Hat Check Girl Releases Spooky Gem

HAT CHECK GIRL

Road to Red Point

Waterbug 110

* * * *

If your idea of female/male country collaboration courses toward the overwrought lyrics and contrived drama of Lady Antebellum, steer clear of Hat Check Girl; Road to Red Point is something moodier, rootsier, and more ominous. When Annie Gallup and Peter Gallway label their songs, they drag out adjectives such as “spooky” and “haunting,” and they’re not kidding. This album has quite a few songs about drifters, desperados, losers, and hard-luck folks who, as they do in “The Other Road,” tend to relive regret rather than moving on. The title track also evokes memory, but check out its crunchy bass-driven lines that evoke swamp rock and make you think that maybe an alligator or two will appear to no good end. This dark little gem of an album serves gall along with the whiskey. In “Under Those Trees” Gallway sings: “I never took to the Bible but the words ring true/It’s a hell of a story when you’re lonely or blue/Life is a hard road to travel but we struggle and try/And will sleep in comfort when we die.” How about a love song in which the lady of desire stepping from the shower is compared to Scarlett O’Hara?  As you may recall, she was a romantic figure, but also a tragic one. “Remember” is also a love song, but the kind an outlaw might write. You want a nice ending? You’ll find it “Up in the Country” where “it’s colder than Satan,” and he isn’t the worst thing encountered on the road to redemption.

Gallup and Gallway gives us scorched earth country–literally in the case of “Texas is Burning,” a piece that’s a cross between chronicle, music, and Beat poetry. The entire album evokes the sort of thing Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer might have done after a weekend of reading Nietzsche. So why would anyone want to hear this? Because it’s a sonic wonderment enveloping lyrics of poetic honesty rather than canned emotion. Give this one a little time. At first, it’s quiet and creepy, but the more you listen, the more it gets under your skin and you begin to see tiny rays that pierce the darkness with hope. My hat’s off to Hat Check Girl for a bold, unconventional album. Maybe it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s a potent brew nonetheless.--Rob Weir

Here's the only decent YouTube video of Hat Check Girl. This song is on the new album. 

Let's do a Lieberman on the Tea Party

Believe it or not, Joe Lieberman may have a plan to save America!

It should be clear to reasonable Americans of all political persuasions that the band of radical right lunatics called the Tea Party is dangerous and must be taken down. Principles are important, but what should one do when confronted with those that center on ideals such as racism, naked self- interest, corporatism, contraction of personal liberties, and states rights arguments straight out of the 1832 Nullification Crisis? One exaggerates only slightly when comparing the Tea Party to the rightwing putsch that brought Hitler to power. This time evangelical churches play the compliant role that Roman Catholicism played in Germany and Italy.

Okay, it’s a bit much to call every local who hates taxes and dons a tri-cornered hat a Nazi-in-training. Call him instead the puppet of shadowy masters whose identities he does not know and whose agenda he does not understand. Lots of those who show up at rallies are angry white men engaged in boyish conniption fits. Many feel disempowered, and quite a few lack the intellectual wherewithal and skill sets necessary in today’s economy. They are the collateral damage of globalism, a system created by the very masters who pull their strings. (Globalism is another conversation that needs to take place.) 

But let us make no mistake about their masters–they are beyond unpatriotic. Many of them unabashedly call for the overthrow of the American government. In an ideal society, the FBI and Department of Justice would be making treason arrests. At the very least, they’d be infiltrating such groups with the same ardor with which they got inside the liberation movements of the 1960s. (Most of those groups, I hasten to add, spoke of participatory democracy and greater freedom; only a fringe handful used the word “revolution” to mean a violent overthrow of the government.) Don’t take my word for the treasonous statements made by Tea Party leaders, Google “Tea Party + overthrow government” and see what your search yields.

