Cliff Lee, Cy Young Winner

Wednesday McBone mourned a former Indians left hander. Today we salute a current one. Congratulations to Cliff Lee, who yesterday ran away with the American League Cy Young award, the second year in a row the award has gone to a Tribe lefty. In going 22-3, Lee put up numbers that were not only Cy Young worthy, but also legitimately rank as one of the great seasons in baseball history. Even more incredible is that his achievement follows a season in which Lee was injured, demoted to AAA, finished with an ERA over 6, and was left off the Indians' postseason roster. There was no postseason for the Tribe this year, but for long stretches, Lee almost single-handedly kept his team respectable. With Lee, the Tribe's record was 81-81. Take away Lee's record and the club's record is 59-78.

I was almost certain that Lee would be traded before the start of the year. Now his landmark season has me excited for 2009.

Congrats, Cliff, and keep it up.

nwb

Reason #97 to Love Cleveland Sports: Herb Score

When Herb Score took the mound against the New York Yankees on May 7th, 1957, he was, at age 24, the best left-handed pitcher in baseball. Two years earlier he had run away with the American League Rookie of the Year Award after posting 16 wins, a 2.85 ERA and 245 strikeouts--a rookie record that would stand for almost thirty years. The 1956 campaign saw Score ascend even higher. Armed with a blazing fastball and curve that was nigh unhittable, the lefty notched 20 wins, saw his ERA fall to 2.53 while his strikeouts rose to league-leading 263. When Hall of Famer Bob Feller retired his right arm in 1955 Herb Score had already taken his place as the game's most dominating power pitcher.

The 1957 season began according to plan. By May 7th, when Yankees infielder Gil McDougald stepped to the plate, Score had another spectacular month of baseball on his resume. Moreover, he was the anchor of a strong pitching staff, and with a young all-star named Rocky Colavito in right field, the future of the ballclub looked secure. Then, McDougald, the second batter of the game, lined a pitch directly into Herb Score's right eye. The young lefty's nose was broken. The bones around the eye were shattered.

Score missed most of the next two seasons, and he would win only 17 more games in a career that ended before he was 30 years old. When Rocky Colavito was inexplicably traded after the 1959 season, the Tribe found themselves without their two cornerstones. The club would not be competitive again for another 35 years. Quite naturally, the protracted era of futility was precipitated by the New York Yankees.

For the first two decades of my life the name Herb Score and Cleveland Indians were inextricably bound. His voice was so familiar over the airwaves that for a long time, I didn't even know he had been a pitcher. Every summer Herb Score on the radio was as dependable as the rising and setting of the sun. Any broadcast of an Indians game featured his understated calling of balls and strikes, his knowledge of the game past and present, and always, always an on-air gaffe. He was never flashy and he eschewed cornball expressions that so often make announcers obnoxious. No gimmicks. Nothing cute. Just baseball. So what if he sometimes mixed up a player's name? Or what city he was in? He was unpolished, unassuming and 100% ours.

More than 10 years later I realize that Herb Score was more like a steady hand whose value you don't realize until it's gone. Who knew that when he first took to the booth in 1963 that he would remain there, calling Indians games, for thirty-five years? Who knew how hard it would be for the Indians to replace him once he was gone? A decade has passed by and still I miss hearing his voice, particularly in the 8 or so seasons he paired perfectly with the more emotive Tom Hamilton, himself a beloved broadcaster who calls Herb Score his mentor.

Score retired in 1997 after game 7 of the World Series, when Jose Mesa ripped out and feasted on the still warm and beating hearts of Indians fans everywhere. He never did see his team win it all, not as a player, not as a broadcaster, but at least he got to call two pennant winners in his final three seasons. And did he deserve it. No one ever watched more bad baseball than Herb Score. And no one more deserved those great Indians teams of the 1990s.

Life after baseball took a calamitous turn 1n 1998 when he pulled out in front of a semi-truck and was nearly killed. He did manage a recovery that allowed him to throw out the first pitch of the 1999 season at Jacob's Field, but health problems would follow him throughout his retirement.

