Though the first presidential debate between McCain and Obama is still a few hours away, the Washington Post reports that as of this morning the McCain campaign was already declaring victory via this ad which appeared on the Wall Street Journal’s website(screenshot):

While I may frequently disagree with his politics, I have always regarded John McCain as an honorable man. As the McCain campaign has reminded us incessantly over the past year, John McCain refused an early release from the Hanoi Hilton, unwilling to leave his fellow POWs behind. You’ve no doubt also been assured that McCain is a man who will challenge his own party when partisan politics do not mesh with his sense of moral obligation to his constituency. These points have been hammered into our collective consciousness as exemplars of McCain’s fine public service record, and, especially, his honor.

This is part of the reason that McCain’s campaign has left such a sour taste in my mouth. In reversing or dramatically redefining his own, long-held positions on key issues such as abortion and the environment, and in his selection of a laughably underqualified Vice Presidential Nominee, McCain has called his honor into question. Perhaps, I’ve tried to tell myself, this is simply the high cost of running for President in a two-party system. But as the McCain camp pulls more ridiculous stunts (“suspending” his campaign and running this ad are prime examples), his image veers further from “maverick reformer” and more toward GOP lapdog. Where’s the honor in that?

In N’ Out — This is obvious but bears mentioning for several reasons.

Fries, cooked to order: Utterly essential. Being able to ask for fries well-done eliminates any anxiety associated with fast food ordering. Well done fries are an essential component of Animal Style Fries. Covered with 2 slices of cheese, grilled onions, and special sauce, these are the Bounty of late night foodstuff, a quicker-picker-upper that absorbs excess alcohol and tacks on crucial hours of drinking to any bender. Well-done fries ensure fully melted cheese and prevent sogginess.

Cost: A full meal at In N’ Out will run you less than a value meal at most major national chains, and the quality is incomparable. For the price, this is probably the best burger around.

Cult of Personality: Why extol the virtues of this burger when former Heisman winner Troy Smith can do it for me. “For the folks back in Ohio, they need to understand first and foremost, it is a fresh burger,” Smith said. “The lettuce and tomatoes are extremely fresh. And they toast the buns. That’s huge. That’s key. They use a special kind of sauce, too. The sandwich is incredible after a long night.”

The fact that these comments were made in the lead-up to the 2007 BCS Championship Game — in which his OSU team got crushed 41-14 by Florida — suggests Troy’s focus was misplaced. Still, priorities are priorities, and I bet a few Double-Doubles helped to ease the pain.

The only downside here is the wait. Any time, day or night, expect a line.

…

But they are good … really fucking good. The griddle, which looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in at least a few decades, seasons the 1/4 lb. patties perfectly, and the just-charred exterior gives way to tender, luscious beef. The grilled buns are smeared with PN’B’s special recipe Thousand Island and topped with cheese, hand-leafed lettuce, and thick sliced dills. The whole sandwich is wrapped in paper and delivered to your table — 45 minutes after you ordered.

… 

The Original Bob’s Big-Boy — Growing up I spent a lot of time in the mid-west, so the pleasures of Big Boy restaurants are not lost on me (particularly the Strawberry Pie, a nostalgic favorite). Still, the Original Bob’s Big Boy is in a class all its own. The Burbank landmark (California named it a “State Point of Historical Interest” in 1993) has been serving up burgers since 1949, but this elder statesman of the sandwich trade is an innovator too.

Ever wonder where Ray Crock got the idea for the Big Mac and that flat, center bun? Look no further than Bob’s. For 60 years, the marvel of gastronomic engineering that is the Bob’s Big Boy (the restaurant’s eponymous signature sandwich) has utilized the toasted middle bun as structural support for 2 patties, 2 slices of cheese, and fixins. Enjoyment of the burger as-is will likely be governed by your appreciation for Bob’s special sauce — a combination of ketchup, mayo, and sweet relish. I’m not partial to it myself (I prefer a bit of mayo), but have friends and family who swear by it. If you’re the cautious type, ask for sauce on the side.

While Bob’s Big Boy probably won’t knock you off your seat, consistency is king here. The meat is well-seasoned and not overly greasy, and the burger is always assembled with care. That said, the ambiance is as much of a draw as the food, especially on the weekends when car hops cater to a drive-in packed with local hot rods (including those of longtime Big Boy fanatic Jay Leno).

 Astro-Burger — There are several LA eateries that lay claim to the Astro-Burger moniker, but a meal in the blue hut at the corner of Gower and Melrose will reveal all others as pretenders to the throne. For a small, family-run establishment, Astro-Burger has an enormous menu, and they take great pride in having been the first place in LA to serve GardenBurgers. The menu now includes all manner of vegetarian options, in addition to spanakopita, dolmas, gyros and a variety of daily Greek specials.

