Whiskey Rebellion

Bank It Like Beckham

Amidst the frisson that coursed through my network of soccer-loving friends upon news of David Beckham's impending move stateside, one killjoy wondered whether the signing might spark the kind of escalating arms race that torpedoed professional soccer's initial attempt at conquering America.

There's always the chance that the Beckham signing will spark a drunken orgy of spending, but I think MLS Management is mindful of the errors that doomed the NASL and other American soccer leagues. The MLS is essentially a centrally managed corporation that allows its individual units (the franchises) limited autonomy to conduct their business and in their pseudo-socialist way they've done a pretty good job at distributing players and capping spending, so I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Basically, I look at the Beckham signing as a marketing expense and at $250 million a fairly reasonable one for an organization with the ambitions that MLS maintains. When you're a league without a significant TV contract, you have to take extraordinary steps to generate publicity and sizzle, because an American sports league without a viable TV deal is hardly a league at all, ask the NHL.

Beckham is almost an industry unto himself and will attract more attention alone than the entire MLS did before his arrival. And that's before you consider the run-off publicity sure to appear in all the non-sports related venues on account of his massive celebrity (Vanity Fair, People, US Weekly, etc).

The biggest problem with American soccer (aside from its relative lack of success making inroads into working and lower class populations of the non-recent immigrant variety) is that there's a huge disconnect between its popularity as a participant sport and spectator sport. Tons of people play soccer growing up. More Americans play soccer growing up than any other sport. Probably twenty times as many people played organized soccer growing up as played American football. But people who played soccer from the first grade to twelfth without ever setting foot on the gridiron will breathlessly watch a meaningless regular season NFL game while ignoring professional soccer entirely.

They watch football because the culture, the aura that surrounds the sport is greater than the game itself. In this celebrity-obsessed age, a figure like Beckham can provide a measure of glamour that not only attracts attention to soccer but illustrates to kids deciding what sport to pursue that soccer is as sexy, sexier perhaps, than the alternatives.

Of course, the question is whether you can transform that cult-of-personality into appreciation of the sport as whole, or whether it withers away and dies, a la post-Lance Tour de France. Regardless, I think it's worth a shot because star power can deliver a sport into the national consciousness, in fact, it's practically the only thing that ever has.

A lot of people don't realize that before Bird and Magic burst on the scene, the NBA was a dying league where the championship finals games were shown on tape delay and its games pulled worse ratings than bowling. I don't know if Beckham can have the same effect, especially without a counterpoint (maybe an aging Latin stud (Ronaldo?) to recapture the whole racial subtext that helped fuel Bird v. Magic), but I think it's clear that for a sport to succeed it America it has to rise from the level of athletics to the level of spectacle. If anyone can help do this, it's Beckham. Now, if only we could get Posh Spice into cheerleading...

Germany, I'm Sorry

Dear Germany,

I apologize.  Really.  This is not one of those half-hearted apologies born of cowardice, convenience or diplomacy.  This is an honest-to-goodness, get down on my knees, "baby-will-you-please take me back" apology.  I must admit - I was wrong.

I wish I could erase all the skeptical glances, the awkward moments and the jealous thoughts, but really all I can do is apologize.  It's not that I didn't find you attractive at first.  In fact, I admired you from afar, marveling at your form, your intellect and resolve.  But I must admit, I was also a bit intimidated by your strength and occasionally suspicious of your checkered past.  I never mentioned this to anyone because it seemed a bit unfair.  From what I could tell, you'd turned over a new leaf and everyone deserves a second chance, right?  But sometimes you have to find out for yourself.  Well, I finally did, and now I have a new secret to confess. 

Germany, you vixen, you've stolen my heart. The last time I left my heart somewhere, it was in San Francisco, where both it and I have resided for the better part of a decade now.  Yet as I set out for
Germany on the eve of the World Cup, I was unsure what to expect me upon my arrival in Dusseldorf.  Come to find out, what awaited me was a trip that was both incredibly entertaining and full of the following epiphanies:

1.    "Ein pils bitte" are three of the sweetest words in any language and also three of the most efficient.  One of the glories of drinking in

Germany is that you can go into any establishment and simply say "Ein pils bitte", secure in the knowledge that you'll receive an excellent brew, generally of the local variety. (Of course, don't completely neglect the weissbeer).  If this were true of American pubs, the sanity of bartenders everywhere would be preserved and you wouldn't have to wait for a small eternity while the woman ahead of you debates the merits of Heineken and Amstel Light.

