Without Feathers

Word started leaking out over the weekend that Iran will attend a conference in Egypt later this week (May 3rd, I believe) on the future of Iran.  The conference, by the way, isn’t just a platonic seminar, it is intended to work out some real issues with Iraq’s Middle East neighbors who, after Iraq itself, have the most to lose or gain by the outcome of the current tragedy.  Oh, and did I mention that U.S. Secretary of State Condileeza Rice will also be attending.

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All I have to say is that it is still only April.

I washed my official Yankees “Clean Up” cap AFTER the game — do you think that will help?

I’ve held back on commenting about last weeks American Idol results show because, frankly, that show really took me by surprise. I was so expecting the worst that I announced to Mrs. Feathers that I would watch only a few minutes of the beginning and then return at the very end to find out who was eliminated. Two hours later I was reaching for a credit card.

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This season remains a puzzle to me — even with Sanjaya gone.

The only performance last night that I really enjoyed was Jordin Sparks, and even that was not as smooth as it should have been. Phil Stacey continued his streak from last week with another good — not great — performance which I’m hoping demonstrates that he has finally found his stride in the competition. Melinda Doolittle’s performance was, as always, poised, professional and expressive (yawn) as should be the performance of a 29 year old professional singer.

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Yes, he was a drunk and a commie, but he was our drunken commie — by us I mean people who think rule of law matters. The moment of courage depicted below led directly to Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin becoming Russia’s first elected president.

God rest your soul…fellow traveler.

Sheryl Crowe’s ecological zeal may have taken a turn into dark territory with her public outcry over the excessive use of toilet paper. Gaea knows I’m as guilty as the next guy when it comes to luxuriating in the hedonistic self indulgence of bodily hygiene. I wouldn’t even particularly object to pledging to reduce my wiping to the absolute minimum that public decorum demands. But one square per dump? No wonder Lance Armstrong wanted out.

Well, Ms Crowe, I’ve got one thing to say to you: You can take my toilet paper when you pry my cold dead fingers off of my ass!

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Go ahead, say it. No, I deserve it. It’s not bad enough that I was heartbroken and humiliated. I deserve to be brought low.

Tragedy in the classic sense: Six innings of grace and beauty setting me for the brutal denouement. It could not have been better scripted by Sophocles. I pay the price of hubris yet find no catharsis. Mo…Mo! What evil malady has befallen you? A-Rod: You couldn’t get just one more home run when we needed it? Joe! What the hell were you thinking in the eighth?

If you never see another post here, you may assume the worst.

Weather from the southwest has made it cold and rainy and miserable in New York City with precious little relief forthcoming from the Bronx.  April has seen more mud than cheer in the hometown.  There have been signs of life, mind you, but with the entire front-end of the pitching staff recuperating on the 15 day Disabled List, little joy could be found in Mudville.  But the crack, and crack, and crack and again of mighty A-Rod’s bat has turned that around.

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I’m just glad he’s gone — even if I had to be proved wrong in the process (do you think that could be a country lyric?). But how the hell did Chris Richardson beat Blake Lewis???

I was determined not to blog about the Virginia Tech tragedy. It is the kind of thing that I believe is best left to the victims to comment on since it is their lives that have been so terribly torn apart. Nothing I can say will possibly be alleviate the pain or illuminate the circumstances in a positive way.

I will continue to honor the dead and their survivors by keeping silent on what must be the hardest day of their lives, but I hope that they will forgive me for speaking out about some of the jackals circling the remains.

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