But I’m a Texan, dammit. I bleed red, my colors don’t run, and I don’t go to a place called Astro-Burger for the Greek food. Good thing the burgers are delicious. You can order a large, tender char-grilled burger with just about any topping you want, but the standard is lettuce, tomato, onion, and Astro-Sauce (a mild variant of Thousand Island that’s my favorite in the city). Connoisseurs will order an Astro-Burger with cheese and a pile of supple grilled onions, or the decked out bacon-avocado cheeseburger coupled with a batch of the fresh fry-cut zucchini. A great place for a crowd, there’s always seating, orders are up quickly, and there’s something on the menu to suit anyone’s taste.

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Father’s Office — This self-proclaimed Santa Monica “Gastropub” tries to be a little too cute for its own good (an order of delicious sweet potato frites a la carte, for instance, is served in a miniature shopping cart), and when it’s packed, which it usually is, the wait for a table can be off-putting. But one bite of the famous “Office Burger” and these quibbles feel minor indeed.

One of the best and most unique burgers I’ve come across, this classy sandwich is an enormous hunk of dry-aged beef on a french roll topped with caramelized onions, arugula, and two types of cheese (Gruyere and Maytag blue). The combination of flavors is vibrant, with the bite of the arugula a particular highlight. And while, according to reports, the onions can occasionally impart an overly sweet taste, my experience was sublime. At $12 (including shoe-string fries), it’s not a cheap sandwich, but you’ll leave full and satisfied, and F.O. has a great selection of beers to wash it down.

A word of warning: the owner is extremely protective of his creation. He forbids substitutions or special orders and does not allow condiments in the restaurant. I’ve heard several cases of people being thrown out and “banned for life” after attempting to smuggle in ketchup or mustard.

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Fatburger — Angelenos love ‘em, but these burgers are vastly overrated. Seriously, they are fine fast-food burgers, but they’re overpriced without anything to set them apart from the crowd. The onion rings are good, and chili and cheese will improve the sandwiches, but by the time you tack those extras on you’ll pay nearly $11 bucks for a burger and side. It’s a step up from McDonald’s or Jack in the Box, but not good enough to justify the cost.

…

Tommy’s — Another local favorite that doesn’t pass mustard, at least Tommy’s doesn’t have pretensions of being better than it is. This chain is famous for its chili-burgers, but the chili is thin and runny and the burgers are terribly dry without it. The 24hr Hollywood location serves up cheap, serviceable late night grub, but I wouldn’t eat at Tommy’s sober.

…

Carney’s — A welcome change from Tommy’s (most Angelenos’ choice for chili burgers), Carney’s is simple, cheap, and delicious.

………

Highly regarded spots still to try include: Cassell’s, The Apple Pan, The Counter, and Lucky Devil’s

The attack dog has been loosed.  Anyone befuddled by John McCain’s selection of Sarah Palin as his running mate got a crystal clear view of his motivations last night.  Among the many questions swirling around the “VPILF” on both sides of the aisle, were doubts about her ability to speak effectively in front of the massive RNC crowd.  Despite a rough start, she quickly settled into her comfort zone and dispelled such concerns with her commanding presence and winning smile.  Sadly, that same winning smile belied the overarching tone of her speech — sarcastic, vitriolic, and outright mean.

After lauding her running mate and her family, and spending a substantial amount of time attempting to spin her lack of viable experience into a positive, Palin set about ripping into Obama.  She prefaced her attack with the caveat that “there is much to like and admire about our opponent”, as though it would justify the half-truths to follow.  She belittled his time as a community organizer, stating, “I guess a small-town mayor is sort of like a ‘community organizer,’ except that you have actual responsibilities.”  Nevermind that Obama’s work in that capacity was devoted to the reclamation of jobs for laid-off steel workers — the same blue collar constituents she is courting.  She lambasted him for wanting to raise taxes and harped on the additional burden that this would place on those Americans trying to keep ”[their] job at a plant” or “a small farm,” strategically ignoring the fact that Obama’s proposed tax plan would raise taxes only for those households making more than $250,000/year.  Cue shots of botoxed socialites clapping and nodding, extravagant clusters of diamonds jangling from their ears.

Certainly Palin’s speechwriters crafted some biting one-liners, particularly the crack that “We tend to prefer candidates who don’t talk about us one way in Scranton and another way in San Francisco.”  The reference to Obama’s 4 month-old flub was a solib jab at Obama’s perceived white-collar elitism, but the Governor must be careful not to press the issue to far.  Doing so undermined Hillary’s credibility in the primary as supporters began to question whether she was any more in touch with the “average American” than Obama.  Palin touts her rural upbringing and Hockey-mom status as evidence of her connection with this country’s grassroots, but the more she pushes the issue, the more obvious it will become that her job, status and family income place her on the far side of the ever-widening divide between blue and white-collar Americans. 