Herb Score died yesterday after a lengthy illness. He was never bitter about what happened to his career, and he was always grateful that he was able to earn a living in the game he loved so much. That, I believe, is what endeared him to fans, and that is why, when Herb Score died, Cleveland lost one of its true icons.

We love you Herb!

Below is a tribute to the great lefty, featuring The Ballad of Herb Score, by Terry Cashman.



nwb

America and McBone Nation Have Spoken, Sorta

We at McBone like to think we have our finger directly on the pulse of the slice of American society that can be classified as 'flaming liberal,' and our most recent poll reveals just that. When we asked McBone Nation in a month long poll who it would be voting for last week, Barack Obama collected a whopping 26 out of 37 votes cast, good for 70 percent. With John McCain garnering a miserable 7 votes, he actually finished much closer to third-place finisher, Constitution Party candidate, Chuck Baldwin (2 votes).

Knowing Obama is an avid reader (I'm a McBoner, he recently confessed) who often plumbs the McBone archive for wisdom and guidance, McBone would like to send a warm and hearty McBoneulations to the president elect, along with a mandate.

America sent a clear message on November 4th, one that says we've moved beyond our bigoted past and are ready to embrace a more compassionate, inclusive culture. That is, until Californians rained on the parade by approving the decidedly not compassionate Proposition 8, defining marriage as being between one man and one woman. McBone firmly believes that the will of the people should be reflected in the law, EXCEPT in the case of civil rights issues. On May 15th of this year, the California Supreme Court did what was right by stating that a ban on same sex marriage is unconstitutional. Last week 52% of the Californian citizenry announced that it didn't care about equal rights. Never mind that marriage is a legal union between two people and that separation of church and state is one of our country's founding principles. No, instead 5,668,960 Californians decided that a certain small segment of the populace should have fewer rights than the majority. McBone says: that's fucked up, California.*

Like anyone with a pulse, heart, sense of history or the smallest drop of humanity in their veins, I got a little emotional when I watched Obama take the stage with his family on the night of November 4th. I was proud that an inspiring young black man beat a cranky old white man like a drum. I was relieved that 8 years of horror were finally, finally coming to an end. I was hopeful that we had chosen someone wise and dynamic enough to end the war in Iraq, to right our sinking economy, to make a real commitment to the environment and to ensure affordable health care for everyone. More than anything, though, I marveled that in half a century we'd gone from separate drinking fountains to electing a black president.

Inspiring? Oh yeah. But a message of Change, unless acted upon, is, after all, only a slogan. President Obama, denying gay marriage is neither American nor constitutional (nor, if you ask me, is it particularly Christlike). You owe it to all those who paved your road to the White House to side with equality in the civil rights issue of our time. No more bans on gay marriage. No more bigotry written into law. No more backwards bible thumpers deciding what two people in love can and cannot do.

nwb

*Don't even get me started on Ohio, who chose to ban gay marriage and re-elect Bush on the same goddam day.

I said that our country would never elect a black man. Fuck me.




nwb

Poet/Recluse M. Patrick Foliglio Sighted at Obama Rally

In a rare sighting outside of his heavily fortified compound in western Ohio, famous poet/recluse M. Patrick Foliglio was recently spotted at Bowling Green State University attending a rally for presidential candidate Barack Obama. The poet, standing just to the rear of vice presidential nominee Joe Biden's right shoulder, can be seen in this short clip laughing maniacally and parading a poster that reads, 'Chan.' What or who Chan is remains a mystery. To his immediate left is Heather, one of Foliglio's seven wives. None of his 29 children appear to be present.

His appearance at a Democratic rally places in doubt Foliglio's purported affiliation with certain other, more extreme political activist groups. The author of more than 18 poems, including Fart, Fart, Fart and Ho Ho Moe (translated into more than 200 languages) had last been seen at a small religious gathering in Toledo, Ohio.

McBone, which has obtained the rights to all of Foliglio's collected works, here presents a lesser known piece in the author's canon, Box:

see those kids in a box
they look like Robots but
their not cause they
are just in a box.


nwb

Candy Corn

Obviously we at McBone spend a disproportionate amount of time railing against the evils of mayonnaise, and rightly so. Perhaps though in our rather single-minded quest we lose sight of the fact that mayonnaise is just one of the "foods" that have found their way onto our boycotted substances list.

