Wednesday, March 23, 2005

St. Patrick's Day Massacre

This blogger is still reeling from St. Patrick’s Day and it has nothing to do with celebrating the death of the Welsh criminal who drove the snakes from Ireland.

I’m hung over from the blarney issued by the greatest single-season home run slugger of all time at the Congressional steroid hearings on March 17th.

Like St. Patrick, Mark McGwire has a smooth tongue and a large fan base, but he choked under sworn testimony when he refused to deny using steroids to become one of the best batters in the history of the national pastime.

In Jose Canseco’s dreadful book that first alleged widespread use of steroids in baseball, Canseco says he personally injected McGwire with steroids when they were playing together for the Oakland Athletics. Big Mac subsequently issued a written statement that said: “Once and for all, I did not use steroids nor any other illegal substance.” His grammar not mine.

Under oath before Congress on St Patrick’s Day, McGwire was unable to make the same claim. And when asked by Rep. Elijah Cummings whether he was asserting his Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate himself, McGwire said: "I'm not here to talk about the past. I'm here to be positive about this subject." Which sounds like Sammy Sosa saying he only used his hollowed bats in batting practice to impress his fans.

“There’s a cloud over the game that I love,” said Rep. Tom Davis of Virginia, chairman of the steroid hearings after listening to McGwire’s double talk. But no one else appeared particularly agitated by the scandal. It was all business as usual.

When we are swimming in an ocean of disgraced heroes what’s one more disappointment? It’s like the entire American population has become simply numb to corruption. Bill Bennett calls it the death of outrage.

No one is the least shocked that our captains of industry – from Martha Stuart to Bernie Ebbers – are convicted felons. No one in their right mind believes anything that passes from the lips of our elected officials. God knows our priests can’t be trusted with our children. We live in a society without a moral compass and no one gives a hoot.

And now baseball, the most magic of all sports, has been poisoned by a new generation of liars and cheats.

For sure there has been a history of mischief in baseball. This is not the first incident. One interesting scam happened in July 1965 when the Detroit Tigers were accused of storing the game’s baseballs in an ice box. The Tigers were in a bitterly contested five-game pennant series against the Chicago White Sox. The balls in the game were observed to be “ice cold” on that hot July afternoon. The colder the ball, the lower its elasticity, the slower it flies off the bat.

Neat trick. So simple and ingenuous that it makes us smile. It’s got to the point that we compliment such chicanery. If cheating is cute or clever, then we’ll give it a pass. So is it any wonder that Big Mac fans don’t know what to think.

In 1998, after witnessing Mark McGwire hit five homers in three games to finish the season with a record-breaking 70 home runs, Dan Shaughnessy bought his young son a $125 McGwire replica jersey. The veteran sports writer then penned a story about the incredible new American hero that was printed on Page One of the Boston Globe.

Last week, following the St. Patrick’s Day testimony, Shaughnessy ran another story in the Globe, a retraction of sorts, that concluded with the observation that his now 17-year-old son doesn’t quite know what to do with that 1998 Cardinal jersey that still hangs in his closet.

Tell him to burn the jersey, Dan. Better yet, tell him to take a hot steaming dump in the jersey, wrap it up, and send it postage due to McGwire’s home address.

Yeah, it’s okay to get angry. And if enough people don’t get angry then McGwire will become another St. Patrick. Which is to say a fraud who became a saint.

St. Patrick’s real name was Maewyn Succat. He was not born Irish or Christian. When he was a boy he was kidnapped in Wales and sold into slavery around 400 A.D. He worked as a slave for at least six years in Ireland, when he was fortunate enough to escape. He fled to England, then France, where he was taken in by the church. There the young pagan con artist changed his name to Patrick, took up the cross, and with the blessings of the Pope eventually returned to Ireland to drive out the snakes.

The snakes being the Celtic Druids he blamed for his years of servitude. Patrick’s revenge was to convert all of Ireland to Christianity. He was arrested and imprisoned several times for his efforts, but he always managed to escape or smooth talk his way out of prison.

March 17 marks the day Patrick died in 461. Celts are not celebrating Maewyn’s birthday; they are celebrating his death. And for a reason. He is an anathema to all true Celts, but to this day, despite the historic revelations, the dead con artist remains the patron saint of Ireland. And much beloved by millions.

Time will pass, wounds will heal, Mark McGwire will be inducted into the Hall of Fame, and once again we will have a home grown champion for kids to worship. We all need heroes.

Years from now the steroid thing will probably be viewed as a pack of lies stirred up by a bunch of no name Congressmen. A meaningless asterisk in history.

Yet justice will still be served. It will be served tonight by every dark memory that haunts anyone who cheats in baseball. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. No matter how deep the denial, no matter what the excuses, dishonest players will forver toss and turn in the eternal lonely moments, knowing what they have done.

