Author: Brad Zellar

  • The Sheep Census

    These days you can’t turn on a television without encountering an advertisement for some pharmaceutical sleep aid, and sleep centers have sprung up all over the country. Yet for experts like Dr. Mark Mahowald, that explosion of treatment options—and the ceaseless wave of sleep-deprived patients seeking them—is both a blessing and a curse. That’s because the sheer range of sleep-related afflictions often still baffles even the most experienced specialists.

    Mahowald is the director and cofounder of the Minnesota Regional Sleep Disorders Center at Hennepin County Medical Center, and for more than thirty years he has been at the forefront of a burgeoning industry.
    Back in the ’70s, when Mahowald and fellow neurologist Milton Ettinger launched the MRSDC, sleep science was still a little-understood and largely neglected field. At the time only two facilities in the country—New York’s Montefiore Hospital and Stanford University in California—were seriously addressing the subject. Faced with a growing number of local complaints, Mahowald and Ettinger began conducting studies at HCMC using polysomnographic gear that Mahowald built in his living room.

    Today Mahowald is widely recognized for the MRSDC’s pioneering research and treatment in the area of REM sleep behavior disorder, an often dangerous parasomnia in which individuals act out all manner of dreams and nightmares, with often violent results—they drive, for instance, or choke their spouses, or commit sexual assaults. Mahowald and his MRSDC colleague, Dr. Carlos Schenck, recently published an article in a medical journal on one particular (and peculiar) class of these behaviors, dubbed “sexsomnia.” That’s part of the reason why the Associated Professional Sleep Societies, which attracted more than five thousand attendees to its annual confab at the Minneapolis Convention Center in June, asked Mahowald to deliver the keynote address. There, Mahowald and Schenck also received the American Academy of Sleep Medicine’s William C. Dement Award.

    Are we experiencing an epidemic of sleeplessness?
    Well, certainly far too many people are sleep deprived today, but a lot of the things we see in the lab are really nothing new. I don’t think most of these sleep disorders are more prevalent now, just that there was such complete ignorance in the past. We frankly didn’t have any idea what we were in for.

    So what do you know now that you didn’t know thirty years ago?
    At that time there was very little awareness or understanding of apnea or narcolepsy—we’ve learned that apnea is actually as common as diabetes or asthma—and we hadn’t even come close to identifying the broad spectrum of parasomnias [sleepwalking, sleeptalking, teeth grinding, REM sleep behavior disorder, etc.]. Even something like Restless Leg Syndrome was barely talked about in those days, and now we know that it affects something like ten percent of the population. Essentially it’s a whole new field today. An extraordinary number of treatments have been discovered, most of which have proved remarkably effective.

    Are we primarily talking about pharmaceuticals?
    Drugs, yes, but also things you can address with simple behavioral modification. And CPAP [continuous positive airway pressure] machines to treat apnea. I mean, this is a serious disease that wreaks havoc on people’s lives, and all you have to do is pump air into the nose and it’s gone. Fifteen thousand people have come through our labs who are now wearing CPAP masks at night and getting restful sleep.

    We heard recently of some guy who allegedly stabbed his wife to death in his sleep. As someone who has extensively studied the forensic ramifications of parasomnias, do you really believe that a person can commit a crime while asleep—and retain no memory of having done so?
    I do. And although it’s very difficult to prove, the defense has held up in a number of court cases.

    Have you witnessed these sorts of violent parasomnias in the laboratory?
    Unfortunately, they show up very infrequently in the laboratory.

    Then how do you prove that someone was sleeping when they committed a crime?
    You don’t. You can’t. The forensics are very difficult, but there are ways to evaluate these cases. You have to take a very careful and thorough look at a person’s medical history and determine whether there’s any background of violent or seriously disordered sleep. But there is, of course, no way to tell after the fact what exactly was happening at the time these things occurred, and we obviously have to be careful that we don’t get some character scheming to get a diagnosis of a dangerous parasomnia so they can go home and kill their spouse.