As in Germany during the 1920s, the very structure of a republic makes it harder to ferret out the traitors in our midst. The Bill of Rights must protect citizens and scoundrels alike to have true meaning. Moreover, money-driven primary elections and the nature of representative democracy make it easy for Tea Party activists to get elected to office. Once in Congress, they need not actively subvert government, simply use procedural moves (filibusters, filing technicalities, arcane Congressional rules, etc.) to undermine political machinery and wait for it to rot away. Often, all they do to subvert is utter the word "no," over and over. In fact, when nothing gets done, it increases their attractiveness to the tri-cornered crowd. 

Luckily, representative democracy is also the way to take down the Tea Party. I say it’s time to Lieberman the Tea Party, a strategy named for (now) retired Senator Joe Lieberman of Connecticut. Slick Joe was certainly one of the oiliest politicians of recent memory. Lest we forget, Lieberman lost the 2006 Democratic nomination to the far more progressive Ned Lamont; in fact, he lost by 4%, which is on the verge of a trouncing in elections these days. Instead of licking his wounds, Lieberman simply declared himself an “independent,” raised twice as much money as Lamont, and won the three-way general election.  (Four if you count the Green Party, whose 6,000 votes would have given Lamont the election if no Republican had run.)    

Many people perceive an elision of the two major parties, the so-called “Republicrats.” In ideological terms, Republicrats are hard to love; in pragmatic terms, a strategic alliance between what I’d call “non-crazy Republicans” and “payback Democrats” could save the nation from Tea Party toxic tannin. This would involve a sort of “Lieberman Plus” tactic. There are districts in this country that are the GOP equivalent of Democratic Massachusetts; that is to say, if you run for Congress as a Democrat, your chances of winning lie between slim and none. It makes no sense for Democrats to waste resources in red-meat sections of the old Confederacy. What it could do is engage in old-fashioned you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours politics. In districts where “moderate” Republicans are in jeopardy or lose primary elections,  Democrats should strike a deal in which they sit out the general election and extract policy promises from the newly declared "independent." In those districts in which a Tea Party Congressman currently reigns, the Democrats should get behind a fusion candidate. Eric Cantor, for instance, won reelection with 66% of the vote against a Democrat, but would he win against a GOP independent? Such a candidate would claim roughly a third of the vote upfront–those who'd rather gargle razor blades than vote for Cantor–and would need only to convince 30,000 GOP Virginian voters–less than a quarter–to switch. If that happened, Cantor would go down. And he's in one of the safer Tea Party districts. 

The Lieberman Plus strategy is, I grant you, low on principles. As political strategy, though, it could be a winning gambit. Here’s another thing about representative democracy–it works best when there’s give-and-take. Compromise has a tendency to frustrate ideologues of all stripes, but it is to be preferred to rule by refuseniks. Democrats–a group never known for their long-term vision–may think it’s in their best interest to allow the GOP to hemorrhage internally, but this is a risky strategy in an electoral system in which a Tea Party Republican needs only win the primary to secure overall victory. As Lyndon Johnson might have said, in politics you have some son-of-a-bitch with whom you can make a deal. It has to be one that at least has the word “yes” in his vocabulary. The future of America may rest upon Democrats willingness to go Lieberman and ransom the electoral present to save America from the traitors at the gates of power.    --Rob Weir

Silver Linings Playbook Needs to Scrap its Script

Two wonderful performances in search of a worthy vehicle.

SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK (2012)

Directed by David O. Russell

Weinstein Group, 122 minutes, R (brief nudity, language)

* *

Need more confirmation that movies are in the creative doldrums? Silver Linings Playbook is up for numerous Oscars, including Best Picture, and it’s not even a good movie, let alone an Oscar-worthy nominee. Were it not for outstanding performances from leads Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence, it would be one of the worst pieces of manipulative tearjerker schlock since Terms of Endearment.

Like so many bad films, Silver Linings Playbook can’t decide if it’s a drama, a romance, or a comedy. By trying to be all three, it doesn’t work as any of them. The setup is simple. Patrick Solatano Jr. (Cooper) comes unglued when he comes home early and finds his wife Nikki (Brea Bee) showering and groping with a colleague. Blind with rage and–we’re led to believe–latent mental instability, he nearly kills the guy. Because of that (script convenient) latency, Pat is sent to Excelsior, a mental health facility in Baltimore instead of jail, though he does end losing his home, job, and wife. Okay, let’s get it straight from the start. This film is set in Philadelphia and I used to work in Pennsylvania law enforcement. It’s extremely unlikely that Pat would have been sent anywhere except jail, and he surely wouldn’t have been shipped across state lines (which would have involved an enormous outflow of money).