That may not be Palin’s only forthcoming concern.  Palin questioned Obama’s platform and inexperience, criticising his rhetoric.  Her argument may have held more water if her efforts to answer questions over her own inexperience had not seemed so feeble, or if her own speech had been anything but more of the rhetoric she decried.  She talked at length about McCain’s service record and about the impending deployment of her own family members to Iraq.  She talked about her husband’s gritty jobs (but not his six figure salary), being a hockey mom, and how good people are grown in small towns like the one where she was raised.  But only once did she mention her ticket’s policy initiatives — a half-hearted promise to lay more oil pipelines (presumably running through Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Reserve) and “move forward … on alternative sources [of energy].”

Palin’s speech sounded good, drew huge applause from the crowd, and will generally be considered a success for her party.  Beneath the sheen, however the speech offered even less substance than those of her opposition.  She may have come out of the gate strong, but Palin will only hurt her campaign in the long run unless she beefs up the substance and drops the caustic tone.  “Politics,” she stated last night, “isn’t just a game of clashing parties and competing interests.”  She’d do well to heed her own words.

(Full Transcript of Palin’s Speech)

Among my fellow viewers, the presenters at last night’s Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget elicited reactions ranging from “Who the fuck are you?” (Jim Norton) to “I’m impressed you’re still alive, but why are you here?!?” (Cloris Leachman), which, I suppose, is not terribly surprising for a comedian whose career peaked close to 15 years ago.  Within the cavalcade of has-beens who lined up rip Saget to pieces, John Stamos did his best to set the high-water mark with a gutsy on-stage makeout session with Leachman and vets Gilbert Gottfried and Geoff Ross chipped in with strong bits. The real star, though, was Norm MacDonald.

Largely invisible since the cancellation of his sitcom and the massive box office failure of his movie Dirty Work (directed, incidentally, by Saget), Norm was on the recieving end of some vicious jokes about his career and his supposed gambling problems.  Gottfried’s assertion that Saget was ”a necrophiliac [because] he fucked Norm MacDonald in his career,” was a particular highlight.  But on a night when most of the roasters relied on stale jokes about Saget raping the Olsen Twins and the Johns (Stamos and Lovitz) being gay, Norm stepped to the mic and did something truly courageous: he bombed. 

Like a much funnier Neil Hamburger, Norm’s set relied on wooden delivery and terrible punch lines to generate laughs.  During his first few jokes, the audience sat in stunned near-silence, unable or unwilling to laugh as MacDonald floundered on the stage.  But as the sharp contrast between Norm’s self-consciously awful zings and the biting, vulgar wit that preceded them became apparent, everyone let their guard down.  In short order Norm’s utter lack of humility garnered the biggest laughs of the night, and it worked because he didn’t care whether people laughed with him or at him — he just cared that they laughed. 

Do yourself a favor and watch the full video of his performance.  (If you have problems with the sound, clips can be found @ comedycentral.com)

China just can’t seem to keep their story straight.

First He’s 14, as reported by China’s official English-language paper on May 23rd.

Then He’s 16, proud holder of a passport with a 1992 birthday.

Now He’s 13, at least according to a report published last November by China’s government sponsored news agency.

Regardless of age, one thing’s for sure: He’s a lady.  And maybe, just maybe, the source of more confusion than any person on the planet at the moment.

Since well before the Chinese women took home the overall Gold on Monday night, competitor He Kexing has been at the center of a raging controversy over the ages of China’s delegates.  According to reports, online documents which reported He’s age to be 13 as of last year disappeared just in time for China to submit a passport listing her birthday as January 1, 1992.  Now, one such document has surfaced, a listing of gifted young Chinese athletes published at the end of last year by the government.

Why all the brouhaha?  Well, IOC regulations require that all Olympic gymnasts must turn 16 within the calendar year of the competition.  Regardless of the validity of this regulation (the motivation for which is that younger gymnasts have an inherently superior muscle/weight ratio for the sport), it seems increasingly clear that China is skirting regulations.

It wouldn’t be the first time.  In Sydney 2000, Chinese gymnast Yang Yun won team and individual Bronze medals.  Only recently did Yang admit that she was actually only 14at the time of the competition.  Now, it seems, the IOC is overlooking a similar transgression.  Of course, with Gold, rather than Bronze, on the line, the stakes are a bit higher.

For her part, He has stuck with the story.  The AP reports that, “He herself told reporters after Wednesday’s final that ‘my real age is 16. I don’t pay attention to what everyone says.’” 

The Chinese gymnastics delegation also steadfastly maintains that prior records were inaccurate and that there was no tampering with passports.  Says official Zhang Hongliang, “We are a sports department. How would we have the ability to do that?”