With Halloween drawing near and Thanksgiving on the horizon, this seems an opportune time to discuss candy corn. Fortunately for research purposes, my wife annually buys a bag of candy corn, which invariably ends up in a cupboard mostly uneaten and utterly forgotten until about July, when we throw the bag away. This year she has procured a bag of Brach's, which proudly calls itself 'America's #1 Candy Corn.' Also conspicuous is a purple label featuring a beehive and a buzzing bee surrounded by the words: 'Made with Real Honey.' Real honey? That's not a bad place to start, and so perhaps it behooves us to examine the ingredients a bit closer. They read: sugar, corn syrup, salt, honey, gelatin, confectioner's glaze, dextrose, artificial flavor, titanium dioxide color, yellow 6, yellow 5, red 3, blue 1. Personally, I try never to leave titanium dioxide color out of a recipe.

OK, truth be told, I've seen longer and more horrifying lists of ingredients. This candy corn will never be mistaken for something all-natural, but mostly we're talking about loads of sweeteners. Oh, and let's not forget about the honey, which thus far is the only draw I can think of. Because, let's face it, what is the lure of something called 'candy corn?' Corn that's been candied? Yuck! And just look at the stuff. Does candy corn really look like anything to eat? It's tri-colored, yes, but how appetizing is white, orange and yellow? The colors are evocative of fall, I suppose, and pumpkins and, yes, corn, but more than anything, when I see a piece of candy corn, I think of the awful cupcakes that moms made for the Halloween party every year at King Elementary. Orange frosted cupcakes that invariably had a single candy corn rising from the center, like a candle. By the time it made it to us kids, the candy corn had leached some of its color into the cupcake, and really even thinking about it is causing my teeth to decay.

And speaking of candles, candy corn is also cone shaped and waxy to the touch, not unlike a miniature candle. While most candy corns contain carnauba wax, Brach's achieves waxiness without the need for the carnauba palm derivitive. Of course wax and candles, even tri-colored ones, don't exactly make my stomach growl. But I enjoy many foods that may not look too appealing, so I'll move to the next phase.

I stick my nose in the bag, half-expecting to be enticed by the smell of honey. Instead, an artificial, sort of sickening, prefabricated sweetness parks itself in my nasal cavity. I gag but am undaunted. I pour a small amount onto the table and hear the little corns click-clacking like a pile of Legos. Again I inhale. Lurking beneath all that sugar is something plastic, as if the candy has absorbed the scent of its packaging and the machines that made it. This stuff is so manufactured that any semblance to real food has been processed into oblivion. I recognize other unfoodlike aromas too. Silly putty. Polyurethane. Legos.

The last thing I want is to put one of these things in my mouth, but as a service to you, dear McBoners, I will. At first I taste nothing. The sensation truly is like having something plastic in my mouth. Then, I chew. As my teeth and saliva work hard, too hard, to break down the sugars, an unmistakable candy-corn flavor is released. My first reaction is: where's the honey? And if there is any real honey, I wonder why they bother, because I sure don't taste it. Corn syrup, among the cheapest of all sweeteners, is closer to the mark, and why not? It is candy corn, after all. During this assault on my erstwhile cavity-free molars, I find little to recommend it. To be fair, though, I will attempt to discern with some attention to detail a few of candy corn's characteristics. Plastic is certainly the predominant flavor. Also present are staleness (18-24 months), wax, artificiality, and processed (is 'processed' a flavor?). What about the texture? Again, plastic and wax, these followed by grit--grittiness being one of the truly unpleasant mouthfeels I can think of. Against every impulse, every survival instinct, I swallow. Let my stomach acid try and deal with this stuff now.

After a mere three pieces I feel a strong urge to brush my teeth for an hour. The ordeal should be over, but lingering on my tongue is something truly unnatural, almost unholy--kind of like the aftertaste of a diet cola. My mouth is not happy, and may not be for weeks; it demands fluoride and floss.