Mark McGwire should pray there is no hell because this blogger does not believe there can be forgiveness for those who cheat in baseball.

Monday, February 28, 2005

Remembering Hunter S. Thompson

When people ask me what Hunter Thompson was like I tell them he was just like the character in his books, and they smile and nod and leave me alone. I’m allergic to small talk, and despite my years at the
National Enquirer, I really hate sharing gossip about celebrities. Besides, they say it’s not right to speak ill of the dead.

But that bastard Thompson nearly got me fired because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut about our nocturnal activities. And he broke his solemn promise not to drag my good name into any of his wretched works of fiction. That’s right, fiction that he sold as journalism. So, yeah, let’s kick some dirt at the maniac’s ghost.

Thompson in Aspen in 1981

Let’s start in Palm Beach in 1983. Peter and Roxanne Pulitzer were having a messy public divorce and the national press corps was having fun in Florida covering the trial. Thompson was reporting the event for Rolling Stone, Reggie Potterton for Playboy, and I was covering it for the Enquirer. We didn’t mix well with the straight press, and so it was natural for the three of us to pool our resources.

A few weeks into this circus, in the middle of one night, Thompson calls me up and says he has an emergency. He’s always having emergencies and I told him to call 911. But he’s says he’s having a problem with the Pulitzer story and needs my help.

That woke me up. The secretive, reclusive, sociopathic egomaniac wants my help? This was totally uncharacteristic. Hunter was a solo operator. He was a lone wolf. He would never ask for help.

Thompson loved playing with fire.

So I go over to his low rent bungalow in West Palm, and find both the front and back doors are wide open, and the lights are off. So I turn on the lights and no one is home. The living room was littered with bottles and overloaded ashtrays and dead junk food. Remember the cheap hotel rooms where Nicholas Cage drank himself to death in Leaving Las Vegas? Just like that.

Eventually, Hunter ambles inside wearing only a bathrobe and dark aviator glasses, and of course his cigarette holder is clutched between his teeth. He was gripping a long black flashlight in one hand and a Colt 45 Combat Commander in the other. And there was a cut on his balding head that was leaking a little blood. He was mumbling more loudly than usual, and there was a hillbilly lope to his gait which gets really pronounced when he’s drunk.

This is all completely normal behavior for Thompson, and I did’t see any emergency that justifies getting me out of bed.

Certainly, there was no sense asking him why he was running around in the dark with a flashlight and handgun. I would never get a straight answer. He often reminded me of an autistic child who was off in his own world. A world, I suspect, that was populated by some pretty fearsome demons. Not that Hunter would ever show fear or turmoil or doubt, but he had a head full of trouble.

One nice thing about Hunter is that he could pull the big master switch in his brain and turn off the psychopath and turn on a personality that could communicate with the real world. His uncanny ability to shape shift his personality was a talent that let him make a living. And it kept him out of the slammer on many occasions. In fact, on rare days, he could be actually charming.

So he switches on an agreeable personality and pours us drinks and stuffs some typewritten sheets of paper in my hands. He asks me to read his first draft of the Pulitzer story.

And it’s garbage. Pulitzer is hardly mentioned. It is the unprintable ramblings of an intoxicated lunatic.

I didn’t know what to say or do because Thompson still had the gun in his hand. And he was waving it around and making incoherent noises.

It is fitting that Thompson died from a gun shot wound to the head. He was a gun nut. The most fun he had in Florida was going to the Everglades on the weekends and shooting up the tropical flora and fauna with exotic automatic weapons. Guns were exciting and wonderful toys to Hunter and he seemed oblivious to the danger they posed to himself and others, which is probably why he shot so many people. Yeah, accidentally.

So, while I sat on his bed, waiting to be shot, I re-read the Pulitzer piece, and it seemed better after I reordered some of the pages. And after a third reading, key lines were jumping out at me and I suddenly got it. The master craftsman had shifted the focus of the story away from the Pulitzer divorce trial and he had launched a howling indictment of Palm Beach society.

Brilliant. The Pulitzer story was small potatoes. Who cared that Roxanne Pulitzer had sex with a trumpet and drank too many daiquiris. Certainly not the readers of Rolling Stone. But the Palm Beach society angle was good. F. Scott Fitzgerald good. He had stumbled upon a diamond as big as the Ritz. This was class warfare. He had discovered why they called the denizens of Palm Beach filthy rich.

And we started talking about this angle and he got excited and he put down the gun.

Soon it was sunrise. Hunter was not fond of early morning light and I managed to escape, exhausted and drunk, but not shot.

