No Boston Olympics: We Don't Have to Pretend to Care

WARNING: Satire ahead. If you are easily offended, please bugger off! 

Boston Mayor Marty Walsh just cemented his place in the Taxpayers’ Hall of Fame by putting the kibosh to the city’s bid to host the 2024 Olympics. There were those—mostly fools and liars–who insisted that the Olympics would make money, but name me one big Bay State project in the past 50 years that came in on budget. As a Massachusetts taxpayer who helped subsidize the Big Dig, I’m delighted I won’t be bailing out the Olympic Follies as I slide into my dotage. If we could now set aside two other mountebank-led sucker schemes—UMass Bowl Division football and building casinos—I might get to avoid the retirement choice between moving to a low tax state or subsisting on cat food. But back to the Olympics….

This is a "sport?" What's the horse called? John Cleese?

As we write the obits for the Boston games, we should consider another reason why New Englanders should rejoice: Americans don’t really give a flying fire hydrant about the Olympics. These are not our sports. There is no gridiron football in the summer Olympics, nor is there baseball, bowling, or auto racing. There is basketball, but let’s be honest—now that the Cold War is over, there’s no joy in watching a bunch of NBA millionaires run up the score on a bunch of kids from Montenegro just so they can beat up the Ruskies in the final. There are also medals handed out in a few other things Americans like, such as tennis and golf, but those athletes are also professionals who compete in things far more prestigious and lucrative than the Olympics. Ask Phil Mickelson or Serena Williams if they’d rather achieve Olympic glory or win the U.S. Open in their sports and they’d gladly melt down their medals for tin foil in exchange for kissing the Open cups.

When the Summer Olympics are on TV, the events most Americans tune in to see are swimming, gymnastics, and track and field. But let's again be honest—unless some American wins a fistful of golds, who remembers the victors six months later? No peeking at Wikipedia and off the top of your head: Who won the men’s 110-meter hurdles? The triple jump? The women’s 400-meter race? Name an Olympic pole vaulter. Who struck gold in the women’s floor exercise? And do you have the slightest idea who medaled in sailing?

Of course you don’t know who won the sailing events. It’s one of the three major categories into which most summer Olympics events fall: "Activities for the 1%." Sailing is in the same "Who friggin’ cares?" box as equestrian events. Do I wish to watch the Duchess of Nose-in-the-Air atop a hedge-leaping horse. Ummm… no, though that’s positively thrilling stuff compared to dressage, where tweed-clad upper-class twits force their horses to prance prissily about like spastic ballerinas.

The second category is called “Huh? Sports”—those that cause most Americans to shrug their shoulders. What the hell is Graeco-Roman wrestling and does one have to be named Gyros Vermicelli to take part? If you want Americans to care, the Olympics should trash this one in favor of ultimate fight club kickboxing.  Yanks get BMX cycling, but name an American astride a bike who competes inside a velodrome? Velodrome? Isn’t that French for: “My mommy won’t let me ride in the street?” And get this—in the Olympics they give medals for shooting and there ain’t no deer or family home invaders gunned down in the process! Water polo? Isn’t that just screwing around in a pool? Maybe Pakistanis care about men’s field hockey, but Americans think that they should have to wear short pleated dresses if they want to engage in women's sports.

In fact, both water polo and field hockey skirt (pun intended!) the edge of the biggest category of all: “Exercise.” The Olympics dole out medals for stuff we do to sweat, goof off, or get fit. Like women’s field hockey. Did you ever see more than 10 people watching a college match? Nope. That’s because it’s really all about co-eds burning off energy. Medals for badminton? Who knew? I thought that was something one did in the backyard while the grill is heating and the beer is cooling on ice. Just like playing table tennis in a bar or rec room while the burgers are cooking. When I was a kid, I used to slap balls against a wall. Now they tell me! I could’ve been an Olympian handball champ. Speaking of youngsters, put your six-year-old on a training regimen; there’s Olympic fame in trampoline. You can even win prizes for stuff you normally pay to do, like judo and taekwondo. Bust out your best river moves, because there are canoe medals to be won. There’s even one for canoe slalom, which in Vermont and Maine is called “Look out for that big #@*^%$ rock!”