In conclusion, I want to make one thing clear: candy corn is not mayonnaise. While undeniably and almost ineffably awful, candy corn has few of the truly menacing qualities that have made mayonnaise McBone enemy #1. Still, McBone strongly urges you to avoid candy corn this holiday season, whether Brach's or any other brand of this sham of a candy. If you're desperate for something sweet, I think you'll find a spoonful of actual honey much more satisfactory.

nwb

McBone Chooses the Black Guy!

Today Alex and I voted at our local polling place (Kroger) and, after absolutely no deliberating whatsoever, chose the black guy. Now, we may not be the most informed voters in the world, but neither are we ignorant fools. We don't vote for a candidate based on one issue, and we like to think ourselves above voting for skin color. But let's face it: Obama's candidacy is important because of his skin color, and his victory will be important because of his skin color. Why? Because the fact that an African-American candidate for president can be leading in the polls so late in the game tells us that we have come so very far since these degenerates held political sway:


Obama's rise is important because it means these guys didn't die for nothing:


Obama's imminent victory is important because it means there is hope for this couple, and maybe not just in Massachusetts, California and Connecticut:


And it's important because civil rights are about gender too. Let us not forget that black men had the right to vote in this country before white women did, and let's never forget that this year's Democratic primary was truly unprecedented, boiling down to Obama versus:


In terms of politics, I'm ambivalent about Barack Obama. I believe what the world needs more than anything is for the United States to take a hard tack to the left. I also understand the need for moderation and mass appeal during election season. I hope he's a little more liberal than advertised, but I'm not getting my hopes up.

In one respect Obama is fortunate; his presidency abuts directly that of George W. Bush. Whoever is elected is bound to look pretty good next to eight years of unmitigated failure. Ultimately, though, the shortcomings of one administration cannot be a measuring stick for future ones. History will decide. Obama's presidency will be judged by how much he did to combat global warming and poverty, on how well he repaired the situation in the Middle East, on whether health care became accessible to everyone, and on how he handled an economy that is hanging on by a thread. Times are tough. People compare Obama to Kennedy. I want FDR.

Yes, policy is paramount, and I can't imagine myself voting Republican, no matter if the candidate is black, brown, yellow, red, white, or green with antennae and tentacles. I'm just saying: Obama's racial makeup is important. In light of that fact, we must remember that we cannot accurately call Barack Obama black. His mother, after all, is white. Obama is something of a hybrid, and for that reason he may just be the symbol of our time. Will Obama be one of those rare galvanizing symbols that are common in fiction but sorely lacking in reality? Hard to say, especially in an age when reality has become so sensationalized. I'm hoping that the word he has uttered over and over again from the start, the word he has made the centerpiece of his campaign, is not as empty as most campaign slogans (anyone remember "compassionate conservative?"). Change is needed. Barack knows it. Can he deliver it? In a way he already has. I just hope he doesn't lose because of his skin color.

nwb

PS: Is this post a little corny? I hope not.

Pictured above: Alex votes for president for the first time ever.

The Carter-Cash/ Alex Photo Gallery

Being the preeminent Venezuelan-born scholar on the Carter-Cash family, my darling wife, Alex, has had ample opportunity to brush elbows with members of the legendary musical family. McBone invites you take a few moments to browse the Carter-Cash/Alex photo gallery.

Here's Joanne Cash, Johnny Cash's sister. We met her in Akron, Ohio, not far from McBone HQ. She gave a great concert, which was followed by a sermon by her husband. As I recall, he denounced evolution, but we won't hold that against him.












Joanne Cash and Alex, Dec. 2007


This next photo is of Alex and Carlene Carter, June Carter's oldest daughter from her first marriage to Carl Smith. We met Carlene last night at a concert at the Little Nashville Opry in Nashville, Indiana. Carlene gave a great concert which was not followed by a sermon, which was Ok by me.












Carlene Carter and Alex, Oct. 2008


Finally we have Alex and Unit One, Johnny and June's tour bus. Here Alex is basking in the warm glow that June left behind in her personal quarters. While Unit One may not in fact be a living breathing member of the Carter-Cash family, it's pretty close. Incidentally, we stumbled upon Unit One outside the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame earlier this year in the month of June.












Unit One and Alex, June 2008

nwb