And so it went when Thompson got into your life. It was an unending series of close scrapes with disaster, but it was also like hanging out with an alien life form that did not understand, or care about, the customs and laws of pathetic Earthlings. While Hunter could mix with bikers, madmen and drunks, he also had a subtle aloofness. He enjoyed being different. He enjoyed being smarter than the rest of us.

He also liked being unpredictably aggressive. When David Letterman made the mistake of inviting Thompson on Late Night to promote the film Where the Buffalo Roam with Bill Murray, Thompson attempted to take over the show. I mean he physically tried to get Letterman out of his desk and take over the show. And there was a nasty rumor that he had brought an explosive device on the set. The good doctor of gonzo journalism was escorted off the set and his antics were edited from the segment.

After the broadcast I asked him what had happened and he denied bringing a bomb to the show, and he said he was just trying to give Letterman the same rough treatment that the TV comedian gave all his guests. Or whatever.

In the picture below, at the film premier of Fear & Loathing, you can see Thompson holding a ripped bag of popcorn which he had been throwing at Johnny Depp. Yeah, Hunter could act like a two year old.

He had to be the center of attention. If there was another celebrity in the room on whom all the cameras were focused, he would do something like set the room on fire. Unless, of course, he wanted to be left alone. He’d rip your head off if you stumbled uninvited into his space. And forget about waking him up if he was late for an appointment.

Despite his violent mood swings and prickly personality, people everywhere adored him. On countless occasions on the street I saw all kinds of people approach him and ask for autographs. I was always amazed at the warmth the public had for a man with such an unwelcome reputation.

In fact, Thompson had groupies who would follow him from story to story. This puzzled him. He never could figure out how they knew what he was working on because not only was he obsessively secretive, but because he seldom knew himself what he was working on or where he might be tomorrow. Most of these groupies were young women who would do anything for some face time with the doctor.

Of course these deluded hormone-soaked creatures got the shock of their lives when they got up close and personal with Hunter, who was as liable to lash out and humiliate them as he was to bend them over. Which is not to say that he was a misogynist; he was more of a misanthrope. He really didn’t care for anyone getting too close or too personal.

I was happy to learn that he got married a few years ago, hoping that he had mellowed, and praying that Anita would live through the experience with her sanity intact. And I was not shocked to learn that he blew his brains out last week and left instructions to have his cremated remains shot out of the end of a canon. A perfect ending to a crazy life.

News reports say Anita was talking to him on the phone when he pulled the trigger. She later told reporters that he wanted to get out “while he was still on top of his game.”

He was pushing seventy and you can say he got out before his brains turned to mush. You can argue that the whole fear and loathing thing was getting old in the 21st Century, but in some ways, here in the brave new era of political correctness, we probably need Hunter Thompson more now than we did in the counterculture years.

We will always need blasphemous iconoclasts who are willing to tell anyone who’ll listen that your President is a liar and the government is not working in your best interest. The legend of Hunter Thompson is so shrouded in the trappings of his eccentric lifestyle that we tend to overlook his contributions. And there were many.

"America is just a nation of two hundred million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns and no qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable."
- Hunter S. Thompson

Long before anyone had heard of Woodward and Bernstein, Thompson was telling us that Nixon was a crook. Long before most Americans knew where Iran was on the map, Thompson was warning us that Jimmy Carter was weak. He told us Reagan was senile before Alzheimer’s was a household word. And he’d been telling us Bush was not an honest man long before we invaded Iraq.

But Thompson was more than a political prophet. He tore down the façade of objective journalism by showing that a reporter is always part of the story, and that an observer always disturbs what he is observing. Thompson was always telling us that there is no such thing as “fair and balanced.” He knew that his drug-addled perspective on our society was just as skewed as – and just as valid as – the family value howlings of Bill O’Reilly.

Even loaded to the gills with alcohol, it takes actual courage to put your name on a story in a national publication and call the President of the United States a liar. Years before anyone else had a clue.

So an era has passed. A great American is gone. A warrior has fallen.

Which one of you will pick up his sword?

Sunday, February 27, 2005

The Russians Are Coming. Again.

This blogger is very curious about the rumors of wild parties in the bowels of the Pentagon this weekend. Champagne corks were apparently flying amid reports that the Russians have signed a deal to help Iran with its nuclear power program.

Apparently the deal was signed between the two countries this afternoon at the Bushehr nuclear power plant in southern Iran. The agreement calls for Russia to supply Iran with nuclear fuel, and in exchange, Iran promises to return all spent nuclear fuel to the Russians. Nuclear weapons can be manufactured from the spent fuel, and the return of the spent fuel to Russia is intended to supply some assurances that Tehran will not be building bombs any time very soon.

So why are the boys so happy at the Pentagon?