I don’t mind paying for personal diversion. A few times a summer I’ll even shell out ridiculous sums to watch rich people engage in sports I used to play for free, like baseball.  But I’m really, really happy that I won’t spend the rest of my life paying for pros, aristocrats, and exercisers to come to Boston for two weeks.

Richard Ford's Latest Frank Bascome Novel a Look Inside the Man

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LET ME BE FRANK WITH YOU  (2015)

Richard Ford

Ecco, 272 pages, ISBN: 9780061692079

* * *

Frank Bascombe is Richard Ford’s answer to John Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom. We first met Bascombe in The Sportswriter (1995) as a 38-year-old newspaper scribe who trashes his failed novel and then loses his job, his son, his wife, and his faith in government during the early Reagan years. We saw him re-emerge in his early forties at the tail-end of the ‘80s as a real estate agent in Haddam, New Jersey in Independence Day (1996), and followed him to the turn of the century in The Lay of the Land (2006), in which he peddled high-ticket Jersey shore property to dodgy clients, fretted over urban social problems, battled prostate cancer, and managed to find some happiness in a second marriage. In Let Me Be Frank With You, Bascome is back in Haddam, a 68-year-old retiree trying to make sense of post-Hurricane Sandy society and confronting issues such as the passing of old acquaintances, his ex-wife’s Parkinson’s Disease, and the gnawing suspicion that a lot of the stuff he thought mattered really doesn’t. Call it a prelude to the final reckoning.

Like all the Bascome books, this one is interior. Frank has always played his cards close to the vest—the kind of guy of whom others say, “You’re never sure what he’s thinking.” As readers, though, we do. In this book, Bascome struggles to maintain what he calls his “default position.” He no longer yearns to be a success—just a decent person with an outwardly upbeat carriage, though he often confuses stoicism with optimism. In fact, Frank is more enigmatic than ever and sometimes he says and does things that confound others. Again, we know why. At times there’s a voyeuristic feel to this novel. We hear Frank say one thing, but we are privy to his inner thoughts, desires, and struggles. We know when he’s being “decent” to someone he wants to tell to take a flying leap into the gaping mouth of hell, and we know him so well that we’re pretty sure it’s just a matter of time before he does.

Liking Ford’s latest requires an appreciation of subtly. It’s mostly a book of vignettes in which we witness Frank invest great emotional energy into situations in which nothing much actually happens. But lest you dismiss the book as dull or passive, revisit in your mind the utter devastation of those areas pummeled by Hurricane Sandy. Do you recall the stunned victims and their empty stares into the splintered piles of rubble? There are several such scenes in Let Me Be Frank With You and they put me in mind of what Tim O’Brien once said. O’Brien wrote that when you get to the end of a “true war story,” there’s often nothing to say except “oh.” Sandy was like that too. Maybe this manner of passivity is unsatisfying, but perhaps it’s also relentlessly honest and human.

The other rap on Ford is that his novels, I’m told, are “relentlessly male.” That’s usually said to me by those who’d rip my spleen out if I said that Emily Dickinson is “chick lit” because no man would ever expend that much energy musing over a frigging flower! Oddly, I see a lot in common between Dickinson and Ford beyond the obvious fact that both are amazing writers. They both understand that most human drama is of the quiet kind that outsiders can’t see, but they both invite us into private rooms.

You can number me among the big Richard Ford fans. I suppose if there’s another Frank Bascome novel Ford will have to kill him off like Updike did with Angstrom in Rabbit at Rest.  I will be sorry to see him go.