    It seems like sleep science is a pretty contentious and increasingly competitive field. You’ve got so many types of doctors—psychiatrists, neurologists, pulmonary physicians—treating patients with sleep disorders. How can people be sure they’re getting the best treatment for their particular problem?
    The increased awareness of sleep disorders and the societal costs of sleep deprivation are a good thing, but the business of sleep medicine—and I emphasize the business part—poses concerns. At HCMC we were interested in studying sleep from a medical and scientific standpoint. We didn’t think there was going to be much money in any of this. Now people are realizing that there is. I divide the field into givers and takers. The givers are giving back to the field through research and education; the takers are making money but not giving anything back. To the best of my knowledge we’re still the only sleep lab in town doing any research, not to mention education. A large percentage of medical schools still don’t address the issue of sleep.

    What bothers you about this apparent divide?
    Again, it comes back to the money, and the conflicts of interest that introduces. Obviously drug advertising is out of control; you’ve got physicians doing consulting work for pharmaceutical companies and serving on speakers bureaus that essentially promote these drugs. Stuff is being overprescribed. And a lot of these other centers generate revenue by dispensing CPAP machines—which we don’t do—so people who’ve got barely more apnea than a cadaver get sent home with a CPAP.

    Do you think there’s still a lingering belief in the medical community that many sleep disorders—insomnia, primarily—are rooted in psychological causes?
    That’s been a big change. Once we were all taught that most disordered sleep had a psychological component, or was an indicator of psychological problems. I think there’s pretty universal agreement now that the majority of these disorders are entirely unrelated to psychological disease. If anything, untreated insomnia is a risk factor for the development of depression and anxiety. It’s difficult when someone’s sitting in your office to know what came first.

    Is there a sense that sleep deprivation is sort of a societal canary in the coal mine?
    It extracts a huge toll, on the highways, in the classroom and workplace. People endure voluntary sleep deprivation for social and economic reasons, and we’ve come to view that willingness to sacrifice sleep as a sort of badge of honor, an indicator of dedication and hard work. Few people brag about how much sleep they get, and all these places are now open twenty-four hours for no real reason. I know that I would not want my car fixed by someone at three o’clock in the morning. I always tell people that if they have to use an alarm clock to wake up in the morning, they’re sleep deprived.

  • Rupert Thomson, Death of a Murderer

    For my money Rupert Thomson is one of the most adventurous and consistently dazzling writers working today. He’s also criminally underrated (and largely unknown) in the United States. His 1996 novel, The Insult, featured one of the great untrustworthy narrators in recent memory: a man, blinded by a bullet to the head, who suffers from a rare neurological condition that convinces him that he can still see. The result was a sort of surreal noir in which apparent delusions seemed very real and very spooky.

    His latest work, Death of a Murderer, features a policeman haunted by the ghost of a notorious serial murderer, and it’s already being hailed by British reviewers as Thomson’s masterpiece.

  • Thomas Maltman

    Yeah, we know, that’s three plugs for Magers and Quinn events for August (and there’s another one to come), but what can we say? The competition is generally a bit tardy on their press releases, the Uptown behemoth just keeps getting bigger and better, and this month in particular the folks at M&Q have put together a stellar lineup of author appearances. The Night Birds, Thomas Maltman’s debut, is already garnering advance raves from the likes of Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Set in nineteenth-century Minnesota, The Night Birds is a historical novel that spans the Sioux uprisings of 1862 and the James-Younger gang’s reign of mayhem in the 1870s, and is distinguished by both realism and truly stylish storytelling. 612-822-4611; www.magersandquinn.com

  • Summer Rerun, with an Update: Was There, in Fact, an Alcoholics Anonymous Chapter in Rockford, Illinois with a Mascot Parrot tha

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    I broke my brain. I’m not shitting you. It was joggled around in some giant, anonymous pair of hands and tossed end-over-end, without hope or desperation, down a scarred velvet table in a dark and nearly empty casino.

