Farewell, Carlos Beltran

It's not only that Carlos Beltran looked at the final strike of the 2006 NLCS, ending the Mets' last serious chance at a title with a whimper. He was also often the best and the highest-paid player on a team that, for seven years, could never get out of its own way. There were the epic collapses of 2007 and 2008 when no relief pitcher could get more than two outs, the firing of Willie Randolph at 3 a.m. EST, the mishandled concussions of Ryan Church and Jason Bay, the recurring injuries to the stars, Beltran's secret knee surgery that sparked a feud with management, the badly designed new ballpark, the punches Francisco Rodriguez threw at his girlfriend's father, Fred Wilpon's ripping the team in the pages of the New Yorker, and the team's severe financial weakness because of the Wilpons' investments with Bernard Madoff. The team had a quite a few well-paid stars (and a few more well-paid non-stars), but never the ability to figure it all out. When the pitching was up, the hitting was down, and so on in many permutations.

Nevertheless, Beltran had three excellent seasons with the Mets, from 2006 to 2008, when he had between 112 and 116 RBI and an OPS between .876 and .982. He was an All-Star five times, too. This year, when he should be starting his career's decline, he's been pleasantly productive, and I'd found myself ambivalent about the likelihood of a trade. (The trade happened Thursday, to the San Francisco Giants.) Beltran was never particularly emotional as a player, but he wasn't obnoxious either and was relatively easy to root for. That he's now traded is one of many signs the past couple of years that the Mets are far away from contending again for the playoffs. They've played surprisingly well so far this year, but at this point, the only above-average players on the roster are Jose Reyes and David Wright. The team always seems to play better when the expectations are low.

And I don't think anyone could've hit that curveball Adam Wainwright threw to end Game 7.

Yes, Stevie, You Won

Two months ago I was introduced to Fleetwood Mac's records during the band's apex in the mid-1970s and am all the better for it. Perhaps their stature diminished when Bill Clinton used "Don't Stop" as his 1992 campaign's theme song, turning them into old-people rock just as I began listening to music, but I sorely overlooked them. Every song is a love letter to production values, where the drums are crisp, the bass notes are distinguishable and well formed, the harmonies are supportive, and the parts mixed so that every instrument falls into place as it should. Even when "Don't Stop" and "Go Your Own Way," from "Rumours," kick in, they sound exponentially better and fresher than you would expect from two of the most popular rock songs of the past 35 years.

The best song, though, is "Rhiannon," from the self-titled album. I haven't figured out yet what Stevie Nicks is singing about -- she introduces the song in the above video as one about a witch -- but they way her vocals change speeds and tones so effortlessly, as Lindsey Buckingham's guitar slinks along behind her, is captivating. I've had it stuck in my head for weeks. My band is structured somewhat similarly as Fleetwood Mac was, with two couples. We only lack the infidelity and the drug binges, which were essentially the defining non-musical characteristics of Fleetwood Mac during this period, so we're not at all similar to Fleetwood Mac after all. Though maybe we'd sell more records if we were?

Lies, Big and Bigger

The Republican Party no longer cares about the deficit, which, at least historically, is quite a change. If the party sincerely cared, its congressmen would've long ago accepted President Obama's and Speaker John Boehner's recent proposals to lift the national debt ceiling. These compromises were worth about $4 billion that generally consisted of 75 percent of cuts in annual spending and entitlement reforms and 25 percent of tax reforms that would've lowered tax rates, eliminated tax breaks and overall brought more money to the federal government. Instead, the House's Republicans, led by the most conservative, have chosen to punt, largely in the name of favoring the interests of the wealthy and the corporate, who would be hurt the most by these changes to the tax code.

Sometime in the next 10 days or so, some compromise will be reached because enough politicians will realize the true danger of leaving the debt ceiling where it now rests. However, the long-term solutions the winning compromise brings to the national deficit will most likely be weaker than the ideas people are now offering. The chief reasons for our national fiscal problems, in no particular order, are health care costs, entitlement costs, the Obama administration's stimulus spending, the Bush 43 administration's tax cuts for the wealthy, and defense spending, particularly in Iraq and Afghanistan. These originate from Democratic and Republican White Houses and Congresses, yet the latter party has yet to offer any serious proposals for improving them, except essentially to kill social safety nets, as Representative Paul Ryan did last spring. (He's probably very thankful that the acrimony over the debt ceiling greatly overshadows the public's acrimony over his plans for Medicare.) There are no serious attempts to govern. Any time you hear a Republican tell you he cares about the deficit, remember that he's lying.