2.    Weltmeisterschaft and Weltmeterschaft are two different things.  Both things to be proud of, but very different. Weltmeisterschaft means World Cup in German. Weltmeterschaft, doesn't mean anything really, except, maybe, world's long shaft.  If you're going to confuse the two, as I did, it's best to avoid doing it at high volume in a German restaurant. 

3.    With a sufficient amount of trial-and-error, I am capable of reading a train schedule, in a foreign language no less.  The day I caught the train in Nuremberg, and successfully switched at Frankfurt (twice) Dortmund and Dusseldorf was one of the proudest days of my life.  If only my mama could have seen me. 

4.    A man can't live on beer and brats alone.  You have to toss in a donor kebab every now and then, preferably around 3 o'clock in the morning.  Nothing, I mean nothing on God's green earth hits the spot at 3 AM better than a donor kebab.  The first person to open up a donor kebab stand in my neighborhood will die a wealthy man.

5.    Speaking of which, 3 AM is basically the crack of dawn in northern Germany. There'll be no sleeping in late here, unless you're from Stockholm, Alaska, or have curtains made of lead.

6.    "Vie Geits Alter" is apparently a viable translation of "What's up, Gangsta?, at least according to a Turkish-German hip-hop fan we stumbled into on the streets of

Cologne.  Exactly how this topic came up remains clouded in a pilsner-induced haze, but this translation was confirmed at a later date by a German with a degree in North American studies.  It's always good to have an academic weigh in on 50 Cent.

7.    Attending football matches dressed as superheroes is a great, self-deprecating way to the edge off anti-Americanism.  Consider it Justice League diplomacy.  It will, however, mean a three-hour walk to the stadium as you're stopped every ten feet to pose for photos and conduct interviews with foreign fans and international news organizations.

8.    In continental Europe, ATMs are not always precise when assessing how much money remains in an American checking account.  So, if you ever find yourself hard up for cash in a foreign country and think there's no money left to withdraw, well, you may not want to admit defeat so easily.  Just know that there will be a reckoning when you return to the States. 

9.    The German penchant for innovative design extends into the bathroom. While most toilets in the western world operate under the same basic principle: that your deposit either lands directly in a small pool of water at the bottom of the bowl, or make its way there after sliding down a sloped surface, German toilet technology is decidedly different.  Here, your offering lands on a completely dry horizontal shelf positioned just beneath your posterior.  Repeated flushings and vigorous use of the toilet brush are then required to dispose of the evidence, although these measures do little to extinguish the olfactory traces of your dirty work.  Noting the German reputation for exceeding practicality and design excellence, I knew there must be a logical reason for this.  As it turns out the design is meant to facilitate examination of one's stool, the better to preserve gastrointestinal health.  Apparently the expression "ignorance is bliss" doesn't translate into German.

10.    It never hurts to get a second opinion on the validity of national toasts.  After hearing us hoist beers to a chorus of "Prosts", one native prankster intervened to tell us that while most foreigners believed this to be the standard German toast, the traditional saying was not "Prost", but "Prost-ta-ta", which we subsequently discovered means absolutely nothing or "hooray for boobies".

The mischief of this one prankster not withstanding, it should be noted that the Germans were unfailingly helpful during our visit despite the fact that our rather large traveling party - which peaked at 14 members - boasted a cumulative four years of high school German, all of which rested in the cranium of one Greg Nelson, the erstwhile leader of our merry band.  Besides acting as the organizational dean of the group, Greg, a.k.a. "American Schumacher" also acquitted himself exceptionally well on the roads of Germany, negotiating the Autobahn with a car packed so full the passengers were nearly immobile and the rearview mirror was nothing but a useless ornament.

Greg was no doubt aided by the fact that our rental car was a Mercedes station wagon, a gem of a car for which the clerk at the rental agency actually felt compelled to apologize.  Apparently they were all out of Ford Tauruses and late model Chevy Impalas.  For our part, we were quite happy to tour in style through the German countryside, which was pleasant in a comforting, non-exotic way surprisingly reminiscent of

Central Pennsylvania.  We were less pleased by the hip-hop on German radio, which was surprisingly reminiscent of the Clear Channel hegemony we're subjected to back home.  Sometimes, even when you get away, you can't really get away.