    Have you ever felt like a moth that has been pinned to a post and is being swarmed by thousands of vague and terrifying lights? Has it ever seemed like you’ve been locked inside an old bank safe that has a rusty and long forgotten combination and has been flung into the Mississippi River on a moonless night?

    For many days now I have had a lost thought rolling around like a marble greased with gore in the back of my skull.

    You realize, of course, that I’m not kidding. I’m one of those guys who doesn’t tell the jokes unless I mean them.

    It’s not sleep that I occasionally, and increasingly rarely, find in the long hours after midnight, but something more…I don’t know, really, sleepish, is I guess the best I can do in describing it. Utter sleeplessness that lapses from time to time into weird, yet oddly merciful little spells of sleepishness.

    This is what I am.

    And I have decided that I want to take the idea of talking birds much further than anyone has ever taken it before, to explore the language of birds in the history of literature, music, and art, to get to the bottom of this queer and preoccupying business once and for all.

    I realize that I have, from time to time, gotten carried away with similar such quixotic pursuits. There was the time, for instance, when I was determined to make this…blog a portal for all manner of exhaustive scholarship regarding Calvin Coolidge, the thirtieth President of the United States. I honestly thought that I could –that I would– become the world’s preeminent Coolidge scholar.

    Little did I realize at the time, however, that Coolidge was such a thoroughly boring character.

    I have some reason to feel optimistic that my parrot project will be much more fruitful. No particular reason, really, but some reason, and that, at this point, is something.

    I have spent the last week or so assembling some preliminary notes on my exhaustive cultural study of parrotology, and will in all likelihood continue to work away at this long and ongoing project in this space. At the moment, at least, I am taking as my models for this compendium Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project, Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and Isaac Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature.

    For now I would ask your patience and beg your pardon for the disorderly nature of these notes and ruminations. What you have here is a both a crude document and a portrait of one man alone in the wee hours, fumbling his way into a vast and, in all likelihood, inexhaustible project. I would welcome any assistance or suggestions that might point me in potentially fruitful new directions.

    We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and err greatly. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complicated than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.

    Henry Beston, The Outermost House. 1928

    Psittalinguistics: the science of context speaking parrots.

    A parrot, it has been alleged, was responsible for planting many of the more heinous perversions in the head of one of the most depraved of the Caesars, Tiberius, this after the bird had had read aloud to him (by a sociopathic dwarf tutor in the Caesar’s employ) from an early and particularly pernicious primer in lechery. (See: A. Towson Dandridge, The Psychology of the Tyrants of Antiquity, Stanhope and Adelman, Manchester. 1949.)

    We also learn, in Dr. Renata Steenblom’s Unnatural Nature (University of Winnipeg, 1963), of a parrot which was allegedly capable of divining –and divulging at inopportune moments– the innermost secrets of its mistress, including sexual fantasies of a shockingly explicit nature. The bird was notorious for regaling unsuspecting visitors with a tortuous impression of the poor woman’s whinnying orgasm.

    According to Fr. Xavier Empson’s Curiosities of Catholicism and Marvels of Mariolotry (Eternal Image Press, Skokie, Illinois. 1957), there was, once upon a time, a parrot belonging to a tavern owner in a small village in Italy, and this bird was renowned for its ability to recite the Rosary (in Latin) in its entirety. One day, Empson recounts, the bird solemnly proclaimed, “It is the will of God, and I am but His humble servant,” and promptly fell over dead.

    From the pages of the children’s magazine, Highlights, we learn of an unassuming insurance adjustor and confirmed bachelor in Dallas, Texas who purchased a blue-fronted parrot which, upon being installed in the man’s home, was discovered to have committed a number of Johnny Cash songs to memory. The bird was capable of singing these songs in their entirety, and in a passable impersonation of the country legend’s voice.

    The annals of parrotology are full of similar wonders, from the ancient world to the modern. In a little known short story by the Russian writer, Gogol, a bird is called upon to testify in a court of law as a material witness to its master’s infidelity.