That’s a good question Zhang.  These girls have, after all, only been in government custody since they were 3 years old, training ceaselessy to represent a country desperate for global respect on an international stage.  How could any official have forged those documents?  What would be the motivation, and, moreover, when would they have found the time to re-issue these passports?  Oh . . .

At this point the IOC seems unwilling to risk the diplomatic bad-blood that would result from an inquest into the competitor’s actual ages, at least given the meager rewards that might result.  The American team imploded, costing themselves any chance at the gold, and showed no proof that they would have beaten a team of legitimate competitors from China.  Furthermore, it is unlikely that anything would be accomplished by pressing China on the matter.  If they have forged passports, then forging birth certificates to placate doubters wouldn’t represent much of a challenge. 

For now, it seems, the Case of the Prepubescent Olympians will be swept under the rug to preserve the facade of China’s mesmerizing dog and pony show.  Their actions have helped He win a gold medal.  Hopefully, on some far-off day, they will acknowledge their transgression and help this young girl win back some of her pride.

On Tuesday news broke that condom purveyor Lifestyles had offered global tweeny-bopper sensation Miley Cyrus a $1 million dollar contract to endorse their product.  Nevermind that Cyrus has pledged a vow of abstinence until marriage, that the target demographic for her marketing behemoth alter-ego Hannah Montana is the 6-14 range, and that Cyrus herself is only 15!  And they say that the age of innocence is dead.

I recognize as much as anyone the need to ensure that teens understand the dangers of unprotected sex, but this latest play borders on the absurd.  It’s one thing to have “the talk” with your child as they enter adolescence and prepare to start dating; it’s another thing entirely to have to explain to a 9 year-old what Hannah means when she sings her latest bubblegum hit about “shielding your rocket.”

Thankfully, Cyrus and her handlers had the good sense to turn the offer down.  Judging by the Vanity Fair debacle and the risque pictures that keep finding their way to the internet it’s the only good sense exhibited by anyone in the Cyrus camp recently.  Still, though the wholesome image Cyrus trades on is cast into sharper relief by the media frenzy surrounding her behavior, it’s nice to see a recognition that some things are more important than money . . . even if the decision is motivated more by the desire to protect a flagging reputation than to protect America’s youth.

Thank goodness for Joel Schumacher.  If 1997’s Batman and Robin had never been unleashed upon the world and summarily eviscerated by every critic this side of Gotham, someone else might have taken over the reigns of the ham-fisted series that Burton begat and continued churning out similar tripe for years to come.  Instead, Schumacher’s putrid mess of a film left audiences running for the exits and paved the way for director Chris Nolan’s 2005 series reboot, Batman Begins. 

At the risk of sounding like a sycophant, I’ll come clean: I was a huge fan of Batman Begins.  The film was a bit heavy on exposition and light on action, but it was an intelligent and complex take which gave Batman and Bruce Wayne some much deserved depth.  Eschewing comic-book convention and the camp leanings that have long characterized the franchise, Nolan’s interpretation re-invented the Batman mythos while maintaining proper reverence for the source material.  Consequently there’s no movie I’ve looked forward to more over the past year than his follow-up, The Dark Knight. 

As a group of us walked out of the Citywalk IMAX at 1:30 on Tuesday morning, every ounce of enthusiasm and energy drained by the two hour wait for seats and the 152-minute rush of sheer adrenaline that followed, a friend remarked in atypically stoic fashion that she was “satisfied” with the movie.  Satisfied?  The Dark Knight has so galvanized critical and public consensus that, with $158 million in box office, it boasts the biggest opening weekend ever and is currently the #1 rated movie of all time according to IMDB.com (take that, Godfather!).  Satisfied!?!  Surely, I thought, she could be more effusive with her praise.  But the more I considered it, given the hype surrounding the film and our impossibly high expectations going in, I realized that I too was “satisfied” and I believe that satisfaction speaks volumes.  Nolan takes The Dark Knight further than its predecessor in almost every respect, ratcheting up the action and emotional ante to epic proportions while still delivering the intellectually rewarding experience that has characterized his work to date.  The Dark Knight is not without its flaws (chiefly it’s a bit overlong), but it is a very good film, and as a comic book movie it’s transcendent entertainment.

Nihilistic to the core and clocking in at two and a half hours, The Dark Knight is anything but the light fare that usually dominates the summer box office.  Still, the film delivers the requisite blockbuster goods: it’s chock full of gorgeous skyline shots of Chi*ahem* … Gotham and Hong Kong, punctuated by spectacular action sequences, and brimming with incendiary energy.  Most importantly the film feels frightening and honest and surprisingly real, limiting (as much as possible in a comic book movie) the audience’s need to suspend disbelief.  The film’s greatest strength is a dense, tightly crafted script (written by Nolan and his brother Jonathan) that plays more like a gritty crime drama than a comic book, effectively utilizing well-constructed sub-plots and a strong ensemble to explore Nolan’s definition of heroism. 