Fortunately, our friend, Christian Manders, had the foresight to bring along an iPod adapter that plugged neatly into the car stereo, allowing us to insulate ourselves in a cocoon of carefully constructed playlists.  As we sped along to the nostalgic sounds of old school rap, the freshly minted warblings of indy rockers and the reassuring strains of all-time road trip classics like "Country Roads", I couldn't but help but notice the contrast between the crisp organization of our impromptu sing-alongs and the ragged, if spirited, chants belted out by US supporters at the matches we attended.

While the sizable number of US fans in Germany, a contingent that dwarfed the turnout for Korea 2002, was a promising indicator of the sport's growth stateside, development of the game's cultural component is lagging far behind fan interest.  This much is clear: we need a new song.  Actually, we need a song, period. Really, we need three or four, but as the wise man said, long journey begins with first step.

The old standby U-S-A, U-S-A conjures up fond memories for the 35-and-over "Miracle on Ice really means something to me crowd" and is suitably militant for international misadventures.  However, it is also decidedly unmelodic and lacks the creativity befitting a country that was the birthplace of bluegrass, jazz, show tunes, rock-n-roll, hip-hop and Ashlee Simpson. It's times like these when the

US could benefit from the type of cultural commission that prevails in countries like France. If the French were in this predicament, they would simply authorize a taskforce to oversee the creation of a catchy new national tune.

On the other hand, similarly bureaucratic measures in America would most likely result in something completely inoffensive and absolutely unlovable. The US requires an organic, rousing national song - one of the people, by the people and for the people.  Given this, there is only place to turn: You Tube, the last untrammeled bastion of democracy and grassroots expression. Start a contest for the best song, toss a few dollars and the promise of fleeting celebrity into the mix and let the Internet hordes have at it. 

I think it's fair to say that the US will not have arrived as a true soccer power until we have a repertoire of songs that fans know by heart and can belt out effortlessly.  When that day comes, we'll know that a true soccer culture has taken hold in the US.  Until then, we'll have to make do with fumbling attempts at musicality that fizzle after one or two verses.  This is a shame, because there's no shortage of music in the American sporting heritage.  True, most of the songs are inspired by college football and not the international kind, but taking a traditional art form and adapting it to suit our current needs is a grand old American tradition, so why stop now?  Couldn't we all put aide our partisan differences once every four years and agree on a re-working of "Hail to the Victors", "The Notre Dame Victory March" or "Fight On (USC)" as our national football/soccer song?  Just change a few select words and you're good to go.  Or, in the case of "Hail to the Victors", you can leave in choice lines like "leaders and best" and "conquerors of the west".  Our Mexican friends will appreciate that.

One of the great things about these songs is that they provide an easy way to bond, but also a means of inspiring your side without taunting the other. This is important because it's extremely difficult for an American sporting crowd to celebrate the home team without demeaning the opposition. There's an undercurrent of antagonism to most chants in the US - even our songs are called "Fight Songs", which I suppose neatly captures the unlikely blend of friendliness and aggression that is so characteristic of America.  While that doesn't matter so much when Browns fans are slashing the tires of Steelers faithful outside of Cleveland Stadium or whatever they call it since they were awarded an expansion franchise, it takes on broader implications at the world's most eagerly anticipated and widely-watched event. 

As I took to telling to the group in my rare sober moments, "At the World Cup, we are all diplomats".  This pronouncement inevitably preceded some act of boorishness that did more to reinforce the Ugly American stereotype than 20 years of foreign policy fiascos, but at least my heart was in the right place.  Being an American soccer fan abroad puts you in the precarious position of the prettiest woman at the bar, or the celebrity dining at a restaurant in some mid-sized American city.  Everyone else has already formed an opinion about you and one false move - even in the face of a hundred good deeds - will serve to reinforce their negative impression.  Fail to return the glance of the lush who has been staring you down for the past half-hour, or honor the 137th autograph request of the evening and that pretty much confirms your status as Grade-A jag-off.  Similarly, all it takes is one ill-advised comment to stoke the fires of anti-American sentiment and erase the efforts of hundreds of your compatriots who are struggling mightily to find the right mix of bonhomie and humility.