Never mind that. We pick up the story eight months later when Pat’s mother, Dolores (Jacki Weaver), signs his discharge from the facility. Pat moves in with Dolores and paterfamilias Pat. Sr. (Robert DeNiro), who is making ends meet by running numbers. We quickly learn where Pat Jr. got his demon–his old man is textbook (or is stereotype?) OCD, a guy who truly believes that he can gamble his way back to solvency through the fortunes of his beloved Philadelphia Eagles, as long as everyone wears the proper jerseys, touches an Eagles kerchief properly, and holds a set of remote controls at the correct height. Having Pat Jr. watch the game with him is part of the “mojo.” Except Pat Jr. is a wreck. He didn’t take his meds in the facility, thinks his therapy with psychiatrist Cliff Patel (Anupam Kher) is a joke, and believes he can cure himself through running, reading, and positive thinking. Part of the “cure” involves winning back Nikki, with whom he is obsessed.

Cooper is terrific in the role. He is a hyper hair trigger that can go off at any time and it doesn’t take much. His ineffectual mother is sympathetic, as are friends Ronnie (Jim Ortiz) and Danny (Chris Tucker), but they have issues of their own. Ronnie is in over his head with a big mortgage, a new baby, and a materialistic, free-spending wife, Veronica (Julia Stiles); and Danny is a frequent AWOL from Excelsior, where Pat met him. Water finds its own level in the form of Veronica’s troubled younger sister, Tiffany (Jessica Lawrence), who also came mentally unhinged when her husband was killed in an accident. The initial sparks fly when Pat and Tiffany spar over which one of them is crazier. Lawrence is every bit Cooper’s equal in a role in which she’s part icy Goth, part vulnerable sparrow, and part call-the-bullshit truth speaker.

Had the film centered on these two people moving toward one another in the healing process, this might have been a very good film. Alas, the film is junked up with paste-up characters: Veronica, a cop that shows up every time Pat goes off, an older jerk brother, and Kher playing one of the least convincing shrinks in movie history (and that’s quite a statement). DeNiro doesn’t do much except populate the film. Did Russell swallow a Political Correctness pill? Pat Jr. has an Indian psychiatrist, a Hispanic friend, and a black sidekick. In North Philly? If you think that’s unlikely, how about a plot that involves Pat Sr. needing to win a bet on an Eagles game to save his dream (and probably his house)? And he’s talked into taking it by none other than Tiffany, who delivers a snarky monologue that’s lifted from My Cousin Vinny with the automobile litany replaced by football stats. But let’s take it a step further down the path of absurdity. Even if the Eagles win, Pat St. can’t collect unless he also wins a side bet that Pat Jr. and Tiffany will score at least a 5 in a professional dance contest! Cue the music and let’s see how much of Saturday Night Fever we can pirate. And let’s throw in a few conventions such as an old-fashioned fistfight, Pat Jr. running through the streets of Philly (Rocky), and letters of questionable authorship (Cyrano).

What could have been an incisive look at mental illness dissolves into caper and lame comedy. The entire movie is a manipulative strip tease posing as a feel-good movie. It has the intellectual depth of junior high school, and it demeans the problems with which Cooper and Lawrence are wrestling. Lawrence may well win an Oscar in a not-so-strong pool of actresses and she’s so good that few would begrudge her. But if this film wins anything beyond that, the Oscars can officially be declared a joke. David O. Russell apparently wishes to be a Hollywood director in the worst way. He’s succeeded. –Rob Weir

 

Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore Hard to Close

Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore (2012)

By Robin Sloan

Farrar, Straus & Giroux ISBN: 978-0374214913

* * * ½

If Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore were a mall movie, the poster tag line and review pull out quotes might include: “Bound Books-Meet e-Books,” “Nostalgia in a Steel-cage Death Match with Innovation,” “The Luddites Battle the Techies,” “Utopia Takes a Holiday,” or  “Vanity Versus Basic Biology.” I’d label it “The Da Vinci Code for Geeks,” and my one-line assessment is that it’s an engaging page-turner that should not be confused with great literature. It may be my favorite “guilty pleasure” of 2012.