Picking up ostensibly where Batman Begins left off, Knight finds Gotham’s protector facing something of an identity crisis.  His efforts to rid the streets of organized crime having yielded exponential gains, Batman longs to trade in the cape and cowl for a life of relatively normalcy as billionaire Bruce Wayne.  He still lusts after his childhood sweetheart Rachel Dawes, and in her boss and erstwhile suitor, new Gotham DA Harvey Dent, he sees a different kind of hero preparing to render Batman obsolete.  What Batman/Wayne has not considered is the collective power of the fear he has generated among local crime bosses.  Backed into a corner by his continued assaults on their livelihood, they lash out by turning to the new face of evil in Gotham, and only man they fear as much as Batman — The Joker.  As the Joker launches an all-out assault on Batman, with the fate of Gotham hanging in the balance, the story unfolds in a series of devilish twists and turns that play out at breakneck speed.

Much has been made of Heath Ledger’s final role, and I must admit to a degree of skepticism upon first seeing the words “Best Actor” and “The Joker” bandied around in the same sentence.  Thankfully such talk is wholly justified.  Stripped of a back-story and any apparent motivation aside from the desire to spread anarchy and fear, Ledger’s Joker, a self-proclaimed “engine of chaos”, is more force of nature than man.  As the Joker imposes his will on Gotham, Ledger imposes his will upon The Dark Knight, dominating every scene he’s in without hamming it up or undermining the dark tone of the film.  That Jack Nicholson and Cesar Romero have previously delivered such iconic portrayals of the “Clown Prince of Crime” only makes Ledger’s demented twist on and complete immersion in the role that much more impressive.  His measured speech, uncontrollable fits of malevolent laughter and insidious smile worm their way into your consciousness and stick there well after the credits have finished rolling.  While the Academy may be swayed to deny him a nod either by stigmata surrounding the movie’s pulp origins or the baggage associated with a posthumous award, it’s tough to imagine a much better performance this year, much less 6 of them.

Ledger’s performance may steal the show, but given the caliber of the cast it should come as no surprise that the acting is uniformly excellent.  Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine are typically strong despite a relative paucity of material as Bruce Wayne’s closest confidants.  Gary Oldman, best known to popular audiences for playing out-sized screen villains, is unusually reserved as Lt. Jim Gordon, to great effect.  Aaron Eckhart delicately handles Harvey Dent’s fall from grace, and Maggie Gyllenhaal is radiant as assistant DA Rachel Dawes, generating instant sparks with Bale and proving a definite upgrade over the departed Katie Holmes.  Christian Bale is one of the best actors of his generation and he continues his fine interpretation of both Batman and Wayne, but perhaps the most surprising aspect of The Dark Knight is how little time it devotes to focusing on its nominal star. 

Bruce Wayne, sans mask, gets relatively little face time within the epic scope of Knight, and most of it in the film’s first half as the question of Batman’s identity comes under public scrutiny.  His wish to relinquish the mantle of Batman is the character’s primary motivation in the film’s early going, but as his hand is continually forced, the last lingering shreds of his naïveté are stripped away.  As the stakes rise, Bruce Wayne’s basic human desires are subjugated to the will of his nemesis and the needs of his city.  He gradually disappears behind the snarling visage of Batman until he is ultimately consumed, accepting and fulfilling his destiny as the Joker’s allegorical counterpart in Nolan’s powerful meditation on good and evil.

The Pennsylvania Primary is finally over. After a month of mud-slinging, faux pas, and pandering, the votes are in and one thing is clear: neither Clinton or Obama can bowl. Also, Hillary won. Big whoop.

During her victory speech last night, Clinton claimed that “the tide has turned” in the campaign. CNN analyst Paul Begala, called her 10-point win “an extraordinary victory”. Funny then, that even after last night Hillary is still trailing by nearly 150 delegates (CNN’s latest count puts her at 1586 to Obama’s 1719). Next on the cards are North Carolina and a hotly contested race in Indiana. Clinton and Obama will likely split the Hoosier state’s 84 delegates down the middle, but in North Carolina — where 134 delegates are on the line — Obama is poised to bury the former first lady and further increase his lead.

Hillary has vowed to continue fighting for the nomination, and she maintains a slim chance of winning the popular vote. On the back of her pervasive optimism, the Hillary campaign is fast becoming “The Little Engine That Could”. Unfortunately for her there’s little remaining coal to fire that engine. Her campaign has been hemorrhaging money for months, and despite supposed donations totalling $2.5 million yesterday Clinton’s campaign is on shaky financial footing to say the least. Short of loaning her campaign more of her personal millions, Clinton’s options are limited.