Luckily for the GOP, their patron saint Rupert Murdoch has given them moderate cover, thanks to his former paper the News of the World's systemic crimes of hacking people's phones to win scoops. Never has a story riveted or repulsed me so, because of its violation of law and trust on so many levels. As is the case with most executives when their companies run into profound trouble, Murdoch and his professional and personal heir, James, can wrap themselves in enough layers of corporate hierarchy such that they can't be held responsible for what happened. They repeatedly used this argument last Tuesday while appearing before the British Parliament for questioning where the elder Murdoch sounded nothing if not old. Perhaps Rupert Murdoch never knows what happens in his newsrooms because, as he argued, he employs 53,000 people and has to follow all of their doings at the broadest of levels. But Murdoch has always loved his papers more than any other of his businesses, calling his editors at least weekly to track what will be on Page One, frequently touring their newsrooms, and more frequently putting his thumb on the scale within the news and editorial pages. That he would never heard of these reporting methods, especially when they were already creating deeply serious legal and financial problems well before last month, is preposterous.

I don't which of the two lies is big and which one is bigger. This summer's biggest news stories -- the above two and Whitey Bulger's arrest in California and subsequent return to Boston -- have all had a strange combination of antagonism, shock, catharsis and ignorance. Maybe it's the epic heat or maybe that these stories are quite amazing, especially when they crash into each other. May we move past them eventually, though this is certainly very difficult for Bulger's and the News of the World's victims. In the meantime, though, it sure is fun to watch the Murdochs flounder; they deserve it.

Update: At my parents' urging, I transferred nearly the entire balance of my money market account to my savings account, in case the federal government no longer can pay its Treasury bills come Tuesday. I'm surprised that we've reached the point where this is a reasonable idea.

Non-Urban Urbanism

While driving around Vermont recently, I kept thinking that there isn't a place in the U.S. that has so consciously said, "No, thanks," to globalization. The pharmacies are independently owned, as is nearly every other service retail establishment, and the chain stores are few and far between. There are more old-time move theaters than malls in downtown Burlington and Montpelier. Every food market sells locally produced meat, dairy and when it's in season, produce. The state's most popular, present-day exports are some type of food or drink. One of the U.S. senators is a socialist. State legislators earn little money and the maximum allowable campaign donations are much smaller.

Predominately rural states typically have an independent streak -- it's inherent to the lifestyle that everyone has to live there. But Vermont's is quite distinct from that of its neighbor New Hampshire, where the anything-goes spirit of its libertarian, "Live Free or Die" politics leads to anything plopped wherever someone wants. The meticulous stridency of preserving laissez-faire economics and politics is tiresome. In Vermont, there's a strong, conscious effort to stop the capital flows of the 21st century. The economy is remarkably and proudly internal, with a devotion to the local and the personal embedded far more deeply than anywhere else. Social value trumps exchange value over and over.

And this philosophy creates wonderful downtowns. Any strain of nostalgic urban development is often dismissed as reactionary and inauthentic, yet downtown Vermont is quainter than any new urbanist development hopes to be, but is nonetheless still refreshing and intriguing too. There's an equal number of stores where you can browse vaguely useful tchockes and buy real things. (Bear Pond Books in Montpelier is a particular treat.) The architecture is well preserved and appealing. People of all ages are out on the streets, walking. Parking is hidden behind buildings or on the edge of downtown -- no surface parking lots out in the front of stores are found here.

Unlike so much of the country, Vermont's downtowns have many of the features that create good urban form and yet, the state isn't remotely urban, even in its biggest cities. Burlington's population is about 42,000 and Montpelier's is about 8,000. That these sorts of places are found only in a handful of the country's biggest cities -- New York, San Francisco, etc -- and in the smallest of places like Vermont reveals a vast, empty expanse in the middle. In Massachusetts, dominated by home-rule government, where each town has its own legislative authority, every town makes a big deal of how distinct it is from its neighbors. "Natick is not Framingham," people say. Actually, Natick is Framingham is Needham is Acton is Danvers is Rockland, and so on. There are exceptions, of course, but each one's look and personality can generally be described similarly. These copies extend for miles, well beyond the lines.

Vermont's creation of downtowns like these also reveals a very worthwhile lesson: In the rejection of one thing comes the discovery of another. And adopting a well-defined value system is important because it produces places that are exciting, genuine and fulfilling. Above are photos of downtown Burlington and Montpelier.

This Is A Long Drive For Someone To Get Ink Stains All Over Her Hands

The documentary "Page One," perhaps not surprisingly, sounds much like a story in the Times reads. Since its subject matter -- the future of the newspaper industry, told through the perspective of the Times' media desk -- is wholly unsettled, the movie spends most of its time reporting. The director, Andrew Rossi, treats the business generally and the Times specifically quite kindly, offering lots of soundbites from the likes of Carl Bernstein about the importance of a vigorous press in civic democracy, but the documentary isn't simply advocacy. There isn't also much deep investigation, so the film feels relatively familiar -- yes, the newspaper industry's identity is quite unclear and systemic change hurts.

Nonetheless, there's still quite a lot to enjoy about "Page One." Any glimpse inside an institution I love as dearly as the Times is a thrill. Watching the interactions among reporters and editors is like watching Derek Jeter take batting practice: They're little insights into how the best produce their work and you hope that something from them rubs off on you so you can reach their level. David Carr is easily the star because he's entertaining and talented, and the type of co-worker who always goes to bat for you and for the paper. And as Michael Kinsley notes, the Times' headquarters, designed by Renzo Piano, is beautiful and graceful inside. (Unfortunately, the Times built it at the wrong time and had to sell it and lease it back to itself shortly after opening it, simply for the cash.)