Our protagonist is Clay Jannon, a guy in his twenties who may be too bright and too clever for his own good. He’s a quick study for just about everything that doesn’t involve deep human interaction: computer hacking, design work, typography, detective work, electronic systems, cryptology…. His intellect has made him mildly jaded. He’s a dilettante with pronounced slacker tendencies who has done very little with his talents beyond designing Websites for concept bagel emporiums that go under at the drop of a sesame seed, whilst buddies from his college days raked in cash from high tech ventures as profound as hardware development and as banal as making superb boob-simulation software! Faced with the need to pay his share of the rent in the San Francisco digs he shares with two other people, Clay takes a job at a shop whose name intrigues him: Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore.

This is no ordinary bookstore. Clay works the graveyard shift and seldom sees a paying customer. He does, however, encounter numerous “members” who borrow ornately bound books shelved in high stacks. They come and go quickly and Penumbra gives Clay the odd charge of writing down their member number in a massive logbook along with everything he observes about them. He’s also told not to snoop among the reserved stacks, remove anything from the store, or investigate any of the logbooks. Can you say “Pandora’s Box?” As Clay grows more and more curious (and bold), he adds some coconspirators: college friends/entrepreneurs, a roommate, and Kat Potente, a gorgeous high flier who works for Google. Her name means “powerful” (aka/potent) in Spanish, German, and Italian, and is a synonym for “stiff” in the latter language. Kat is both strong and stiff, but before long Clay is in love (or is it lust?) with her. She seems to reciprocate, though it’s very clear that she loves Google more than anything or anybody.

The book’s central mystery is straight out of Dan Brown by way of National Treasure. To say too much would be a spoiler, so let me tantalize you by asking you to think of a secret code, a possible search for immortality, a bicoastal caper, and what it might be like if your favorite book group consisted of a bunch of Rosicrucian wannabes. Got that? Of course you don’t!  It’s the job of Clay and his team to make sense (or not) of all of this. Like a Dan Brown novel–also guilty pleasures–or a Nick Cage National Treasure film–way too banal to suppress my guilt instincts–Robin Sloan’s novel relies on too many coincidences and sudden flashes of insight about amazingly arcane things to be  plausible. It also depends on technology that doesn’t actually exist yet and levels of secrecy unlikely in the age of, well, Google. But, as good mysteries do, Sloan’s pacing and setups are such that you are willing to suspend disbelief to see how things resolve. If you can get past the fact that Sloan’s prose is occasionally turgid and the narrative structure is frequently contrived, Sloan has a fascinating yarn to spin. You also have to give him credit–it’s not everyone who can fashion a novel loosely based on the life of Aldus Mantius (1449-1515), the late medieval printer who developed a favored form of slanted italicized type (with the help of punch cutter Francesco Griffo), the semicolon, and standardized punctuation. (If you think that’s no big deal, try deciphering a pre-punctuation Latin manuscript!)

Sloan used to work for Twitter; hence he has at least passing familiarity with some of the issues he raises in his novel, including what constitutes a “cult.” Google comes across as an amazing innovation incubator, but are its devotees any less scary than robed cultists from the past? Other conundrums are raised. Does the digital future portend a kind of salvation, or the rise of new slave masters? Will that future destroy the past, or will that which survives be the only hope of a better future? What does tomorrow hold for art? Will technology bring eternal life, or death of the soul? (If tech-based immortality seems preposterous to you, check out inventor/futurologist Ray Kurzweil’s belief in the “technological singularity.”)