The longer Hillary fights, the longer her odds seem to get. Slate.com’s Hillary Deathwatch today estimates her chances at a paltry 10.7% — roughly where they’ve hovered each day since the feature began on March 28th. Whether she is the better candidate is inconsequential at this point. Unless, as one pundit and former Clinton adviser puts it, “the wheels come off” of Obama’s campaign in the next few weeks, he remains the presumptive Democratic nominee. The internal wranglings of the Democrats have already done enough harm to the party’s image in the face of the united front that the Republicans present behind McCain. By continuing to run, it seems that all Hillary can do is serve to undermine Obama and, by extension, her party.

In January of 2007, when American investors Tom Hicks and George Gillett first emerged as the front-runners to assume ownership of Liverpool FC, I could hardly have been a more ardent supporter of the plan.  Following Roman Abramovich’s takeover of Chelsea FC and Malcolm Glazer’s acquisition of Manchester United, the face of English football changed dramatically.  Gone was any semblance of parity throughout the league; clubs without strong global marketing strategies and huge transfer funds could not be expected to compete for the title.  Despite Mr. Glazer’s vilification by the Man U faithful for turning their sporting club into a business venture, it seemed abundantly clear that Liverpool needed to follow the same route.

Liverpool, after all, have a reputation as the most successful club in England.  They have won the top division of English soccer eighteen times and scaled the heights of continental glory, having been crowned the best team in Europe on no less than five occasions.  Certainly times have not always been so rosy, a point which the two consecutive decades of domestic underachievement (with not a single league title won) have driven home.  However, given the club’s pedigree and the impending construction of a shiny new 60,000 seat stadium, it only made sense to turn the club into a money-making enterprise capable of generating the funds necessary to compete with its world-beating rivals – teams like Chelsea, Barcelona, AC Milan, and Man U.  Besides, Hicks seemed to have done a fine job of running Dallas’ NHL franchise (the near-and-dear to my heart Stars) since acquiring the club a decade earlier.  Admittedly my view was more optimistic than most, but as a die-hard Liverpool fan, I happily threw my red-blooded support behind the changing of the guard.

Over the intervening months, however, my feelings made the slow transition from being squarely onboard the Hicks/Gillett bandwagon to the somewhat less optimistic “GETMEOFFGETMEOFF!! OH LORD NOW I’M OFF AND THE BANDWAGON IS RUNNING ME OVER AND TOM HICKS IS PISSING ON MY DREAMS!”

Hyperbole, you say?  If only it were.  In fact, the recent backlash against Hicks has been so vehement and vitriolic that his son was recently attacked when attempting to visit a local pub post-match.  Thanks to the quick work of his “handlers”, Tom Jr. was spared a fate any worse than a few pints in the face and the undoubtedly sharp sting of the Scousers’ verbal barbs.  Still, this begs the question: how did things go so wrong so quickly?

 For starters, Britons as a whole took an immediate disliking to the sudden influx of foreign investors.  Exiled Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich had set the tone in 2003, drawing the ire of many soccer fans with his purchase of Chelsea FC (though his impossibly deep pockets ensured the support of the Chelsea faithful).  Mr. Glazer’s subsequent foray into ‘proper’ football in 2005 was met largely with unease as the nation lamented the transformation of a beloved cultural touchstone into a new type of asset for the portfolios of foreign billionaires.  Fans protested en masse, holding angry demonstrations and bombarding local papers with Glazer hate-mail.  After ticket prices were raised, some even formed a new semi-professional club, FC United of Manchester, in a show of spite.

Glazer’s cause was not aided by the fact that his takeover saddled Man U with nearly $1 billion in debts, but his willingness to assume personal responsibility for fully half of that amount was a mark of his dedication.  Additionally, shrewd marketing strategies designed around Man U’s already global brand helped defer interest costs which might otherwise have hiked already inflated ticket prices to absurd levels and alienated even more the club’s predominately blue-collar local supporters.

Perhaps most importantly Glazer took a backseat in club affairs, declining a seat on the board and extending the contracts of CEO David Gill and manager Sir Alex Ferguson, luminaries who had been instrumental in guiding the club through numerous recent successes.  While his tenure has seen its share of bumps in the road, Glazer has turned Man U into one of the world’s richest clubs and continued their tradition of on-field success.

Given the difficulties encountered by their compatriot, one would think that Hicks and Gillett might have entered into their $450 million investment with an air of caution … or at least a bit of tact.  Though the immediate response to the takeover was not exactly supportive, early signs — such as a willingness to repay $80 million in club debts and spend $50 million on record signing Fernando Torres — were encouraging.  Then everything started to come apart at the seams.