Rob Weir

Ex Machina is Stylish, Intriguing

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EX MACHINA  (2015)

Directed by Alex Garland

DNA Films/A24, 108 minutes, R (language, nudity)

* * *

Alex Garland doesn't foresee a rosy future. Ex Machina marks his directorial debut, but previously he has written scripts for dystopian future films such as 28 Days Later (a killer virus), Never Let Me Go (organ harvesting from clones), and Dredd (cops with instant-sentencing powers). But then, a guy whose heroes include Wittgenstein, Ray Kurzweil, Stanley Kubrick, and post-apocalyptic video games can't really be expected to be a rosy-eyed optimist, can he?

Ex Machina derives its name from the Greek drama device deus ex machina in which gods made their appearance by being lowered onto the stage by cranes. When gods appeared, it was seldom a good thing for mere mortals. Neither was it a good thing when hubris struck, that reckoning for arrogant pride in which humans behave in ways reserved for deities. This film takes us to a not-so-distant future in which a corporate entity called Bluebook (!) has perfected data mining. Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson—Bill Weasley in the Harry Potter films) is doing coding for Bluebook, when his screen flashes with the exciting news that he has been chosen to spend a week with Bluebook's reclusive CEO, Nathan (Oscar Isaac, last seen in Inside Llewyn Davis). So it's a helicopter ride deep into Norway's mountain glades to hang out with Nathan.

The character of Nathan is a mash of Facebook's Mark Zuckerberg and Google's Larry Page–that is, equal parts genius and sociopath. Nathan's keycard-activated/security camera-heavy compound is remote for a reason: he's a misanthrope alone in his sprawling eco-paradise except for a housekeeper/sex partner named Kyoko (Sonya Mizuno), who speaks no English. He is unsure whom (if anyone) he can trust with a big secret: his advanced experiments in AI (Artificial Intelligence). How advanced? Caleb is allegedly on site to see if his prototype, Ava (Alicia Vikander) can pass the Turing Test. Fans of Blade Runner will recognize the Turing Test as the method by which one is supposed to be able to determine if a being is an android or fully human. Nathan is so confident of his creation that only Ava's face and hands are humanoid in appearance—the rest of her comely body is a see-through frame of sensors, circuitry, and machine parts. That setup has drawn comparisons to Frankenstein, which is mostly apt, though Ava is essentially Star Trek's Mr. Data with the elusive emotion chip in place. Like Frankenstein, though, we suspect something more sinister is afoot and that hubris will rear its head.

Ex Machina is psychologically tense and stylish. It's also very claustrophobic, though, as most of it unfolds within Nathan's sterile retreat, especially its clean rooms and windowless areas. There are reasons for this that make plot sense, but we the viewers often feel as if we need some fresh air. The acting is good, though Isaac's dark side is way too obvious and Gleeson overplays the naïf role. Score two for the ladies, as both Vikander and Mizuno make the best of what they are given. The script is rather male-centric, though again there are plot reasons that make internal sense.

Ex Machina garnered decent reviews and it doubled its $15 million price tag, but it stalled as a sci-fi niche film in both the US and UK markets–perhaps because Gleeson lacks star power, or perhaps because such a film invites comparisons to the vastly superior Blade Runner or the heart-thumping action of I, Robot.  Or maybe it's because we can too easily infer where deus ex machina and hubris will take us. At heart it's about whether, metaphorically speaking, we are building a better hammer or if, literally, we are planting the seeds of human destruction. And don't we all love our little electronic buddies too much to consider the second option?   

Rob Weir

Amy: A Muddled and Manipulative Look at Amy Winehouse

AMY (2015)

Directed by Asif Kapadia

Universal Music, 128 minutes, R (language, drug use, alcoholism)

* *

Wasted life/wasted film

There’s an adage about a train wreck that goes, “It was so horrible I couldn’t stop looking.” The documentary Amy recounts the tragic train wreck life of British jazz/pop star Amy Winehouse (1983-2011). It proves the adage wrong—you stop looking when you stop caring and, for me, that happened early in a film I found dull, manipulative, and dishonest.

