Tag Archives: Politics

Silly Season 24-7-365


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One

The term “silly season” has become a rather sticky synonym for NASCAR’s race year, no longer limited its the off-season but framing all of it. I can’t see anything romantic or even complementary about the phrase, but everyone in NASAR seems comfortable with it. (So much so that if NASCAR could trademark “silly season” they would — and then threaten to litigate the hell out of anyone using it without paying them royalties.)

But alas, “silly season” is too much a part of history for anyone purchasing the rights. The word “silly” comes from Old English gesælig, meaning “happy” (related to sæl “happiness”),with a Latin root in solari “to comfort” and salvus, “whole, safe”.

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However, there was a shift in the latter Middle Ages when associations with “silly” morphed from “blessed,” “pious,” and “innocent” to “harmless,” “pitiable” and “weak” to “feeble in mind, lacking in reason, foolish” (1570s). The simple-minded son became a dunce, the Fool in the Tarot deck who walks smiling at the sun off a cliff. Caught up in the radiance of summer, this moron is not much earthly good—a dreamer, indolent, with a mind for mindless pleasures and bucolic fantasies. A rube, a dolt, a simpleton, a peasant hee-hawing at the sight of the Duke and Duchess frigging up a storm on a blanket next to their carriage parked on some far country lane.

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The specific reference of “silly season” is to summer and its uneventful doldrums; cucumber harvesting and “silly season” are merged in many languages. Well, duh: Think of all those long lumpy cukes at full-grown tumescence, grown ready for harvest, a haphazard plenitude of cunny-tickling boners sticking out impertinently every whichway in the garden, wardened by the phallic god Priapus, enraptor of the wood in every hard-on, buggaring the bum of any thief dumb enough to try stealing from the Master’s bounty at night. A boner-yard in absolute rebellion against the eventual boneyard’s garden of death.

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In the 1800’s the slow season for tailors  was called “cucumber season.” My guess it was during the summer season as well,  slack Sire Cunnypoke a-snooze between the balls.

In the Southern Hemisphere, “silly season” is associated with their Christmas revelries, a carnivalesque time of buffoonery and inversion which marked the passing of the toddering Old Year into the infant of the New. (For more on these rites, see my recent post “The Twelve.”)

Eventually journalists in Europe appropriated the term “silly season” and applied it to the news doldrums, that time of summer when their respective Parliaments were on vacation and the challenge was to come up with something interesting to read -– “silly” stuff instead of real news. Ace reporters were dispatched to rake the city’s muck for news, digging up stories of child abductions and mayhem and high-society scandal. The Fourth Estate slumming on Fleet Street.

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Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, was a convenient 19th-century invention of the Silly Season in British journalism, most of which back then was located on Fleet Street.

The essence of what we call tabloid news was conceived and hatched during the silly season, wild with speculation and innuendo in lieu of anything real happening, sniffing around the backrooms of taverns and bordellos for the taint of baronial profligacy.

Ironically, newspapers came to lose their massive market share to competition much more apt at reporting from this low road, sticking to the silly season all year round because, as it turns out, enquiring minds don’t want gravitas and civitas, they want instead to peek into keyholes and get the lowdown on the high and mighty, catching bewigged judges shagging pretties without petticoats in their chambers, et cetera.

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Hard-nosed investigative journalists have all but disappeared from the corporate news scape because they cost money and don’t draw readership as well as breaking news about a city councilman getting busted for drunk driving. As Sam Zell, profiteer-CEO of the nearly-bankrupt Tribune media conglomerate once famously said, Pulitzers don’t sell newspapers. (Wicked profile of Zell’s legacy this week in the New York Times.)

And so a media outlet which hopes to survive today’s market has to add chunks of ripe-cheese entertainments into its sterile simmer of hard news, interviewing pop stars on 60 Minutes and dipping into the Missing White Girl Well to keep eyeballs glued on the pages (print or Web) and screens. And so Kaylee Anthony succeeds Jonbenet Ramsey as the poster child of Scurrilous Deeds Against Innocence –- silly season sensationalism become a perpetual salt for sensory-overloaded consumers.

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Lost little white girls attract eyeballs ad infinitum ad nauseum.

