So I said to Joseph Goebbels, “Burn any good books, lately?”
Recently in New York and Philadelphia, Kate Smith was disinterred, posthumously condemned to death, then reburied for singing, in addition to “God Bless America,” a racist song, 90 years ago. It’s called beating a dead corpse.
That she spent America’s World War II years raising millions of dollars to combat genocidal master race Fascism and delivered a 1945 radio address decrying racial and religious intolerance was left ignored, unimportant or unknown.
At roughly the same time on the West Coast, Cal State-Long Beach put to death a suddenly “inappropriate” on-campus regular, a fictional character named Prospector Pete, the school’s mascot since it opened in 1949.
Prospector Pete, symbol of the California gold rush, last year had his statue removed from prominent view and now has been entirely “disappeared,” as the gold rush, according to the school, was “a time in history when the indigenous people of California endured subjugation, violence and threats of genocide.”
One wonders how many indigenous people were displaced to build California’s 23 state colleges, the first in San Jose in 1857. And to whom should California be returned — if they’ll take it?
Anyway, in a graveside service attended by Deputy Dawg, El Kabong, The Great Gazoo, Hansel, sans Gretel, and the widows of Heckle and Jeckle, Prospector Pete was laid to rest, may he rot in racist hell.
Theater of the absurd — if only it were theater. Fascinating how those who demand unconditional tolerance are among the most selectively and stridently intolerant.
There’s much work to do to rid California of this scourge. In San Diego, the Padres are named for those who proselytized the indigenous to their religious convictions.
California has two Kings, one in LA, the other in Sacramento. What’s more repugnant to a democracy than a monarchy? (While we’re at it, it’s time New York dropped Queens for something more gender-inclusive, say, the Borough of Empowered Women.)
Raiders? Gotta go. The Warriors? Can’t spell it without War. And if Prospector Pete is kaput, how can California abide by a team named for gold rush miners, the 49ers?
Not that I’m resistant to all nickname changes. The Indians and Redskins I’d have long ago dropped. Why perpetuate nicknames predicated on race and skin color? Even when I was a kid that bugged me.
Wait. Did I just insult the bug people?
Fraud-cesa reveals his true character
Even by Mike Francesa’s career standard of rotten guesswork posed as facts, he went deep, this week, committing a triple defamation.
In a reckless rush to bad judgment, he attacked the Giants for reneging on their pledge to draft “great character guys. When you stress that the way the Giants did, it looks very bad when one of them gets shot on a Saturday night.”
He concluded that all-knowing, all-seeing take with, “It’s sad to see the Giants become the laughingstock that they have around the league.”
Francesa was specifically referencing sixth-round pick Corey Ballentine as his hard evidence.
But Ballentine, by all accounts thus far, is a solid young man who was shot — his best friend murdered — in a drive-by shooting. Sitting Bull wrongly guessed that Ballentine and his pal went looking for trouble, as if they run with those who carry loaded guns or pack their own.
So, with a baseless presumption of guilt, he defamed the Giants and the two victims, one of them dead.
Then he performed his ritual next-day tap dance to further lie, claiming he was taken out of context — he was not — and again was unable to apologize because he has never been wrong although he has seldom been right.
And by calling the Boomer Esiason and Gregg Giannotti show to complain that he never said what he absolutely did say, he also proved — again — that he’s another radio bully who can’t take a punch.
Too bad he can’t stagger such episodes. Otherwise, I’d have focused on his loudly repeated, no-doubt claim before Texas Tech played in the NCAA Tournament final. He knew its coach, Chris Beard, would be gone after the game, off to coach a bigger-name college team (don’t miss this one on the Twitter account @backaftathis).
This week Beard signed a six-year deal to remain at Texas Tech.
Thursday, Sitting Bull claimed that “everyone figured” Beard would be gone. Not everyone — just him.
Watching the NBA playoffs has been like watching Channel 11’s Yule Log — seasonally redundant.
The Rockets, in their Game 1 loss to the Warriors on Sunday, attempted 74 field goals — 47 of them 3-pointers!
Tuesday’s Celts-Bucks included 75 3-point attempts, followed by 76 heaved in Rockets-Warriors. Thus, Tuesday we were invited to watch 151 3-point tries. That’s not basketball, that’s carpet-bombing, the institutionalized destruction of a great team game.
So how come each team needs four or five coaches when one or none would do it?
Righetti brings relief (of comic kind) to YES booth
Dave Righetti, now in the San Francisco Giants’ front office, was in the YES booth with Michael Kay and Ken Singleton on Sunday when he told of the time with the Yankees when he was being hit hard, finally allowing a home run.
“So Lou [manager Piniella] came out to pull me, and he had his head down. …
“And as he got to the mound he put his hand out for the ball.
“I said, ‘Lou, I don’t have the ball. It’s over the fence.’ ”
Just when you’re convinced that ESPN can’t be any more eager to wreck everything it touches, presto!
Sunday night for Indians-Astros, ESPN again tried to make its booth — Matt Vasgersian, Alex Rodriguez and Jessica Mendoza — the story, the reason to watch.
So with zero foresight, it created the announcers’ booth in deep left field.
In the first inning, Vasgersian, seated in front of TV monitors, said, “We, like you, America, are watching this game on TV. We cannot see the plate to save our lives, down here.”
As Grampa Simpson would say, “The pink pills keep me from screaming.”
Boom or Bust: We keep hearing about those slugging Mariners, already with a majors-leading 60 HRs!
But there’s a price to pay. An AL team — pitchers seldom bat — the M’s also lead the majors with 329 strikeouts.
Driving home at night on the Jersey Turnpike or over the Verrazzano, dialing through the static to Cincinnati’s WLW-AM to hear Marty Brennaman call Reds’ games. Always a strong, honest listen, Brennaman was a favorite, a cherished traveling companion.
Thursday’s Reds-Mets was his last scheduled call here.
At 76, he’s packing it in, taking early retirement after just 47 years in the Reds’ booth.