    There is an obscure novel, Lucifer’s Bird, by a Depression-era Georgia writer by the name of Ernest Winter, which featured a talking parrot that was believed to be possessed by Satan. The bird’s sinister commands and insinuations lead a God-fearing local deacon to engage in acts of depravity that shake a small southern town to its core. William Faulkner reportedly attempted a screenplay of this novel for Charles Laughton, but there is apparently no surviving evidence of this aborted project.

    In the days before teleprompters one often heard stories of Catskill comedians in their dottage who resorted to being fed their lines by parrots, which were perched on stage in full view of the audience. One such bird was said to be such a quick-witted master of improvisation that in time it became an actual and valued partner to the comedian. Before it eventually passed away from advanced years (the bird survived the old comedian by more than a decade), the parrot had established itself as a successful solo act –if something of a novelty– in its own right.

    The legendary blues musician Skip James is another performer who was alleged to have used a parrot as a prompt, often, some accounts allege, after James had become so inebriated that he could no longer remember the words to his songs.

    There was a minor dust-up in academia in the 1950s when a man named J. Richard Stevens published portions of his doctoral dissertation in a then reputable scholarly journal. Stevens’ thesis, which was immediately and loudly discredited, was that a number of Emily Dickinson’s poems had been almost literal transcriptions of the utterances of her beloved parrot, Desdemona.

    In the early days of television, talking birds were often used to provide voiceover narration for advertisements, largely in an attempt to cut costs and circumvent union restrictions. The practice apparently continues –albeit somewhat clandestinely– to this day, most prominently in the dubbing of low-budget films from Asia.

    The debate over animal cognition: Dr. Irene Pepperberg’s famous gray parrot, Alex. Dr Pepperberg’s pioneering studies with Alex proved conclusively that the prevailing and disparaging notion of a “bird brain,” is grounded in ignorance. Many birds –parrots most particularly– have very large brains indeed, and possess a cognitive sophistication that is as wondrous as it is little understood. Dr. Pepperberg’s work with Alex is almost as important and influential as the better known work on animal communication and referential speech that has been conducted on the great apes.

    The Yellow Naped parrot, the most virtuosic and versatile of the Amazonian talking parrots, can often master an impressive vocabulary of upwards of eight hundred words, and is also capable of singing, dancing, whistling, and doing uncanny impersonations of animals and household appliances.

    Double Yellow Head parrots have long been recognized as accomplished opera singers, with extraordinary range. They are among the more excitable and motor-mouthed of talking birds. (See: Robert T. Nicolai, Caruso in a Cage: The Incredible True Story of Sergei, the World’s Most Famous Singing Parrot, Bristol House, 1983.)

    Budgerigars have been known to have vocabularies in excess of one thousand words. One such parrot, Victor, purportedly demonstrated that birds are capable of engaging in actual conversation, and was alleged to be an influential teacher and mentor to many other birds. Victor, according to its owner, presided over a de facto academy for talking birds, and a lexicon of the parrot’s impressive vocabulary, along with an archive of its recordings, can be found here.

    N’Kisi, a New York parrot with an almost 600-word vocabulary and psychic abilities, is purportedly capable of reading the thoughts of visitors.

    See also: Bruce Thomas Boehner’s Parrot Culture: Our 2500 Year Fascination With The World’s Most Talkative Bird.

    More audio recordings of talking birds.

    There have been innumerable documented cases of talking parrots thwarting robberies.

    Other literary examples:

    Eudora Welty’s The Shoe Bird

    Flaubert’s “Un Coeur Simple.” (See also: Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot)

    Somewhere in the works of Balzac (and I have thus far been unable to find the source of this story, although I maintain a clear memory of it nonetheless) there is a parrot that recites “The Lord’s Prayer.”

    There is also, of course, the foul-mouthed parrot in Errol Stanley Garner’s, The Case of the Perjured Parrot.

    More recently: Joe Coomer’s The Loop, which features a home invasion by an elderly parrot given to cryptic utterances.