Entire industries have rapidly set up around this bottom-feeding form of journalism and compete robustly against “mainstream” media — tabloids like the National Enquirer, where the other day it was  “reported” that Julia Roberts is seeking to adopt a child from an impoverished culture, a la Brangelina, and that the marriage of Prince William and his fiancée Kate Middleton is now in jeopardy due to the financial hanky-panky of Middleton’s brother James (as well as the revelation that her uncle James is a coke-sniffing playboy with a penchant for dealing drugs and hookers).

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Oksana Grigorieva and bellicose ex-boytoy Mel Gibson.

Over at the new-media tabloid TMZ, you can read all about the latest spat between Mel Gibson and his ex-girlfriend / mother of his child Oksana Grigorieva, or about Brittney Spears’ dabble with recording while she otherwise does the cha-cha with paparazzi, shopping and partying and ducking into your average white gas station loo to relieve her solid-gold bladder.

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At TMZ.com, it’s all Britney, all the time.

War in Afghanistan? Iran with nukes? This country headed for foreclosure? Who cares, when you can see pix of Katy Perry’s Vegas Bodacious Bachelorette Bikini party?

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Left: Lance Corporate Matthew Albert Snyder, killed in action on March 3, 2006, in Al Anbar, Iraq. He is news now because the Supreme Court heard arguments yesterday about the First Amendment rights of fundamentalists who protested at his funeral, some bearing signs that said that American soldiers were dying because God hates gays, or something like that. See below. Right: Katy Perry’s bachelorette party.

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Thus silly season reportage has become the only news that so many care to hear about, and gobble it 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

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Two

Political campaigns begin to heat up in the summer, and so  “silly season” gets additional cache from the ridiculous ends politicians will go to get elected -– kissing babies, making speeches from the back of trains, cutting taxes, being an advocate for every down-and-outer, promising snout to curly-tail of pork.

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The spending on campaigns these days is truly astonishing, with the attack TV ad become the main course, an opponent’s misdeeds (especially for those whose greatest error is that as the incumbent they have plenty of record to distort) framed in tabloid outrage and then resolved, in the final seconds, with a few images and slogans of the God-fearin’, family-oriented, flag-waving, glowingly-soft-focused candidate who “approves this message” from on high, apart from the goon PR machinery which doles out these steaming turds of vitriol with the same zeal that paparazzi stalk Paris and Britney, hoping to catch a stray bit of boobage or a DUI arrest because dirt is what America loves more than anything else.

At the gym yesterday I did my hard hour of cycling with a dozen or so huge TV monitors beaming the 5 p.m. World into my face =– local news, syndicated sitcom comedies, good ole Glenn Beck (hope you’ve seen “Right Wing Radio Duck,” featuring Donald Duck and the ideological vocal stylings of Glenn Beck), old motorcycles on the History Channel, endless Sports Chat on ESPN, Dr. Phil, etc.) When commercials ran, all of the monitors were linked by the same set of political ads for and against Florida gubernatorial candidates Rick Scott and Alex Sink, congressional candidates Alan Grayson and Daniel Webster, and Senate candidates Kendrick Meek, Charlie Crist and Marco Rubio.

A blizzard of harsh attacks and soft-glo endorsements, sometimes the same ad running simultaneously on three or four monitors. Television execs surely love the political silly season, with all of that obscene campaign war chest pouring directly into their coffers.

In direct proportion to the bankruptcy of duopoly politics, the squalor of the cross-party squawking descends every year to a deeper league of whale shit. Long ago the party wonks figured out that an ad which appeals to fear and fury translates into far more boots in polling booths than roseate trumpetings of fresh change in Washington. Still, some of the latter has to be thrown into the mix in order to give at least an appearance of a candidate standing for something other than an all-out attack on one’s opponent.

This sort of hardball Republicans excel best at, having long ago shown their willingness to heap up whatever dirt, however untrue or out of context, to destroy the image of an opponent in order to win elections and serve their vested interests.

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So now we’re thick into the greasy cheeks of the political silly season. There is no way to tune out the howl of manipulative rhetoric guaranteed to deliver results for all the wrong reasons–voting for what you fear more than what you advocate.

At least there’s some comedy in the works, too, if you think that appalling dunces like Christine O’Donnell have no chance of gaining office.