Winehouse is a member of the 27 Club, the musicians’ variant of the Icarus myth. Other dead-at-27 bottle rockets include: Robert Johnson, Pigpen McKernan, Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, and Kurt Cobain. There are also honorary members who managed to squeak past 27, like Charlie Parker (34) and Tim Buckley (28). You don’t need a Ph.D. in psychology to understand why the late twenties are dangerous for celebrities; it’s the period of life when you’re supposed to fly on your own and people stop making excuses for you. In “Morning Glory,” Tim Buckley referred to fame as a “fleeting house,” and if you’re famous and still wrestling with demons as thirty approaches, there are only three possible outcomes: you get lucky and don't keel over until middle or old age (Billie Holiday, Jerry Garcia), you get sober and write a tell-all autobiography (Keith Richards, Pete Townshend), or you flame out.

Would that director Asif Kapadia acknowledge that. Can you imagine a Janis Joplin documentary that portrayed her as a shrinking violet? Her pre-death biography parallels that of Winehouse (though Joplin was smarter), yet even those devastated by Joplin’s death agree that Janis fed her demons more than she battled them. By contrast, Kapadia wants us to see Winehouse as the British Judy Garland—an innocent pushed forward too early, manipulated by others, and ignored by those who should have intervened. There’s some truth to that, but also lots of hogwash. She was 19 when she went professional, recorded her first album when she was 20, and began touring heavily at 21. That’s young, but Garland was on stage at age 2 ½ and a reluctant professional at 7. Kapadia does show Winehouse behaving badly, but the overall portrait is that she was a misunderstood naïf who was an easy mark for others.

I agree—to a point. One of the film’s strengths is its look at heartlessness inside fame’s fleeing house. The images of Winehouse disappearing amidst the glare of camera flashes wielded by stalker paparazzi are horrifying. They infer that hulkish bodyguard Andrew Morris was either totally inept or just collecting a paycheck, and we suspect the latter of Winehouse’s manager Raye Coshart and producer Salaami Remi, both of whom observed Winehouse’s descent—one literally etched in an ever-expanding array of tattoos upon her bulimic body—but were more invested in advancing her career than saving her life. The worst bastard was her father, Mitch, who busily reinvents himself whilst vicariously basking in his daughter’s instant fame.

My vote for the film’s creepiest character goes to ex-husband Blake Fielder, though his presence shows the wobbliness of the myth that Kapadia tries to build. Fielder was a horrible match for Winehouse, but she pursued him with a steely determination bordering on obsession. Like (too) many women who make foolish choices, she was attracted to the allure of Bad Boy, foolishly thought she could domesticate him, and got burnt. Then again, she wasn’t a particularly likable person herself, as her first manager and two closest childhood friends determined when they pulled back from her. They knew–as anyone who has been around an addict knows–that it’s pointless to trust a junkie and drunk. Winehouse, after all, infamously sang, “They tried to make me go to rehab but I said, “No, no, no!”

If you don't get blindsided by the fame (including six Grammys in 2008), you come to see Amy Winehouse as an attitude-laden brat just a cut above the blood-sucking paparazzi and cash-cow milkers that surrounded her. At that point, the viewer experiences the ennui one might of watching a prima donna take a temper tantrum. Had I not been with others, I would have exited this dud halfway through. As it turns out, many in the theater that night (around 75) felt the same way. If you’re inclined to skip this one, here are observations that are closer to reality:

·      Winehouse was an unbelievably gifted jazz singer, but…

·      Some of her gifts were exaggerated. With just a few exceptions, she was a pretty bad songwriter in the June/spoon/moon tradition of poetry.

·      Her contributions were magnified by death. Though she won awards, she made just two albums in a career whose glory years spanned just 2004-08. By 2009, she was already spiraling downward. Her final years were marked by sparks of genius and forest fires of controversy.

·      Her death was pointless and tragic.

·      Others exploited Amy, but she was often a willing victim.

Speaking of exploitation, please note the irony of a documentary that’s a filmed in the style of the tabloid journalism we are supposed to see as having sucked out Amy’s life and soul. Kapadia’s movie is almost entirely cobbled from footage shot by paparazzi and from interviews with those we hold complicit in her demise. His film is (unintentionally) useful as a takedown of celebrity culture, but here’s the other thing about the 27 Club: there ain’t a saint among them. How do you decline membership in the Club? Contrast Amy Winehouse with Madonna and Lady Gaga, each of whom has used the Music Industry Machine on their own terms. (By the way, all three women have sung with Tony Bennett!) As for the documentary Amy, my advice for this train wreck comes courtesy of “Dixie”: look away.

Rob Weir

If The First, Why not the Second?

If we can ban these...

It's (alas!) rare these days when politicians set aside ideological differences, transgress party lines, and make moral decisions in the public interest, but one must give credit where it's due. Though Northern skeptics may scoff, it took political courage for South Carolina's Republican-saturated government to buck 154 years of inert tradition and declare the Confederate battle flag what it is: a symbol of racism, division, and white folks behaving badly. That bloody old rag is headed for Palmetto State museums—where it belongs– and it appears that even Alabama and Mississippi will soon follow suit. Dylann Roof, the little monster whose church killing spree precipitated this brush with reality, must be stewing in his racist bile as news of the anti-Confederate backlash filters into his cell.  

It is tragic that it took the loss of nine noble lives in Charleston's Emmanuel AME Church for South Carolinians to admit that the old Stars and Bars have always been nothing more than an enabler for hate–a wall behind which past monsters such as Roof hid behind whilst declaiming "Heritage! Heritage!" I would gladly re-raise that putrid banderole if it could bring back those nine lives but, like most people with a conscience and an IQ over 60, I must content myself with the small good that has come out of this enormous tragedy.

We should also consider the larger implications of the reversal we see unfurling before us. The decision to ban the Confederate battle flag from official sites is another de facto recognition that the First Amendment has limits, especially when the public good is endangered by so-called individual rights. Alarmists—or are they monsters in disguise?–are busy blaming Obama, Political Correctness, the NAACP, and wimpy pols for this alleged "shocking assault" on "freedom," but pay no attention. U.S. law has always applied a modified common-sense standard to the First Amendment. Call it the you-can't-yell-fire-in-a-crowded-theater standard, but there are lots of limits to the First Amendment:  you can't advocate lawlessness in an already-dangerous situation, commit libel or slander, distribute child pornography, plagiarize, advocate treason, spew obscenities on the airwaves, sexually harass someone, or violate community standards of decency. (Ask Janet Jackson about the last one!) Lots of communities, schools, agencies, and businesses have "fighting words" ordinances. I'd be the first to admit that some of the restrictions on free speech and expression are dodgy, but the greater point is that freedom is not a synonym for absolute liberty to do as one pleases. Insofar as the First Amendment is concerned, there are limits.

...why not ban these?

If we can limit the First Amendment, why not the Second? I am heartened by the speed in which morality trumped hatred in South Carolina. Roof's hate-filled rampage took place on June 17 and the flag left South Carolina's State House on July 9–warp speed for politics. Contrast this with what did not happen after the Sandy Hook massacre in 2013. Or after any of a number of other school shootings; for heaven's sake, American school shootings have their own Wikipedia page! In most cases, meaningful gun control laws were discussed, but dismissed with the speed of an Uzi discharging its rounds. Now consider the gut-wrenching slaughter of 16 kids and a teacher in Dunblane, Scotland. Thomas Hamilton committed his heinous deed on March 13, 1996 and by February 27, 1997 two new laws were in place that effectively banned most handguns from the United Kingdom.