The guys who are celebrating are the bitter-enders from the Cold War. Ole Rummy had been purging the building of these dinosaurs in favor of the 'modern soldier' who engages in anti-terrorism operations like Afghanistan and pre-emptive interventions like Iraq.

The neo-con thinking is that the era of global nuclear confrontation is over. We won after dropping only two bombs on Japan. The calculation is that Russian and China would not emerge as serious global rivals.

But suddenly it looks like the Russians are regaining their strength and are flexing their muscles and the Cold Warriors may once again have a place in the 21st Century. Yeah, enjoy the party, but this blogger thinks the cork should go back in the champagne while we think this through.

Poor George must be very confused because Mr. Putin had looked him in the eye and shook his hand just a few days ago. Everyone agreed that Iran should not get into the nuclear business. Poor George announced it on TV. And now who looks pretty stupid?

Did we know the Russians were going to sign the deal with the Iranians just days after the summit with Poor George? Or did we experience another massive intelligence failure?

What exactly is Mr. Putin telegraphing to the world? Is he saying he can lie to the President of the United States on television and then publicly screw him a few days later? Has Russia become so bold? Or did they just simply change their minds about Iran after Mr. Bush had returned to Washington?

Yeah, they're back, and up to their old tricks. And lots of people are glad to see the bear is back. The Europeans will be particularly pleased to see Russia serving as a new counterweight to Pax Americana. And of course there is the nostalgia of the heady days of Khruschev and Kennedy when you never knew when someone might drop the big one.

Russia has more untapped oil than most Arab nations, and inside the ice box they call Siberia is a continent full of natural resources, strategic metals, coal and gold. The Russians are coming alright and this time they will confront us on our own terms. They'll be players in the free market and they'll have more chips on the table.

This curious blogger wonders if Poor George will be up all night scratching his head wondering what went so wrong.

Friday, February 25, 2005

FDA Votes Vioxx Back on the Market

This blogger is curious about the FDA's recent decision to allow the arthritis pain killer Vioxx back on the market despite evidence that the drug has been linked to as many as 100,000 heart attacks and strokes.

You may remember that pharmaceutical giant Merck voluntarily pulled Vioxx from the market back in September 2004 following a study in the British medical journal
The Lancet, authored by Dr. David Graham, that linked Vioxx to between 88,000 and 140,000 excess cardiovascular incidents. By the time the drug had been withdrawn, over 80 million people had taken the pain killer worldwide, grossing Merck some $2.3 billion per year in sales.

The story took a twisted turn when e-mails surfaced from Merck, some dating back to 2000, indicating that the company knew about the dangers of Vioxx but chose to cover them up. The drug giant apparently launched what they called a "dodge ball" strategy when touting the popular pain killer, providing its sales staff with instructions on how to artfully dodge the increasing number of questions about the drug's safety. One report indicates Merck knew Vioxx was dangerous as long ago as 1996.

The Vioxx scandal once again rasises questions about the FDA. Is the government watchdog agency protecting physicians and patients, or are they in the pockets of the drug companies?

This week, at the request of the New York Times, a study of the affiliations of the FDA experts who voted on Vioxx was conducted by the Center for Science in the Public Interest. This study found that 10 of the 18 experts who elected to keep Vioxx on the market had connections to Merck and other pharmaceutical companies that make the COX-2 inhibitors like Vioxx. The final tally was 18 to 14 to put this deadly drug back on the pharmacy shelf.

A report from CBS says that if these 10 FDA experts had abstained from voting, then the FDA panel would have decided 14 to 8 to keep Vioxx off the market. The FDA has responded to these stories saying they properly screened all members and found no significant conflicts.

Whatever the merits of the FDA's exercise in self-screening, this blogger believes that in the case of Vioxx, a drug that was withdrawn from the market because of its link to thousands of deaths, no members of the FDA panel with any connections to the companies that make these drugs should have been voting. Period.

Even if these 10 FDA experts were not influenced in any way by their affiliations to the drug companies, the appearance of impropriety should have prompted any decent men on the FDA panel to recuse themselves from the proceedings and abstain from voting on Vioxx.

What can curious bloggers do?

With a click of the mouse on the form letter links below, you can send a handful of earnest Senators this blog with a note demanding to know how all this happened. These men work for you. When enough people contact them, they have to start investigations. E-mails do work.

Senator Edward Kennedy (D-Mass), Senate Health Committee

Senator John McCain (R-Arizona), Senate Commerce Committee

Senator Charles Grassley (R-Iowa), Senate Finance Committee
This fellow has started asking the FDA questions about Vioxx. He needs your support.

If you can't spare the minute to compose an original letter, then copy and paste this link to direct these men to this blog: