of major league players “juiced.” The idea that “everyone did it” doesn’t make it right, but it does need to influence how we view those who might have done it, and especially how we evaluate them within the timespan in which they played. Are we going to pretend, from the standpoint of the Hall, that those 20 years didn’t happen? That the statistics don’t count? That the games weren’t played? Ridiculous. We watched, even attended the games. We saw the achievements. They happened. And what’s more, we as fans of the game supported them, with our ticket-buying dollars, with our eyes on the television set, and with our ears to the radio. Let’s not act as though we didn’t. It’s hypocritical to harass the prostitute after we’ve paid for the services.

To those writers who take the holier-than-thou position that Bonds and Clemens, and others of their generation, don’t belong in the Hall because of the PED scandal, I say, “Take a good look in the mirror.” If you covered the game during the PED Era, and made your living by doing so, you were part of the problem too. You could have washed your hands and walked away. But you didn’t. You continued to draw a paycheck from a sport filled with guys dosing up with whatever BALCO and other pharmaceutical factories cranked out. You kept telling the stories, and selling the game. And don’t say you didn’t suspect, because if you didn’t then, why do you now? If you closed your eyes and held your nose all of those years, why can’t you do the same now, and acknowledge the accomplishments — within the context of the game as it was being played during their careers — of the men who provided you the means of your livelihood? Don’t act as though you’re better than they are. You are not.

If I had a ballot for the Hall of Fame, I’d check the boxes next to the six names listed above. Barry Bonds was the most amazing hitter I ever saw. Roger Clemens was one of the game’s most dominant pitchers. Mike Piazza ranks among the best to ever play behind the plate, both defensively and offensively… even if he was a Dodger for a lot of that time. Jeff Bagwell is a borderline call for me, but I’d vote for him. As for Jack Morris and Lee Smith, the former was the best starting pitcher in the American League for an entire decade, and the latter was one of baseball’s first and finest true closers.

In case you’re wondering, my exclusion of Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire has nothing to do with whether I think they did or didn’t use PEDs. McGwire was a one-trick pony — a player whose only tool was power. He rarely hit for average, had no speed, and for most of his career was a subpar defensive player. He was a beefed-up Dave Kingman or Dick Stuart, to put it another way. Sammy Sosa wasn’t even that good — a pretty solid mid-level star who had a couple of spectacular seasons. I wouldn’t vote for either of them, not because of PEDs, but because to my mind, they weren’t Hall of Fame-caliber players. (Craig Biggio? Tim Raines? Please. Very good, but not great players, whose stats are at least partially inflated by longevity, especially in Biggio’s case.)

You’re welcome to disagree. I won’t argue with your opinion, or your right thereto. But this is my ballot, and I’m sticking to it.

The perfect Cain

June 14, 2012

Over at ESPN.com — a site owned by a network that typically can’t be bothered to cover the Giants because, after all, we don’t have real sports out here on the Left Coast — David Schoenfield just asked the question, “Did Matt Cain throw the greatest game ever?”

Well, let’s see…

Matt Cain's perfect game: June 13, 2012

No hits.

No walks.

No baserunners.

27 up, 27 down.

14 strikeouts, tying the record for the most ever in a perfect game… a record set by Sandy Koufax, who for five seasons may have been the greatest pitcher ever.

A feat accomplished only 22 times in the 130-plus years of baseball history.

Yes, Mr. Schoenfield…

I believe he did.

You go, Matty. We’re glad you’re on our side.

One Hall step forward, one step back

January 5, 2011

Congratulations to Roberto Alomar, one of the greatest second basemen in the history of the game, on his election to the National Baseball Hall of Fame. A 12-time All-Star and 10-time Gold Glove winner, Robbie is well deserving of enshrinement. The only reason he wasn’t chosen in his first year of eligibility was the incident in which Alomar spat in the face of umpire John Hirschbeck. One single moment of stupidity — and it was stupid, no question — in an otherwise exemplary career shouldn’t keep the guy out of the Hall. Now, it won’t.

As for Bert Blyleven, I’m glad he finally made the Hall on his 13th attempt for one reason, and one reason only: We won’t have to listen to him whine anymore about not being elected.

Here’s the bottom line on Blyleven. He played 22 seasons in Major League Baseball, during which time he racked up 287 wins and 3701 strikeouts. But we’re talking about the Hall of Fame, not the Hall of Hung Around Forever. If we’re going by longevity, Jim Kaat and Jamie Moyer should be in the Hall (at least, Moyer should be if he ever retires), and no one who knows anything about baseball is going to make either of those arguments.