As in the United States, anti-gun control advocates cried that Dunblane was the action   of a single deranged individual and that collectors, hunters, sportsmen, and self-defense advocates should not be penalized for Hamilton's behavior. They lost, and guess what? Hunters still hunt and collectors still collect in the UK; they simply face restrictions on what they can legally buy and are held accountable for the ammunition they can (legally) purchase. British laws are not a panacea; they only restrict handguns and it's still possible to shoot up a school, as was tragically seen in a 2010 incident in Cumbria, England, in which rifle-wielding Derrick Bird killed 12 people before offing himself. Still, the firearm homicide rate in the U.K. is .05 per 100,00; in the U.S. it's 3.55, a level surpassed only by lawless and failed states. Nor has Britain seen increases in home invasions or attacks on unarmed citizens. Mind, this is because only some kinds of handguns were banned.

The bigger issue here is similar to that of the Confederate flag flap. If we can place restrictions on the First Amendment in the name of the public good, isn't it time to do so with the Second? As in the case of those alarmists who for years defended the Stars and Bars, legislators need to ignore shrill and selfish voices and act morally in the name of a more sane and civil society.   

The 100 Year-Old Man: The Year's Best Film?

 THE 100 YEAR-OLD MAN WHO CLIMBED THROUGH A WINDOW AND DISAPPEARED  (2013 in Sweden; 2015 USA)

Directed by Felix Herngren

Music Box Pictures, 114 minutes, R (language)

In English, Swedish, Russian, and Spanish (with subtitles for non-English)

* * * * *

The best picture of the summer (and, perhaps, this year) probably isn't playing at a cinema near you. But if it's anywhere within reasonable driving distance, be sure to catch The 100 Year-Old Man Who Climbed Through a Window and Disappeared. It's a hysterical delight and its lengthy title doesn't even come close to being the most unorthodox thing about it. The film appeared in Sweden in 2013, made a splash at a few North American film festivals last year, and is now in limited release–mostly in the few remaining "art" houses in the U.S. and Canada. It involves, among other things: blowing up stuff, eugenics, Franco, failures to communicate, the Manhattan Project, Stalin, the Cold War, an elephant, a Skinhead motorcycle gang, a man with over 600 college credits but no degree, a suitcase filled with money, and the eponymous centenarian.

One might say that The 100 Year-Old Man is what you'd get if you allowed Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, Amelie, City of Lost Children) and Wes Anderson (Rushmore, Moonrise Kingdom, The Grand Budapest Hotel) to follow Woody Allen's Zelig into his dotage. This film features the dark humor and surrealistic touches of Jeunet, the zany caper-driven arc of Anderson's films, and the Everyman at the center of path-breaking events set-up of Allen, yet it's far more than a pastiche. Any attempt to describe the film's narrative is bound to disintegrate into incoherence, yet one of the film's numerous charms is the manner in which seemingly impossible and ridiculous situations have both an internal logic and mesh to deliver a satisfying denouement. (The lack of such resolutions has long been my reservation with Anderson, a director who delivers hilarity but often has no idea of how to end a film.) Herngren's film opens with 100 year-old Allan Karlsson (Robert Gustafsson) being shuffled off to a "retirement" home after exacting rather extreme revenge on the fox that killed his cat. There's nothing wrong with Allan's mind, though, so rather than face a staged "party" in the home, he lowers himself from a window, makes his way to the nearest bus station, and buys a one-way ticket for as far as his pocket change will take him. Then the true fun begins.

The movie grafts a present-day slow chase caper to a series of flashback vignettes that reveal parts of Allan's past. As you no doubt surmised, it's a checkered and bizarre one. All I will say is that Allan's greatest love has been dynamite and then you're on your own. Gustafsson, who is actually only 50, is superb as Allan, and Ivan Wiklands, David Wilberg, and Mia Skäringer are deliciously droll as companions Julius, Benny, and Gunilla. And, yes, there really is an elephant. I haven't laughed this hard in the theatre since I saw The Castle, and I'm not sure that even the Marx Brothers could have concocted a comedy this improbable that miraculously holds together, even though you'll be in pieces on the floor. There are downloads available of the Swedish release, the US DVD should appear soon, and you might be lucky enough to catch it an actual cinema. But however you see this movie, be sure that you do.