These are interesting and important questions, but don’t expect Sloan to resolve them in any substantive way. In the end, Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore isn’t much more than pulp fiction for the Millennial Generation. In fact, it’s the sort of book that’s probably going to look very dated in about five years. All the more reason to read it now! It’s a quick, breezy read that’s a bit like hot air-popped popcorn: filling without being bad for you. Go ahead; indulge and damn the guilt! --Rob Weir

Not Fade Away Needs a Decent Script

NOT FADE AWAY (2012)

Directed and Written by David Chase

Paramount, 112 minutes, R (brief nudity, language)

* * *

 Not Fade Away has thrilled some critics and chilled others. Most viewers are likely to experience it as a classic 3 of 5 stars movie. Grade it C, an A for ideas, music, and class awareness and an F for scriptwriting.

The setting is New Jersey in the 1960s, specifically the time period in which grief over President Kennedy’s assassination inexorably gave way to the giddiness of the early British Invasion. It was, of course, also the time in which the first wave of Baby Boomers came of age, discovered the Generation Gap, and began to articulate value systems quite different from those of their parents. The protagonist of our story is nerdy, pimply Doug (John Magaro), a working-class kid with very little luck with girls but one helluva record collection of black R & B records, a drum set he’s learning to play, and an emerging perception that his town is too small for him. His companions are just like him–guys with not-so-bright prospects, wild ideas, and an abiding love of the new music they’re hearing. Doug’s best friend, Eugene (Jack Huston), plays pretty good guitar and fancies himself a vocalist, though he’s really a copycat channeling others. Before long, a musical dream begins to play out in the basement of a down-market small town. We watch Doug morph into a guy who looks like Dylan, dresses like Dylan, sings like Dylan, and writes songs like Dylan. The open question is how far talent can take the band, and part of that answer depends on whether it can stay together, or if some of the band members even want the fame, travel, and spotlight they claim they desire.

I enjoyed the class dynamics of this film. At times I was reminded so much of my own teen years in a blue-collar Pennsylvania town that it’s as if I knew some of the people populating the film. I certainly recognized the tension between those chomping at the bit to leave, those content to be the big fish in a poi pond, and those whose deficiencies (intellectual, monetary, imaginative) cemented them in place. Blue-collar dreams are not often presented in American movies and director/writer David Chase hits a lot of correct notes, including the manner in which wage earners often held stereotypical views of the middle class. Doug’s “unobtainable” desire is Grace Dietz (Bella Heathcote), the younger daughter of pretentious parents who only appear to be high on the totem when viewed from the bottom. Certainly Doug’s working-class stiff father, Pat (James Gandolfini), sees them that way. Like lots of dads during the era, his ideal scenario for Doug is a bit of college, some ROTC training, and then home to earn a paycheck.  We all know what Vietnam did to that sort of dream.

Not Fade Away captures the look of blue-collar life–the crowded ranch houses, the Formica counters, TV trays, the faux wood paneling…. You can almost smell the mold in the shag carpeting. It also has a killer soundtrack–iconic blues, 50s skiffle, pop hits from the 60s, and some pretty nice original stuff. Alas, this is where the good ends and the bad begins. Chase may or may not be a good director, but he’s not much of a writer. There’s more enigma in his script than in the average Dylan song. Chase was born in 1945 and is clearly enamored to the music and culture of his youth. Alas, he tries to jam in everything. What we get isn’t the 1960s so much as cartoon and poster images of it–a JFK image here, a Rolling Stones concert snippet there, dropped references to civil rights, oblique mentions of Vietnam….  His episodic cameos are like his blue-collar interiors:  all surfaces. Chase is certainly correct to present small town America as a place where the 60s came in through the backdoor, but his skip-the-stone approach leaves us with characters that change for no apparent reason.

