All the better when I have to punch in tomorrow for a few hours, which should tell you everything you need to know about how well that project for work is getting along. Which is to say hardly at all.
But enough about that.
What a week.
On Monday was the DEBATE TO END ALL DEBATES(untilthenextonein10days) and the Warrior Host of the TRUMPENKRIEG were whetting for Clinton blood, assured that she was going to be destroyed, whether through the culmination of her manifold malaises or through the sheer iron force of the man himself.
Cut to 90 minutes later, and a smugly smirking possibly robotically assisted Clinton still stood there, gripping her Special Ed podium for all she was worth, exhausted from the COUGHING PREVENTION MACHINERY sutured into her body and from all the handwave gesturing she was using to send in the play call to the moderator throughout the night. That the debate would be rigged and stage-managed to such a point came as a surprise to no one except, seemingly, the TRUMPENKRIEG, who I think expected Trump to walk out on stage, shake Clinton’s hand, call her a lying sack of cunts stuffed into a pantsuit, and then stab her to death with her own Epi Pen. Barring that, they expected Clinton to keel over dead within minutes.
Anyway, the nuts and bolts of it are that Clinton needed to survive and exit the stage after 90 minutes under her own power, while Trump needed to refrain from launching any red-face tirades, and for all intents and purposes, they both hit their marks – anything more than basic survival was all gravy for Clinton, all the times Trump refrained from calling her a cunt likewise. All of the straw polls show Trump winning the debate; all of the “scientific” polls show Clinton won, and all of the mass of data and agitprop in between shows pretty clearly that neither moved the needle much either way.
In fact, the whole thing has the look and feel of a classic psy op. In the couple of weeks leading up to the debate, the polls narrowed to such a point where the candidates were neck-and-neck on debate day. I predicted on Monday that if this were a rigged confidence game, the polls will separate and by the end of the week Clinton would be clearly pulling ahead, no matter how badly the polls had to be gamed to achieve the necessary results.
So in the past few days you did begin to see movement in tracking polls – Clinton has begun to pull ahead in polls where the weighted sample increases the number of Democrats and decreases the numbers of both Republicans and Independents – for example the Reuters/Ipsos poll once again switched their methodology and has undertaken a 44%/28%/28% sample split for D/R/I where last week they were using a 36%/31%/33% split for D/R/I. And with stacking in that many more Democrats, they managed to move her poll lead from +1 to +3.
The LA Times tracking poll, along with a couple of others that has maintained a consistent methodology, shows Trump gaining slight ground.
I think Clinton will need to do more than merely survive the next debate to move her numbers.
Unless, as I suspect, she’s already won and we’re just trudging through the motions for appearances’ sake.
So this Sunday the long-time announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers, Vin Scully, will call his last game, fittingly 80 years to the day of watching his first baseball game. Vin, with his distinctive voice that was as much a part of summer as a smooth breeze coming low off of the water, is a gifted storyteller of the type we just don’t have anymore, and his departure is just another in a long series of good things going away only to be replaced by flagrant mediocrities. It’s beginning to dawn on me that a large part of the reason I still tune into Dodger games is simply to listen to a great artist perform his craft at the highest possible level, like witnessing Louis Armstrong on the trumpet or Stevie Ray Vaughn on the guitar. Couple that with the man’s humble nature and earnest thanks to God for his blessings, he is a man apart and one of the last few links we have to a better time that is now virtually extinct.
So on Sunday, I’ll head out to my workshop, pop on the radio I have on the workbench, and listen to the voice of summer paint a picture of a game I used to love one last time while I tend to some trivial, menial task and bask in the fleeting heat of the dwindling summer. And when he’s done, I think I will be as well, with baseball and sports in general, because I just don’t know if I can muster a single fuck anymore.
But for all that, if ever there was a time in a person’s life to experience one of the greatest moments in sports history, that time is when you’re an 11-year-old boy with your brother and father in your father’s workshop, listening to the greatest announcer ever paint the picture of that great moment through a tinny transistor radio over on the workbench.
This is that moment:
That’s all I’ve got.
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the Hell in.
Take Me Out To The Ball Game
Warner Music | 1988