Rob Weir    

Midsummer Baseball: All-Star Edition

The only reason to see baseball in Cincinnati this year

The All-Star Game was rendered irrelevant by inter-league play, but it's worth pausing at the break to take stock of what we've learned so far and evaluate how I'm doing as a prognosticator.

What We've Learned:

1. I said that both the Astros and the Twins had loaded farm systems, but I thought Houston was a year away from being MLB-ready and Minnesota 2-3. Both have faltered a bit lately, but would be in the postseason were the season to end today. Score one for youthful exuberance over elderly caution.

2. Analytics and sabermetrics aren't dead, but they're coughing up blood. The bean (Billy Beane?) counters told us the following teams would be in contention: Red Sox, White Sox, Padres, Mariners, and Blue Jays. Ummm…no! And the team that invented painting teams by the numbers, Oakland, is execrable.  Sabermetrics is proving to be a Dodge Neon, not a Maserati; it beats walking (building from the ground up), but you can't take it across country (a 182-game season). Scouts 5-Accountants 0.    

3. Joe Girardi is seldom mentioned for Manager of the Year, but I'd give it to him right now. Many experts picked the Yankees for last and I picked them for fourth. I still think they'll falter, but raise your hand if you had them in first place at All-Star break. Girardi's handling of the bullpen and New York's perpetual injury woes has been masterful.

4. There is no clear favorite to win the World Series. In the NL, the Nationals have pitching galore, but their offense is often a no-show, the Cardinals are solid everywhere but spectacular almost nowhere, and the Dodgers are as likely to implode as explode. The team that's slowly gathering pace that no one wants to face is the Giants. The  Mets, Pirates, and Cubs? Nice teams, but more holes than a bum's underwear. The American League is such a welter of mediocrity that everyone is within 8 games of a Wild Card bid. Parity 22, Talent 8.

5. Teams Most in Need of a Make-Over: Quite a few. Let's start with those that spent a lot of money and have gotten little from it: Boston, Detroit, Toronto, San Diego, and Seattle. Next toss in those whose rosters look great on paper and like dog poop on the grass: Marlins, White Sox, and Reds.

6. Managers Likely to Be Fired Soon: Number one is John Gibbons in Toronto, who has never been a good manager. Lloyd McClendon ought to be sleepless in Seattle. Brad Asmus doesn't have the Tigers by their tails, and Pat Murphy in San Diego and Dan Jennings (Milwaukee) will likely take the sword for management misjudgments. Boston's John Farrell is vastly overrated, but probably safe until the off-season when he and General Manager Ben Cherington might both walk the plank. Look for the bottom feeders to produce a few firings as well—though it's not their fault.

This and That:

Here in New England the question on everyone's lips is, "What's wrong with the Red Sox?" I admit I picked them (though I'm a Yankees fan). I did, however, sound the warning that things could go sour if the Red Sox: (a) spent too much money on too little talent, and (b) overrated that talent. This is precisely what has happened—as has my prediction that Red Sox defense would be an oxymoron. (Hanley Ramirez in left is truly a scary thing!)

            The break results are of a franchise in a sinkhole as bad the one from which Theo Epstein once rescued them. Remember how Red Sox Nation used to moan about the Yankees $200 million roster? I'd have to say the Yanks spent their $200 mil more wisely. Rusney Castillo was signed for a king's ransom so the Yankees wouldn't take him—he's 28 at Pawtucket and the future looks dim. Pedro Sandoval? Not for the money he's getting paid. Hanley? Only if the Sox admit that Big Papi is Big Pooped Out and put Ramirez at DH. Other duds: Masterson, Napoli, Victorino—otherwise known as Time Marches On. Remember when Jackie Bradley, Daniel Nava, Allen Craig, Henry Owens, and Joe Kelly were "important pieces?" Now each is likely to exit in a fire sale. That may true also of Blake Swihart, who was exposed too early.