O’Donnell’s backlist of missteps and strange and/or idiotic pronouncements ought to give her Democratic opponent more traction than a monster truck — she defaulted on a house mortgage; owes $11,000 in back taxes; pays her rent with campaign contributions and faked her college degree. She’s taken extremist stands on abortion (she believes it should be banned under every circumstance, including pregnancies caused by rape or incest), vows never to increase taxes, supports environmental plunder in the name of “energy independence,” advocates the teaching of creationism in schools, opposes masturbation and says that gays have an “identity disorder.”

Whew. Many say she’s unelectable–a wholesale bonus for Democrats–but as Frank Rich recently pointed out, O’Donnell has just the sort of populist resume which appeals to so many of the angry dispossessed of The Great Recession. The GOP’s rosy embrace of O’Donnell conveniently masks their far greater corporate affiliations behind so much boob nonsense—just the sort of maneuvering in the past which got little folks of the Republican majority to vote in the GOP’s big-business agenda because the party was also against gay marriage and abortion.

Problem is, fools do have an excellent chance of getting elected. And when they are, the results have been disastrous. Think of that California actor who flawlessly delivered the lines of a right-wing assault on the government’s social contract, or of the right-wing radicalism of George W Bush.  Both were bonehead figureheads who played their role of President to a “T”: acting presidential while their cronies did the dirty work, cutting all of the regulatory restraints against Big Business and loosening the floodgates of wealth for the wealthy while the rest of the  country got poorer and poorer.

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The actor and the oilman, rustlin’ up some policy for their Benefactors.

Fools were given license to mock the king, and even got to wear the crown for a brief time during the Twelfth Night revels after Christmas—-but even a lame king like Jimmy Carter is was always a lesser evil to handing fool like George W.  Busch or perhaps Sarah Palin the scepter; the joker’s talents as an outsider who is privileged to mock and satirize and say things no one else is permitted to becomes a monstrosity when s/he presumes to rule.

The Tea Party Express would be far more effective as a comedy troupe than as a movement all too convinced of what only tallies as rebelliously unschooled and out-of-date beliefs. But try to convince America of such a thing. Just watch that grifter / opportunist / helicopter-hunting soccer mom of an IQ-challenged opportunist Sarah Palin win the White House in 2012, and see how much worse a court of fools is compared to a congress of wonks.

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Ah, well. When Silly Season becomes the Times, the joke is on us.

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There’s something voracious and pestilential about “silly season” when it exceeds its boundaries as it has in our times. Political campaigns now start the day after elections; there are celebrity channels like E!  which stay on the job 24-7; there are news channels like FOX Cable News which are dressed-up versions of good old right-wing talk radio, a glamorous eternal soapbox for venting every bit of unsubstantiated “news” about The Enemy (Democrats, liberals, progressives, tax-and-spenders, tree-huggers, celebrity activists, the current President and Speaker of the House and Senate Majority Leader and anybody and anything else which represents the death of 1950’s America, dead now for 50 years.)

And when you consider the sort of money spent on campaign spending — $1 billion on the 2008 presidential election, a total $1.2 billion on congressional races for the 2010 midterms – there is no sensible link between cost and good results.  It’s like healthcare or CEO payrolls, a hyperinflation  in direct proportion to a nadiring of performance.

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When Silly Season goes 24-7-365, time is disordered, bent out of shape. It’s like a cucumber grown so large no maiden could ever offer berth to it. Festive seasons are by nature and necessity short, a brief remission of time, slowing a society to bleed off its repressions and privations. But indulgence is the handmaiden of greed, and as any addict knows, there is never enough booze or dope or pussy in the world to satisfy the boundless intemperance of the permanently unzipped.

Silly Season 24-7-365 is like the court of Scotland in Shakespeare’s Macbeth after the usurper murders king Duncan and fits the crown on his head. Knight of Swords becomes the Baboon King, the land bewitched by an unleashed bedevilment of lower Nature.

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Macbeth, false king of Scotland, and the Louie, Ape King of Our Jungle.

On the night that Duncan is murdered, the Old Man remarks to his son Ross,

Threescore and ten I can remember well:
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.

ROSS

Ah, good father,
Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act,
Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock, ’tis day,
And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp:
Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,
That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
When living light should kiss it?