Thus, supporting the American team can at times be a delicate balancing exact between passionate embrace of the national team and whatever concessions to diplomacy sports fanaticism allows.  Or, alternatively, you can just adopt the old English football chant "No one likes us and we don't care", as one group of supporters did before the US-Italy clash in Kaiserslautern.  These fans were, however, decidedly in the minority.  For the most part, the American contingent managed to offer spirited, yet inoffensive support of the national team.  You'd hope someone would notice favorably, but there's just no pleasing some people.

Two days after the US-Italy match, the Guardian, one of theUK's most prominent papers, managed to identify some of the most brain-dead American fans, interview them and highlight their quotes in an extraordinarily derisive column headlined: "Overexcited, Overweight and Over Here".  As your humble, and relatively slender (some might say scrawny) correspondent, I must object to the title.   Overexcited - very likely.  But, overweight - I don't think so.  I found American supporters to be a rather svelte lot on the whole.  Of course, horizontal red-and-white stripes aren't exactly flattering to the figure, but you do what you can for your country.

Americans have never been shy about flying the flag , or wearing it, but the same can't be said of Germans, who have taken an understandably muted approach to patriotic displays - until now that is.  Walking around a German city during the World Cup was to bear witness to a national coming-out party. Everywhere you turned, the red, black and gold of the German flag was in evidence and the air was filled with the boisterous chants of "Wir gehen nach Berlin" ("We're going to Berlin") - the site of the World Cup finals.  The exuberance of the Germans was infectious and completely in contrast to their somewhat undeserved reputation for severity.  As we traveled from Munich to Dusseldorf to
Dortmund to Hamburg to Cologne to Berlin to Hanover to Nuremberg and many places between, we had the good fortune of seeing an entire country on an extended holiday of sorts.  These are not people who don't know how to have fun.  It wasn't exactly Carnivale in Rio, but then I doubt the pilsner is as good on Ipanema.

Still, even though the mood was decidedly festive, there was also an undercurrent of feeling that suggested the celebration was more than just a party.  It was as if the entire populace was throwing off the shackles of restraint and enforced humility and joyously announcing, "We've arrived and we're not going to hang our heads or speak in hushed tones any longer."  For a few weeks, it was almost like the American fans and the Germans switched places.  A fan in Hamburg summed it up best.  The man, who was in his early-to-mid forties, recalled the discomfort he sometimes felt when traveling abroad as a youth, noting that years ago, "People would ask where we were from and we would say "Oh, we're German (in a whisper), now we say "We're German!" (booming voice and emphatic fist pump).

From my perspective, Germany has good reason to shout: bars that stay open to all hours, liberal open container laws (or the complete lack thereof), a plentitude of good, cheap beer, attractive women, friendly, helpful citizens, a wealth of inviting outdoor cafes, good, cheap beer, attractive women, an amazing mix of architecture that artfully and successfully weaves daring new buildings amongst structures hundreds of years old, good, cheap beer, the Autobahn, attractive women, marvelously efficient public transportation, a thriving art scene, some of the best graffiti I've ever seen anywhere and good, cheap beer.  It's true, the toilets could use a little work, but when that's the worst thing you can say about a country, you know it's doing something right.  Prost Germany, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.

Character Revealed

I'm back from a brief sabbatical in Tahoe for the wedding of the most lovely Becky Webster and Aaron Dolberg and return bearing the fantastic news- from my completely biased, nepotistic perspective - of my grandfather's induction into an Ohio sports Hall of Fame.  Yours truly was tapped to write the induction text, which I have enclosed here for your eyes only ....

Basketball’s most successful coach, the great John Wooden, professed that “Sports do not build character … they reveal it.”  Similarly, football’s most revered leader, the legendary Vince Lombardi, once remarked that his game “is like life, it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work and sacrifice.”

It is fitting then, that Percy Squire’s accomplishments on the athletic fields of the Mahoning Valley are reflective of the same great character he has demonstrated both as an exemplary family man and as a pillar of the Youngstown community for more than 80 years.  Perseverance, hard work, denial and sacrifice … these are the critical, if unglamorous and often undervalued traits required to excel on the hardwood, on the gridiron and on the baseball diamond.

More importantly, these are the same attributes required of a man whose childhood was set against the backdrop of the Great Depression and an era of institutionalized discrimination.  These are the same values required of a man who labored inside the hot, fiery belly of a blast furnace for more than 40 years.  Most of all, these are the qualities that have defined the life of Percy Montgomery Squire – both inside and outside the lines.