Rossi's argument largely rests on the importance of newspapers as a pillar of democracy. But I think he misses something more profound: How papers, for a relatively low price, open worlds to everyone that are typically accessible only to the wealthy. In today's Times alone, I can read about art high and low (Justin Timberlake and Miranda July), traveling to Majorca, the European banking system, inside details about Washington's political crisis, citizen protests in Jordan, and a new book on the development of the U.S.'s transcontinental railroad. Doing all of these things would only be possible with a life of well-paid work and leisure, but the Times explores, explains and entertains, regardless of the reader's station. Before I quit the newspaper business, during the lowest points of the business, a municipal administrator told me how her father would come home from work every night, pore over the afternoon paper (these still existed at the time), and despite only having a high school diploma, was a quite well-educated man. Sure, without papers such as the Times, we'd miss lots of political malfeasance, but we'd also miss countless numbers of the world's smaller and larger treasures.

Above is the trailer for "Page One." Thanks to Modest Mouse for inspiring the post's title.

Drowning in Bill Simmons

After about five weeks, I sit on page 550 of 697 of Bill Simmons' most recent book, "The Book of Basketball," and can't remember feeling so drained from reading. Simmons, now perhaps the country's most famous sports columnist, takes shots and give shots with equal ease, which is one of his most endearing qualities. He writes like he's your friend and that's why his ESPN.com columns are easy to read, sometimes funny and sometimes insightful, and easy to forgive when they make frequent missteps and generally absurd claims.

But Simmons has never been brief, including in column form, which has ultimately made this book tough to bear. Truly skillful writers can make their wise points succinctly and poor writers often experience the opposite -- the former group is deft enough with language to captivate and the latter fumbles to the point of frustration. Columns hide this because as a reader, you know you'll hit the high points relatively soon and the end is always in sight; books don't cover this up. At this point, I'm on the book's third mammoth list, ranking basketball's best-ever players, and I already know most of Simmons' major anecdotes for each player because he's told them earlier. Someone hire him an editor.

Simmons' simplistic frat-bro tendencies are exposed more glaringly here too. For example, he's always been willing to write about race in sports, in a relatively simple but relatively appealing way, which is hard to do. Few writers take it on, so he deserves credit for this. But here, there are numerous examples where he can't get beyond the stereotypes that he claims to detest because he doesn't take the time to think critically about such a weighty topic. When he decides to compose the all-time teams of best white and black NBA players, he credits the white team for featuring crafty, cerebral players who are great passers and would be a pleasure to have as a teammate. The black players, meanwhile, would have too much talent and have difficulty getting along and sharing the spotlight, and two of them might be distracted by their gambling problems. Isn't this the box we're always trying to break out of, or is writing and talking about race always too hard? Or maybe Simmons should should take a breath and stop writing so much?

Brutus The Buckeye, Felled By Tattoos

Rarely does a news scandal appear fully formed, with its juiciest bits discovered. Instead, you chip away at it for a long time until finally it has a defined, understandable form. So it has gone with Ohio State University's football program, which has been tarnished by a web of improper gifts, favors and lies (you can dig into the stories here). Two weeks ago, several months into the revelations, the scandal was still front-page news in Dispatch, with the introduction of the temporary replacement for once-legendary coach Jim Tressel -- Tressel had to resign -- and with the departure of star quarterback Terrelle Pryor, one of several star players caught on the receiving end of the gifts.

The scandal is somewhat complicated at this point, with free fancy cars for players built upon embarrassing jokes by Ohio State President Gordon Gee built upon Tressel's attempts to cover up the wrongdoing. But at the core are tattoos several players received in exchange for memorabilia they gave to the parlor. Apparently, the NCAA doesn't believe in the barter system because these tattoos qualified as free gifts, a big problem but also a somewhat ridiculous one. While Tressel's conduct in attempting to suppress the mistakes certainly wasn't upstanding, the tattoos are something else. What seems to be such a juvenile activity instead fundamentally weakens a football team and, considering how OSU's identity is so closely tied to its football team, a whole university.

How does this happen? Well, to perhaps take a leap, in a system where universities recruit young and very talented athletes, often from low-income families and low-income communities, require that they devote the large majority of the university life to the playing field instead of the classroom, introduce them to a glitzy world of sports celebrity, earn millions and millions of dollars from their talent, and then don't pay them at all because of NCAA regulations, isn't this prone to happen? Athletes with a scholarship aren't even allowed to hold an off-campus job to earn spending money. So you have 20-year-old guys, famous in their college towns, with many people offering them favors, unable to put any extra dollars in their wallet from their job as an athlete, and from families who aren't able to give them much spending money for the semester. At the end of practice one day, when they decide it would be cool to get new tattoos, what else are they going to do but trade their memorabilia for them?

Maybe the NCAA should start paying its athletes.