A stronger cast would have helped. Gandolfini–who is always good–is the closest thing to a “star” in this lineup. A small film such as Beasts of the Southern Wild can shine with no-name actors–of the right quality. John Magaro is very good and Jack Huston–John Huston’s grandson–is competent. The rest, not so much. It’s hard to judge whether the actresses are any good or not, as Chase’s script is abysmal in the area of gender. Women simply appear in the film; they have no character or depth. Molly Price plays Doug’s mother as if she’s a mash of every imaginable stereotype of dowdy Italian mothers. Dominique McElligott appears as Grace’s trippy older sister, but we have no idea of why she, or Doug’s sister Evelyn (Meg Guzulescu) are in the movie in the first place.

And then there’s the contrived stuff that’s as cheap as a Silvertone guitar. A corny prelude of a Paul McCartney stand-in meeting a John Lennon stand-in is supposed to prefigure the rivalry between Doug and Eugene. I think we’re supposed to see Grace as a Yoko substitute, but that’s one of many threads that flap untied in the breeze. We also get gratuitous “sightings” of rock gods, clichéd scenes such as Doug’s vocal debut (A Star is Born), and set-ups that Western Union couldn’t have telegraphed better.  Later the film drifts to Los Angeles, though why an aspirant musician who lives a short train ride from Grand Central would go to LA isn’t very clear. (Film school? Desire to be Jim Morrison? Access to orange groves?) And if you think that’s unclear, explain to me (if you can) what happens to Grace the first night she’s in LA.

When Not Fade Away is at its best, it’s reminiscent of Diner meets The Commitments. When it’s bad–which is frequently–it reminds you of how superior those films are to this one. Should you see it? Sure. But go to dance, not immerse yourself in transcendent filmmaking. --Rob Weir

Football Bowl Games We Probably Don't Need

The site of UMass's first bowl appearance.

I admit that I find football boring. I especially find college football to be a waste of money that could be put to much better use. TV would have you believe that college football is a big-time moneymaker. That’s pure BS; fewer than two dozen NCAA schools take in more football revenue than they spend. Among those that do–Penn State comes to mind–it’s an savory racket dominated by gamblers, grifter alums, and politicians willing to pay whatever it takes to bring glory to the gridiron, even at the expense of public safety, morality, and protecting children.

My own school, the University of Massachusetts Amherst, recently took the plunge and “upgraded” its football program to Bowl Championship Series level. Oh yeah, it also joined the Mid-America Conference, because everyone knows there’s a natural rivalry between a university in western Massachusetts and those in central Michigan, northern Iowa, and Ohio’s Rust Belt. Hundreds of fans poured into Foxboro Stadium to witness some of these matches. Another brilliant idea: play home games in Foxboro, 90 miles from the UMass campus. Needless to say, UMass lost millions of dollars in a season in which it went 1-11. It didn’t get a bowl bid.

And to that I ask, why not? It’s just not fair. Among the sillier things about college football is that you don’t actually have to be any damn good to get a bowl bid. It’s the every child is an honors child syndrome goes to college. In 2012, a dozen teams went to bowl games, even though they had 6-6 records. Half of them lost, thus finishing under .500 for the season. (Georgia Tech was 6-7 and still went to a bowl.) Another 11 were at 7-5 going into their bowl games. Of course, it’s not about excellence any more; it’s about corporate promotions. The old bowl names are out and the games are now just big advertisements for businesses whose commercials happen to feature gear-wearing shills. Is there any reason in the world not to add more bowls so that really bad teams like UMass can get a piece of the action? I scoured the bottom 25 teams for 2012, a list that includes UMass. (Team chant: “We’re 17, we’re 17!”) Here are a few bowl games we need to have:

Three of the worst 25 are in Texas, where they do love their football and their guns. I propose the NRA Assault Rifle Bowl: Texas State vs. Texas-San Antonio.

How about Florida Atlantic vs. San Jose State in the iMaps Bowl in Bora Bora. Travel expenses will be minimal as neither school will be able to find the site.

Let’s refight the Civil War with Buffalo vs. South Alabama in the Clint Eastwood Bowl. Just to make sure no one gets hurt, the teams will stay at home and scream at empty stadiums.

Akron is so shitty it managed to lose to UMass, which makes it a perfect match for Memphis in the Fake Dog Poop Bowl.