    In the seventh century, Shui Shi Tu Jing published the Book of Hydraulic Elegancies. Indeed, one continually finds descriptions of such technological wonders as mechanical flying doves, dancing apes, and talking parrots in the literatures of Islamic nations, India, China, and Greece. In fourteenth century Florence, it was none other than Filippo Brunelleschi who designed a mechanical stage to bring Paradise to life.

    –Oliver Grau, “History of Telepresence: Automata, Illusion, and Rejecting the Body.”

    This defect or imperfection that stands in the way of man’s communicating with animals, why isn’t it as much our fault as theirs? For we don’t understand them any more than they understand us.

    Montaigne, “Apology for Raymond Sebond”

    Yet the animals are not incapable of being taught also in our way. Blackbirds, ravens, magpies, and parrots we teach to speak; and that facility with which we see them rendering their voice and breath so supple and manageable for us, to form and constrain it to a certain number of letters and syllables, testifies that they have an inward power of reason which makes them so teachable and determined to learn.

    Montaigne, “Apology for Raymond Sebond”

    This story of the magpie, for which we have Plutarch himself as sponsor, is strange. She was in a barber’s shop in Rome, and did wonders in imitating with her voice all that she heard. One day it happened that certain trumpeters stopped and blew a long time in front of this shop. After that and all the next day here was this magpie pensive, mute, and melancholy, at which everyone marveled, and thought that the sound of the trumpets had stunned and deafened her, and that her voice had been snuffed out together with her hearing. But they found in the end that it was a profound study and a withdrawal within herself, while her mind was practicing and preparing her voice to represent the sound of these trumpets; so that the first voice she used was that one, expressing perfectly their runs, pitches, and variations; and for this new acquirement she abandoned and scorned all she had learned to say before.

    Montaigne, “Apology for Raymond Sebond”

    An old Danish shipowner sat and thought of his young days and of how he had, when he was sixteen years old, spent a night in a brothel in Singapore. He had come in there with the sailors of his father’s ship, and he had sat and talked with an old Chinese woman. When she heard that he was a native of a distant country she brought out an old parrot, that belonged to her. Long, long ago, she told him, the parrot had been given to her by a high-born English lover of her youth. The boy thought that the bird must then be a hundred years old. It could say various sentences in the languages of the world, picked up in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the house. But one phrase the old China-woman’s lover had taught it before he sent it to her, and that she did not understand, neither had any visitor ever been able to tell her what it meant. So now for many years she had given up asking. But if the boy came from far away perhaps it was his language, and he could interpret the phrase to her.

    The boy had been deeply, strangely moved at the suggestion. When he looked at the parrot, and thought that he might hear Danish from that terrible beak, he very nearly ran out of the house. He stayed on only to do the old Chinese woman a service. But when she made the parrot speak its sentence, it turned out to be classic Greek. The bird spoke its words very slowly, and the boy knew enough Greek to recognize it; it was a verse from Sappho:

    The moon has sunk and the Pleiads,

    And midnight is gone,

    And the hours are passing, passing,

    And I lie alone.

    The old woman, when he translated the lines to her, smacked her lips and rolled her small slanting eyes. She asked him to say it again, and nodded her head.

    Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa

    Parrot Science.

    AND THIS NEW
    addition, courtesy of reader J. Nathan Matias: John Kinsella, “Parrotology: On the Necessity of Parrots in Poetry.”

  • A Strange Team, No?

    And pretty tough, all things considered. On the heels of losing three straight to the first-place Tigers, Michael Cuddyer, who was 11-for-21 coming out of the break, goes on the DL, and the Twins come right back and take two straight from the West-leading Angels.

    Post break: four straight wins, three straight losses, two straight wins. The pitching staff has given up more than three runs just twice in nine games.

    I’m done trying to figure it out, frankly.

    The Detroit series was painful, and pretty much everybody –myself included– was ready to write off the team and the season. It still doesn’t look good, of course, but you have to admire the way the Twins have responded, and, regardless of whether Terry Ryan makes any moves, I don’t think this is a team that’s going to roll over.