After a torrid start to the season, questions began to arise regarding the future of manager Rafa Benitez.  Benitez — a fan-favorite since guiding the club to a famous Champion’s League comeback in 2005 — had come under fire for the team’s failure to perform on the domestic stage.  In December it was revealed that Hicks and Gillett had gone behind Benitez’s back a month earlier, entering into discussions with ex-German international coach Jurgen Klinsmann about assuming managerial duties at Liverpool.  The Americans were either rebuffed by Klinsmann or realized their error in judgment, but by the time the press got wind of the meeting the damage had been done.

Hicks and Gillett would go on to claim that Klinsmann was simply an insurance policy in the case of Rafa’s consensual departure, but word of a second meeting between Hicks and Klinsmann dispelled that notion.  They then further infuriated the Benitez by initially refusing to fund the team’s desperate search for a backup defender in the January transfer window.  In so dong, they demonstrated their lack of understanding of the modern, global game.

Their relationship with the manager in tatters, the owners then leveled more bad news on their club’s fans.  While they had repaid millions of dollars of debt on behalf of Liverpool, neither had nearly enough fiscal firepower to fund the forthcoming stadium and the necessary loans were about to saddle the club with $700 million in debt and annual interest payments of over $70 million.  Hicks and Gillett began a desperate search for investors willing to throw their support behind the club, but the glaring cracks already evident in the façade of their ownership made this goal a near impossibility.  They completed the refinancing package amid a chorus of angry calls for their departure, leaving the club mired in further instability.

The frustration over their financial negligence was exacerbated by the fact that they had initially purchased the club from under the noses of Dubai International Capital, a UAE based consortium (run by a lifelong Liverpool fan) which could have supported the club with minimal outside funding.  Fans were so enraged that they started Share Liverpool FC, a worldwide fund with the stated aim of purchasing the club out from under the Americans and putting it in the hands of supporters.  To even the most jaded observers this represented the nadir of Liverpool’s public image.

Shockingly, the situation grew far worse in the following months.  In February, DIC launched a new bid to take control of Liverpool.  Faced with an uncertain future and incensed fans, and with the long-term financial prospects of his investment declining precipitously, Gillett was prepared to jump ship and seemed to acknowledge the mismanagement that he had been party to.  He and Hicks could have proceeded with the sale at a tidy profit of $60 million apiece, but Hicks balked and started digging in for the impending battle.

With Gillett’s fifty percent share, DIC would have gained a substantial foothold in the club and the leverage necessary to drive Hicks out.  Hicks, ever the alpha dog, had no intention of capitulating.  He made public the existence of a clause which would allow him to block any attempt by Gillett to sell and, in an effort to assume full control, began angling to purchase Gillett’s shares himself.  The relationship between Hicks and Gillett quickly deteriorated to an extent that all verbal communication between the two ceased, with Gillett labeling their partnership “unworkable.”

“Unworkable” will do, but perhaps “fiasco” would be a more apt description. With Liverpool riding their best form of the season – and perhaps the past three – life at the club had apparently become a bit too dull for Mr. Hicks.  This past week he issued a communiqué to the board of directors — with copies to Sky News and the BBC — which formally requested the resignation of long-standing club chairman Rick Parry, a Gillett supporter.  Parry rebuffed the request, but Hicks pressed forward by opening old wounds.  He twisted the knife he had recently planted in his manager’s back by informing Benitez that Parry had also been present at the November meeting with Klinsmann.  The relationship between Benitez and Parry had always been a bit contentious, but these new developments rocked it to its foundations.

Benitez now seems precariously close to resigning his post only a week after the tremendous feat of guiding his team to the Champions League semi-final for the third time in four years.  Given his already rocky relationship with the owners, Benitez has few friends in the boardroom — a fact that cannot bode well for his tenure.  Further complicating the issue, Benitez must now communicate with his employers exclusively via e-mail thanks to their respective vows of silence.

Now Liverpool stands at the brink … of uncertainty, of collapse, and of becoming the laughing stock of the soccer world.  The boardroom is a shambles, and consequently the backroom is well on its way there. In their prior endeavors, the business acumen of Hicks and Gillett has proven unassailable.  Each has a net worth of over $1 billion — neither man could have amassed  their respecitve fortunes without intelligence, moxy, and an enterprising nature.  Both have even been successful in their prior forays into sports ownership.  Their failure at Liverpool has hinged on an incomplete knowledge of the team they acquired and the complexities of the sport.  A foreign — and particularly an American — influence on the English game will never be accepted with open arms, but Gillett and Hicks seem to have done themselves and their investment the greatest disservice by operating under the assumption that Liverpool could be run in the same manner as an American sports franchise.