Louisiana generally ranks at the bottom of American education rankings and its Ozark neighbors are just a tick ahead of them. How about Louisiana-Monroe vs. Arkansas A & M in the Jello Brain Mold Bowl?

Middle Tennessee and Western Kentucky are genetic naturals for the Spray-On Hair Bowl.

My own beloved UMass will take on Hofstra in the first Ty-D-Bol Bowl. Hofstra doesn’t actually have a football squad any more, but some of those cocky frat boys on Long Island on the intramural flag football team have been running wind sprints and are bragging they’ll take down the Minutemen. The over/under has Hofstra +10.

Finally, let’s give PA Governor Tom Corbett his wish: Penn State gets to play a bowl game against Ball State in Chatham County, Georgia on the grounds of Bethesda Home for Boys, the nation’s largest orphanage. And who better to sponsor it than Dick’s? 

Governor Corbett Manages to Lower the Sleaze Bar

Governor (and Space Cadet) tom Corbett takes on the NCAA's attempt to flush PSU's football ambitions. 

Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does. Just when you’ve convinced yourself that you’ve seen all the sleaze imaginable, another slime ball climbs out from under a rock. I mean, how can you top the Nazi Rifle Association’s response to the Newtown massacre? Congratulations to Tom Corbett, who managed.

If you’ve not yet heard, Corbett is the Republican (natch!) governor of Pennsylvania who recently announced his intention to spend some taxpayer money to sue the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA). That’s because of the NCAA’s pathetic standards for scholar athletes, right? No–guess again. Is it because the NCAA has refused to curtail exploitative recruiting practices that allow colleges to bring academically ill-prepared inner-city black kids onto campus just long enough to get a fall’s worth of football out of them before they flunk out? Wrong again. Nope–old Governor Corbett is livid that the NCAA banned saintly Penn State from playing any bowl games for–my God!–four years. Such a harsh sentence for such a trivial matter!

I’m talking, of course, about the Jerry Sandusky pedophilia scandal that took down Joe Paterno and PSU’s president. I mean, all that happened was the at least 8 minor children were raped during a 16-year period while Paterno turned a blind eye and the Athletic Department covered it up. Hell, that’s just one little boy every two years–hardly enough to warrant keeping the university’s football team out bowl games!!! What was the NCAA thinking? I mean this is Penn State after all–a football powerhouse. What’s a young boy every now and then when gridiron supremacy is on the line?

Corbett sure put the “pig” back into pigskin. As it happens, I’m also furious with the NCAA. I’m livid because it didn’t lower the death penalty to PSU football. Sixteen years of pedophilia and all PSU got was a four-year bowl ban and the loss of a few athletic scholarships? That’s it? If the PSU faculty has a collective scrap of decency, its response to Corbett’s pathetic lawsuit will be a vote to dismantle the football program. Don’t give me any of that crap about how the young men on the team today had nothing to do with Sandusky. My response is that inconveniencing those who would have to transfer would teach them a greater lesson than they’d ever learn at State College. That is, if we still believe that protecting children is more important than football.

Pennsylvania taxpayers should be up in arms over this. First of all, no one has ever successfully taken on the NCAA, so Corbett is a fool on a fool’s errand. Second, I’ve driven Pennsylvania roads recently and can think of at least one better use for state monies. Third, the federal government has got to be watching all of this. Corbett has already said that he intends to have the Commonwealth opt out of the healthcare exchange network under President Obama’s medical reform act. Is a federal lawsuit in the offing? It should be. If Corbett has money to burn on making the state safe for football coaches who play footsies with children, he’s got the cash for healthcare reform! 

I can’t recall who wrote the first article I read with the title “Does America Hate Children?” I know it was in the 1980s and I think it was in Newsweek, but I might be mistaken. No matter–dozens of such articles have appeared since. No doubt Pigskin Corbett’s gross insensitivity will spark a few more. At the very least it’s another confirmation of a frequently slung aphorism about the GOP–it’s a party that believes that life begins at conception and ends at birth. Unless, of course, the child is a boy that looks like he might grow up to be a halfback.