    I’m headed out of town for a week, and likely won’t have much chance to check in from the road, but if the opportunity presents itself I’ll throw up a post.

  • Disgusted: Toast On A Rollercoaster

    How many runners can one team strand? How many decent –and even great– pitching performances can one team waste? How does a team that scored 32 runs in a doubleheader in Chicago turn around and manage just 24 runs in six games coming out of the All Star break?

    I’ll be good and damned if I know.

    In case you’re not paying close attention, that’s five straight one-run games, and three straight one-run losses.

    This is the fucking American League, dammit. Get a real DH.

    It’s all strictly for entertainment purposes the rest of the way. Let’s see the Twins prove me wrong.

    If you’re interested in more on this sorry impasse, go over and check out my conversation with Britt Robson and David Brauer at On the Ball. We go into the morass in a bit more detail there.

  • Game One: Detroit At The Dome

    I ran my finger down the schedule –I was pissed off, and in a hurry– and if I’m not mistaken the Twins have now been shutout eight times this season. Three of those have been 1-0 games, two were 2-0, two 3-0. and one 8-0.

    So, basically if the Twins could have managed any sort of borderline Major League production in those games they very well could have won at least six, and maybe seven, of them. In seven of the eight the starting pitching certainly did its job, at any rate, and gave the team every opportunity to get a win.

    That’s all hindsight, of course, which is worthless, but the ugly truth hurts all the more in the harsh light of day. This team has been so close all year to being a very good team, but time and again they’ve pulled disappearing acts that too closely resembled last night’s performance.

    I hate the sacrifice bunt, particularly when you’re looking at a 1-0 deficit, but last night, with Lew Ford on first, nobody out, and Nick Punto and his .209 average at the plate in the eighth, it made a certain kind of sense. It also would have made a certain kind of sense to send Johan Santana up there as a pinch hitter, because Punto could not get the bunt down. He couldn’t even come close, and managed foul squibs at the first two pitches he offered at.

    Punto’s a fine defensive player, and a guy who’s very much in the mold of the kind of players the organization loves, but if he, with his increasingly limited ability to help the team offensively, can’t lay down a freaking sacrifice bunt he doesn’t belong in the lineup.

    He flew out to right and left Ford standing at first, which allowed Luis Castillo to ground into a double play in the next at bat.

    When a team loses 1-0 there’s obviously plenty of blame to go around, but that inning was a microcosm for Punto’s season to date, and was a perfect symbol of the team’s maddening inability to manufacture runs when they most need them.

  • A Damn Fine Product, Come What May: The Golden Years

    Remember the Dark Ages?

    I sure do.

    Man, do I ever, and, holy shit, were they ever painful.

    Remember 1996, the season that began with the announcement of Kirby Puckett’s forced retirement? That team went 78-84 (not that bad, really, all things considered), but the pitching staff had an ERA of 5.28, the third straight year the Twins had an earned run average above 5.00. No Twin hit 20 home runs –Marty Cordova was the club leader with 16. Cordova also somehow found a way to drive in 111, and Paul Molitor drove in 113. A lot of that had to do with the continued presence of Chuck Knoblauch in the lineup. Knoblauch scored 140 runs in ’06, and three other guys scored more than 90 (Molitor, Cordova,and Rich Becker).

    Yeah, Rich Becker. Remember him? The guy actually hit .291 that year, with 31 doubles, four triples, 12 home runs, 19 stolen bases, 92 runs, and 71 RBI.

    Frankie Rodriguez led the staff with 13 wins (13-14, 5.04 ERA). Brad Radke went 11-16 (4.46).

    The Twins were even worse in 1997 (68-94), despite the fact that Radke won 20 games. They still had Molitor (.305 BA and 89 RBI) and Knoblauch (117 runs), though, so they were at least capable of impersonating a Major League team on some nights.