The fact is that Blyleven was a good pitcher, but nowhere near a great one. He won 20 games only once in 22 seasons, even though he played in an era when 20 wins was the gold standard of excellence for top starting pitchers. Heck, Mike Krukow won 20 for the Giants once — should Kruk be in the Hall? Blyleven only won as many as 19 once. At the same time, he posted seven — count ’em, seven — sub-.500 seasons. That’s seven years in which he lost more games than he won. That’s nearly one-third of his career. Does that sound like a Hall of Famer to you?

No one who ever saw Blyleven pitch — aside from a handful of snow-blinded Minnesotans — thought he was the best pitcher of his time, or even one of the best. He never won a Cy Young Award. He never placed higher than third in the Cy Young voting. He was chosen as an All-Star twice. Twice — in 22 seasons. Again… does that sound like a Hall of Famer to you?

It’s no accident that the most statistically similar pitcher to Bert Blyleven was Don Sutton, another somewhat-better-than-average pitcher who rolled up deceptive numbers simply by virtue of avoiding career-ending injury for more than two decades. The Hall of Fame should not be rewarding players just for being lucky. Don Sutton — who, like Blyleven, won 20 or more games only once, and was never a Cy Young front-runner — doesn’t belong in the Hall, even though the baseball writers saw fit to enshrine him.

Bert Blyleven doesn’t belong in the Hall either.

Roberto Alomar does.

An SI cover I’ve waited 35 years to see

November 2, 2010

At long last, I can scratch one huge item off my bucket list…

Sports Illustrated: SF Giants Win the World Series

The San Francisco Giants are the champions of the world.

To Big Time Timmy Jim, who won four games in the postseason and flat-out locked the Texas Rangers down over eight innings to notch Game 5;

To Edgar Renteria, the shortstop we all thought was washed up, but who discovered the Fountain of Youth in the playoffs and crushed the home run that won the Series;

To the best pitching staff in baseball — starters The Freak, The Shotgun, JSanch, MadBum, and Z-Man, plus relievers BWeez, J-Lo, The Surge, Crazy J, Jairo, Willie Mo, Rockin’ Ramon, Runz, and Ray;

To the undisputed Rookie of the Year, Buster Posey;

To Huff Daddy, The Boss, and Pat the Bat, guys the Giants picked up off the scrap heap and the waiver wire and revitalized their careers;

To Andres the Giant, Fab Freddy, and Magic Juan, coming through in the clutch with timely offense and sparkling defense;

To Panda, Little Mike, Ishi, Eli, Nate the Great, and A-Row, doing their thing and contributing;

To The Big Giant Head and his coaching staff — Rags, Wotus, Bam-Bam, Bobby, Flan, and Gardy — who pushed the team to excel every day;

To the Giants’ ownership group and front office staff, who signed the contracts and wrote the checks;

To the guys behind the scenes — clubhouse men Murph and Harvey, the training and conditioning team, the non-roster coaches and special assistants like Shawon, J.T., and Will the Thrill;

To the Giants Hall of Famers who never got there — The Say Hey Kid, Stretch, Cha-Cha, and The Spitter — but who keep reminding us what it means to be a Giant;

To the world’s greatest broadcasting corps — The Big Kahuna, Kuip, Kruk, Flem, Papa, Erwin, and Tito — who called every pitch and every swing;

To every last Giants fan everywhere, who’s stuck it out through any part of the past five decades of frustration…

Thank you. And good night.

Orange October: Electric Boogaloo!

October 23, 2010

A wise man once said that one picture is worth a thousand words.

2010 National League Champions: Your San Francisco Giants!

Yeah… that says it all.

Congratulations to my Giants! Special kudos to:

  • Cody “The Boss” Ross, who was named Most Valuable Player of the National League Championship Series;
  • “Magic” Juan Uribe, who hit the big home run in the eighth inning, giving the Giants a lead they would never relinquish;
  • Brian “The Beard” Wilson, who slammed the door on the Phillies by getting the final five outs, including a Statue of Liberty strikeout of Ryan Howard to end the game and the series;
  • Bruce “The Big Giant Head” Bochy, who pulled all of the right strings;
  • and Brian “Sabes” Sabean, who picked up guys like Ross, Pat “The Bat” Burrell, and clutch reliever Javier “J-Lo” Lopez when the Giants needed extra help down the stretch.

On to the World Series!