This assumption is wrong on several levels.  It begins to derail when considering the soccer transfer market.  While players in most American sports leagues are traded between teams or signed only once contracts expire, soccer players across the globe are frequently purchased mid-contract for exorbitant fees before being signed to lucrative contracts.  This means that a team in England’s top league (or any top European club) can spend tens of millions of dollars just to acquire a player’s rights before paying the player’s signing bonus and salary (which can frequently exceed $100,000 / week for top players).  This system turns soccer clubs into a sinkhole for money if they are mismanaged.  Business plans for these clubs must be models of efficiency in order to turn a profit.

Turning that profit is even more of a challenge considering the marketing strategies of European clubs and leagues.  American franchises can afford to pursue aggressive local marketing plans while eschewing complex national and global strategies, in great part because the leagues they belong to actively market themselves on the larger stage.  By playing league games abroad, forming affiliations with small foreign clubs, and creating extensions leagues like (the now defunct) NFL Europe, the leagues increase their global recognition.  This greater league recognition filters down to the individual teams, providing them maximum exposure at minimal expense.

While the English Premier League has proposed increasing recognition for itself and its clubs by playing one week’s slate of games in various countries across the globe, the idea has been shouted down by English fans and UEFA, the organization which governs European soccer.  These teams may play “friendly” matches abroad in a bid to raise their profile, but without a competitive edge these games tend to lack dynamism and fail to find many converts.  This unwillingness to publicize the best example of the sport to foreign audiences speaks to a larger issue, namely the sanctity of the game in the eyes of English fans.

The public scrutiny on English soccer is incomparable to that placed upon any American sport.  The game is so intrinsically linked to the identity not only of each town or city, but of the nation as a whole, that its relative importance to the populous dwarfs that of any sport this side of the Atlantic.  Sure, baseball is our national pastime, but its popularity has waned in recent years, in great part because of the wealth of other sporting options available to the American public.  The MLB, NFL, NBA, NHL, NASCAR, etc. all have their own sizeable cross-sections of rabid supporters who may or may not have a vested interest in other sports.

By contrast, soccer’s only notable rivals for English sports audiences are the decidedly less popular rugby and cricket. Furthermore, the performance of England’s national soccer team is something that the entire nation rallies behind.  The lack of a US national sporting team of note (USA Basketball, Soccer and Hockey draw comparatively small audiences) indicates that there is not a sport capable of galvanizing Americans the way that soccer can the English.  Because of the cultural significance for the sport, English fans, and especially those of a club with Liverpool’s history, are reticent to allow their game to be tainted by foreign influence.

While sports teams in America tend to have strong local ties, most have been money-making enterprises for so long that few can remember a time when they were purely about the game and the community.  Hicks and Gillett dove into the deep end when they purchased Liverpool FC, a club which means more to its fans than they can fully appreciate.  When they realized they were in over their heads, their composure fled and they thrashed wildly about, pulling each other and the team farther under.

Even if Hicks and Gillett part ways, a continued stake in the ownership of Liverpool by either man is every bit as “unworkable” as their relationship has become.  To his credit, Gillett now seems to realize this.  Hopefully Hicks will come to his senses and consent to sell, rather than continuing to tarnish the reputation of an organization that he does not fully understand or respect.  He can bow out now (albeit less than gracefully) and still turn a profit on his investment.  It would be a wise move; much more than one man’s pride is at stake.

Several weeks ago, Tara Roberts, Senior Editor of CosmoGIRL! magazine, contributed an article to theRoot.com professing her support for Hillary Clinton and bemoaning the derision with which fellow African Americans have met her choice of candidate. Roberts argues that her race is not the predominate feature of her identity and vents her frustration at the overwhelmingly negative response of her peers towards her decision to back Clinton. Unfortunately for Ms. Roberts, this response is not wholly unjustified.

While I have little quarrel with Mrs. Clinton’s politics, I do have an issue with the post-feminist backlash against Obama that is promoted by many of her supporters. By allying herself with the likes of Gloria Steinem or Geraldine Ferraro, women who support her campaign on the basis of a ‘gender gap’ while simultaneously ignoring the socio-economic gulf that exists between whites and blacks in this country, Hillary has damaged her own credibility. Ferraro’s remarks in particular, and Hillary’s refusal to decry or even to acknowledge them, are a glaring indication of the increasingly misguided aims of the feminist movement in this country. While both are obviously still pressing issues, the ‘gender gap’ in America exists on fewer fronts and appears to be narrowing at a greater rate than does the ‘race gap’.

As a black woman Ms. Roberts is stuck between a rock and a hard place, bound to be criticized by a section of her peers regardless of her choice of candidate. Perhaps the acquaintances who question her decision simply wonder why she would choose to throw her support behind the candidate whose campaign has sought to actively devalue a portion of her identity. I guess there’s much to be said for CosmoGIRL! Power.