    Molitor was still around in 1998, but he was playing out the string (.281, 75 R, 69 RBI). Knoblauch was gone. Matt Lawton had a little breakout year with 36 doubles and 21 home runs. Todd Walker hit .316 and had 41 doubles. The pitching was atrocious: Radke, at 12-14, was the only guy on the staff to reach double digits in victories. Latroy Hawkins went 7-14, Eric Milton 8-14, Bob Tewksbury 7-13.

    Yet somehow the Twins were even worse in 1999 (63-97). Ron Coomer was an All Star, and Justin Morneau had more home runs and RBI at the break this year than Coomer had all season (16 and 65). Cordova led the team with 70 RBI. Not one starter had a winning record, all five finished with double-digit losses, and Radke was again the leader in victories (at 12-14). Nobody came even remotely close to scoring or driving in 100 runs.

    Nobody scored or drove in 100 runs in 2000, either. Nobody hit 20 home runs. Radke won 13 games to lead the staff, and the Twins finished at 69-93.

    You get the point. If you were around, you remember all too well how bad this team was, and in how many ways, and for how long. It really was brutal. Every year the Twins somehow seemed to find a way to be even worse. Eight straight losing seasons.

    We’re spoiled now. Six straight winning seasons, four Central Division titles. There are just four players (Cuddyer, Hunter, Rincon, and Santana, and Cuddyer and Rincon were just getting their feet wet) remaining from the 2002 squad that won that first title.

    As frustrating as this team can sometimes be –and I guess you have to keep in mind that every year during this recent run the Twins have been frustrating intermittently, or even for prolonged stretches– it really is nice once in a while to step back, to flip through some old scorebooks from those dark ages, and to recognize how good we have it right now.

    Once upon a time we had to make due with guys like this: Dan Masteller, Scott Stahoviak, Lenny Webster, Willie Banks, Alex Cole, Carlos Pulido, Matt Walbeck, Pat Mahomes, Rich Robertson, Scott Klingenbeck, Dan Serafini, Scott Aldred, Joe Mays, and Doug Mientkiewicz.

    Now we have Johan Santana, Joe Nathan, Carlos Silva, Pat Neshek, Matt Guerrier, Joe Mauer, Torii Hunter, Justin Morneau, Michael Cuddyer, and Luis Castillo.

    Hell, Jason Tyner and Lew Ford would have played 150 games for some of those late ’90s teams.

    Actually, imagine this, if you can: Ford played 154 games and got 569 at bats with the 2004 club that won 92 games.

    It boggles the mind.

  • Maybe? No, Not Maybe: The Best Pitcher In The Game

    You don’t believe me? All right, well then maybe you’ll believe William Shakespeare:

    Base men by his endowments are made great.

    Richard II

    Get it? Base men.

    No shit, Sherlock (or Shylock).

    And then there’s this all-purpose taunt of opposing batters (useful for whenever The Great Santana takes the mound), from Love’s Labor’s Lost:

    Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,

    Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

  • Desideratum

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    The clock is ticking.

    The clock is always ticking, always tick-tick-ticking.

    The sun is burning, burning, burning. The moon is rising. The moon is rising. The moon is rising.

    The world is turning. This world is turning, turning, turning.

    Our hearts are yearning. Our hearts, our hearts, our hearts are yearning.

    The days get away from us. The days roll right out from under our feet and leave us reeling, leave us tottering, wobbling, unsteady, old.

    We get broken.

    That puppy that used to strain at his leash and lunge his way through every day, where has he gone? And how did he go so quickly?

    The dog that could never get enough of life, who wore out hours and whose heart blazed like a great, burning thing, that dog who lorded over an entire island every summer and who was ever ready to go wherever there was to go, our bright and raging boy, paragon of ‘good dog’ if ever there was one, how could he have grown old already?

    How is that possible? How could any just and loving god allow such a thing to happen?

    It hurts. It aches in a million ways. It shakes my faith to the core.

    Yet at the end of another hot, rough day I nonetheless find myself begging for grace, for mercy, for patience, for time. More time.

    Please.

    More time.