This extraordinary life, remarkable not for its exotic or unusual nature, but for its honest persistent, upright dignity, began on the First of November, 1921 in the tiny hamlet of Garysburg, North Carolina. Two years after the birth of their second child, however, the Squire family departed this Appalachian village for opportunity; opportunity that went by the name of Youngstown, Ohio, the booming steel town Percy would call home for the rest of his life.

The early years of that life were spent on the family’s west side homestead, where Percy was reared under the watchful eye of his mother, Florence, and his father John, and where he played with his older brother John P. and his sister Ethel McMullen, née Squire.  Time would soon carry young Percy onto Stambaugh Elementary school, and later to Chayney High, where he lettered in football and basketball, starring at right halfback on the gridiron and at guard on the hardwood.

Immediately after receiving his diploma from Cheney, Percy underwent a rite of passage common to men of the Mahoning Valley at that time – he exchanged his graduation cap for a hardhat at the Carnegie-Illinois plant that would later become known by a more familiar moniker – US Steel.  Percy gave 40 years of blood, sweat, tears and toil to the company, turning in his hat only when the company pulled stakes from Youngstown in 1981, while offering him a new job at its Cleveland facility.  A Mahoning Valley man to the last, Percy refused the offer, opting instead to spend more time with his family, which by this time included his wife Ruth, whom he married in 1943; two daughters, Florence and Cheryl; one son, Percy; and a quartet of grandchildren: Joy, Troy, Reva and Deidre.

In the years between his first Carnegie-Illinois paycheck and his final blast furnace shift, Percy gave of himself ceaselessly, both to his family and to the community.  His was a regular face at Price Memorial A.M.E. Zion Church; he was a stalwart member of McGuffey Center; a volunteer with Hospice; saxophonist with the VFW Marching Band, a member of Youngstown’s Northeast Homeowners’ Association and the East High Boosters’ Association; and a beloved leader and Institutional Representative for the Boy Scouts, Troop 18.

Those civic accomplishments indicate a love of life and an appreciation for the ethos of sacrifice and teamwork that carried over to the Youngstown playing fields where Percy distinguished himself as a stellar performer on numerous softball and baseball teams. Whether he was starring in the Cisco Playground or Double-A softball leagues, claiming the championship of the West Federal Street YMCA Industrial League, taking the field for The Whale Inn, or representing Local 1330 in the Tri-State Softball League, Percy’s feel for the game, fast bat, quicksilver speed and silky fielding allowed him to ably man that most demanding of all positions, shortstop.  His skills were so undeniable that even legendary professional franchises came calling on his services.

In 1943, the Birmingham Black Barons, former employer of the incomparable Satchel Paige and future employer of the man often cited as the greatest player in the history of baseball – “Say Hey” Willie Mays - invited Percy to tryout for their team.  This was no mediocre squad, as evidenced by the fact that, later that very same year, the Black Barons advanced to the Negro World Series, where they faced the mighty Homestead Grays.  Yet, even an illustrious outfit such as this one, stocked with future Hall of Famers, thought it could benefit from the addition of one more special talent.

In characteristic fashion – we are reminded once more of those core values – self-denial, hard work and sacrifice – Percy declined the invitation in order to further his career at the mill and devote himself to his new wife, Ruth Squire, formerly Ruth Gatewood.  So, it is entirely appropriate that, on this day, Percy receives his long overdue reward and joins the likes of Mays and Paige by earning entry into the Hall of Fame - not the one in Cooperstown, but the one in Youngstown - the city that shaped the timeless, priceless values that define the man and his legacy. 

Bushwacked!

So, I’m attending a wedding in Tahoe this weekend and making my final preparations for the big event, which include a visit to the barbershop for a quick trim. The trip was the source of some anxiety, because after rocking the bald dome for the past seven years, I recently decided to embark on the quixotic mission for the perfect ‘fro, no matter how long it takes.

This decision has sent me on a thankless quest for a “good, reliable” barber. Since I’m growing my hair out, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find an acceptable choice, seeing as all I require is that he clean up the hairline every few weeks – none off the top, mind you. Alas, victory is elusive.

With that in mind, I ventured over to The Fillmore to check out a new place and get cleaned up for the nuptials. After a half-an-hour wait (not bad for a Thursday evening), I was called on by one of the twentysomething barbers and happily settled into the chair. He said he would just be a minute and disappeared into the back room where he remained for about 15. Upon his reemergence, he yapped on his cell phone for another ten minutes or so, periodically telling me he’d be “just one more second”.