            The AL East is so weak the Red Sox could still make a run. I still think they will, but the odds are very low. If one accepts the view that it will take 86 wins to capture the East, the Red Sox would have to play .600 ball (44-29) to get there. Possible, yes, but only two teams have played .600 ball thus far (St. Louis and Kansas City). They have to play on West Coast after the break (Angels and Astros), then come home to see the Tigers. Before the season ends they'll also have to maintain a .600+ record versus Tampa (9 games), the Yankees (9), Kansas City (3), the Mets (2), the Jays (6), and the Orioles (6). If this is my team, I'm selling assets.

As for the Yankees, I'm stunned they are in first. Give credit where it's due: Girardi, A-Rod as a man possessed, and relative health for RBI machine Teixeira. Miller and Betances have been spectacular, though reliever Justin Wilson is a candidate for team MVP. And then there's the unheralded but rock steady Brett Gardner.They'd need to go just 39-35 to win 87 games.

            Can the Yankees win the East? They just might, but I'm still not sold. The temptation is there  to gut the minors for a rental of Cincinnati's Johnny Cueto and the addition of 2B Brandon Phillips. I wouldn't do it as this still wouldn't be a championship club and assets such as Luis Servino, Jake Cave, and Aaron Judge are the future. Plus, the Yanks should save the cash to chase Bryce Harper in the off-season. The more prudent course would be to trim dead wood (Beltran, Capuano, and Drew) and let the kids play. There's zero excuse to waste a roster space on Drew—even an A-ball prospect would be an upgrade.

           On paper, the Blue Jays have the best roster but—as I said in March—I'm done with these underachievers. The Orioles are a bat or two short, and the Rays' offense is even worse. The Yankees have a legitimate shot in the East. So too do the Red Sox, though they'll need to play like it's 1967 to get there.

The rest? The Mets have surprised and their young pitchers have been healthy (so far). With David Wright not in the lineup, though, I don't see much firepower. The revamped Braves manage to stay interesting, if not good. The Marlins are a mess right now and it wouldn't hurt to change managers (again). The Phillies are, simply, a joke at present. Changing GMs should help, though other teams want Cole Hamels, not detritus such as Howard, Revere, Ruiz, or Brown.

The Royals in the World Series? It might happen. I still don't think so. The Twins need to stay the course and be patient, the Tigers need to clean house (including the GM), the Indians, like Cleveland, needs a miracle; and the White Sox should admit their plan was flawed, keep Chris Sale, and put the rest out to competitive bid.

The Cardinals  will, as usual, be in the post season—perhaps with division rivals Pittsburgh and the Cubs, though the latter has my vote for most likely to be knocked out of Wild Card contention. The Cubbies are responding to GM Epstein's grand plan, but the Giants still strike me as a superior team and the Cubs are still young bears.  The Reds and the Brewers have rosters full of guys with inflated reputations that need to go elsewhere.

The Angels have overtaken the Astros and the franchise did the right thing twice already this season: unloaded addict Josh Hamilton in an addition-by-subtraction move, and kept skipper Mike Sciosia and fired the GM instead. I think they'll hold on in the AL West and that the Astros' wondrous first half will get them into the postseason, which will be brief. The Rangers have been about what I expected—as have been the A's, whom I predicted would be odiferous. The Mariners are a franchise in trouble. There's no way they can retain GM Jack Zduriencik, so why wait? Here's an audacious suggestion: offer Robbie Cano back to the Yankees. His salary is too rich for Seattle and he'd bring a bounteous exchange.

The Dodgers have the NL West in hand, though Puig is still a jerk and is wearing out his welcome.  Lots of holes in LA, including the fact that rookie phenom Pederson is hitting long homers but not his weight, and Jimmy Rollins looks washed up. The Rockies and Diamondbacks are going nowhere slowly, and the Padres are the NL version of the Mariners: lots of splashy singings for lines such these—Upton .253; Kemp .250, Middlebrooks .215. He's on the DL, but when do we slap the "bust" label on Myers?

Rob Weir