He then went outside to engage in a pathetically obvious drug buy. Very sloppy. I’m not objecting, but at least keep it clean, boys. A little discretion is warranted here. So, my man gets the goods, tells me to “hold on for one more minute” and heads into the back room to blaze. He returns in a cloud and finally gets down to business after another (blissfully) brief phone call.

At this point, I’ve been in the chair around 40 minutes and the shop is about ready to close. Still, I’m cautiously optimistic. I figure the kid just got his puff on, he’s in the zone and he’ll take his time to do it up lovely. So, I tell him, “I just want you to line it up. I’m growing my hair out, so don’t take anything off the top, just edge it up and make it clean.” Pretty straightforward.

So, after just a few minutes I feel him going up in the hair line and when I ask what he’s doing, he tells me he wants to taper it just a bit to make it look better, adding “Don’t worry, I know it feels like I’m taking a lot off, but I’m not.” Deprived of my glasses and reduced to blind-as-a-bat vision, I can’t verify this without causing a major production, so I give myself over to the Lord.

Who abandons me.

When the bushwhacking is finished and I’m presented with the mirror, its apparent the kind bud did not help his creative juices. My budding ’fro is gone – butchered beyond repair. I look like the off-brand version of Ron DeVoe, circa 1987.  

This, just a day before I’m reunited with friends I haven’t seen in years.  The hack job is so bad, I can’t even play it off like I’m going for the retro look. It’s criminal and I feel like I should be able to file some sort of professional malpractice suit. 

Would anyone object to the creation of a governing board for hair stylists - sort of a Supreme Court, Star Chamber-type committee that could banish the worst offenders to the nether regions of the universe? These are the type of improvements in our everyday lives that politicians should be working toward to keep the public some recourse when they’ve been wronged. Instead, it’s off to find a hat store. Anyone know of one on the road up to Tahoe?

SnooperBowl

Man, to be young again. I know if was playing youth football and Snoop tapped me for his squad, I'd be down with the clown.

Money quote: “The rapper and sometime actor also made personal phone calls to draw in top talent, and last year his Rowland Raiders went undefeated en route to a league championship.”

Can you imagine picking up the phone and getting a personal pitch from the D-O-Double-G asking you to join his team? Oh, and did I forget to mention custom-made Tiffany trophies? For shizzle, my nizzle.

I'll be home by 9:00 - I Promise!

This is why you ask Mom to borrow the getaway car before you break-and-enter:

So, This Is What the Gold Rush Is Reduced To?

I’m sure there are more nuanced economic readings of this story, but when 11, 000 people apply for 400 jobs at Wal-Mart, it’s probably not a great sign for the economy.

Relevant quote: "It's not about Wal-Mart -- it's about the rest of the labor market," Levy said. "If the rest of the labor market was strong, you wouldn't have 11, 000 people applying for 400 jobs."

Wal-Mart is the outfit that, perhaps more than any other American corporation at the moment, is condemned for providing low wages and meager benefits. Yet, people are beating down the doors like they’re giving away free Cabbage Patch Kids.

To be fair, a $10.82 average wage – “average” not always being the best measure in these kind of studies - is not too shabby for retail. That works out to $1,731.2 a month which should, you know, allow you to rent an apartment, pay a car note and maybe keep the light on in Alameda County. What you were hoping for more?

“Woooooo Pig! Sooey!

For all those who like to gnash their teeth, pull their hair and lament over America’s cultural inferiority, we humbly recommend this item.

I suggest we get a team of rabid Razorback fans together and fly them over to southern France for a pig-calling clash of the titans. It’ll be like Rocky V. Drago - except with pork rinds served ringside. Ok, that’s wishful thinking. Maybe a nice Bordeaux – and pork rinds.

A Small Price to Pay for History

… but then again, $182,000 buys a LOT of Jameson’s

Don't Fear the Reaper

Uninspired by the presumed candidates for president in 2008? “More Cowbell” may provide just the inspiration a beleaguered nation needs to emerge from the doldrums.

An elaborate hoax, naturally, but it begs the question. Is Walken more “presidential” then John Cusack? WhiskeyRebllion says yes! (He just has more gravitas.)