Old Man

‘Tis unnatural,
Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

ROSS

And Duncan’s horses–a thing most strange and certain–
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending ‘gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.

Old Man

‘Tis said they eat each other.

ROSS

They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes
That look’d upon’t.

If our age is truly the crowned Silly Season, primal time resumes in our works;  Chaos rules. So much in our world is breaking down –-  the economy, the health system, the housing market, Congress, NASCAR –- surely it seems that the Vandals have cleared the Roman gates.

“Taking back America” is a motto of the Tea Party movement –- returning Time to its rightful order (I assume that means white and pre-digital). Sounds great; it’s real close to  Reagan’s “Morning in America”  However, both  amounts to telling people what they want to hear, rather than challenging people to grow up.

Fixing a broken system with scythe and hammer – the implements of every radical agenda, right or left – is the purest invocation of Stalin as Lord of Misrule, the Ape King with his phallus for a scepter and writing his writs by flinging shit in every direction.

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Well, ya get what you pay for.

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Three

“Silly season” in sport originally referred to the off-season, when off-field or –track speculation of team or star changes took the place of “real” sport news. It gives fans something to chew on as their sport goes into hibernation, keeping the imaginary fires burning, so to speak.

In NASCAR, whose off-season lasts from November to January, the phrase “silly season” has morphed, in a weird legitimizing way, to refer to the entire year of the sport, on- and off-season combined. Perhaps the premier website for news and information about NASCAR is Jayski.com’s Silly Season site.

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Silly Sesaon has thus become All NASCAR, All the Time: How could that happen in so absolute a fashion? How could hiatus become permanence? How could NASCAR’s essential identity be so tethered to whatever for any other reason that something so marginally a sport could only offer marginality as proof of existence?

As evidence of this, I relate an experience riding the freebie bus back to Lot Seven after the Bud Shootout at Daytona in Feb. 2009. I laid out the scene back then in post titled “Let the Racin’ Begin”:

The evening’s best moment comes as we settle in plush rows of seats at very the back of the bus which lumbers slowly toward Lot 7. It’s completely dark on board and the windows are half-fogged as the bus makes it way into rural night. Maybe these lots are all owned by Daytona, but there’s a fast transition away from civilization into prehistory; brilliant track inverts into a vast envelope of undeveloped darkness.

Safe inside where it’s warm with human presence, our section at the back breaks into easy conversation. Four or so couples who surely don’t know each other but who share the same great Oval faith begin to recap the race.

“Good thing Dale Jr. wrecked early, or we woulda had a lot longer to wait for this damn bus,” says an old guy with a toothy smile. A convivial scowl emits from the woman sitting next to him, obviously a Dale Jr. fan. No concord in that home.

“Yeah but Edwards shoulda won,” a fat middle-aged woman sitting across from them asserts, her faith in her driver greater than anything the actual race could have suggested.

“Not a good night for my Biff,” a young guy says next to her. All heads nod in sage unison.

“I thought this one was gonna be Jeff Gordon’s for sure,” another old-timer says. “He sure hung in there the whole way.” Many heads nod to that too, whether in agreement with the observation or in concord with the hope.

“Aw, McMurray woulda won had not there been all those cautions,” another race fan interjects, causing more heads to nod though there are more grunts of protest. I’m going to bet that if McMurray keeps up his current pace, he may win the same grudging admiration that Kyle Busch earned last season. Winners are winners, no matter who they are.

“But my Carl shoulda won,” the fat middle-aged woman says again, asserting her faith, standing by her man.

Everyone laughs, and all feel cheered by this spontaneous gathering of belief which may be the only bond we share. Banter continues along these lines, everyone with a favorite driver and an expert on racing, retirees and young ‘uns, firemen and drywall installers, waitresses and meter maids and us, the virgin attendee-pro blogger and his programmer (who is responsible for many other websites), one weary busload of racing’s blood, circulating our way home. The bus rolls slowly on, into darker and darker regions, crossing roads where state cops hold back the traffic, the night giving right of way to we who have paid good money to watch the racin’ go round again.

In NASCAR’s heartland, the court of opinion rules, a court whose walls extend thousands of miles away from the tracks where races are decided. What fans believe is what matters, since it is they who are forking up all that dough to attend races, wearing the ballcaps and t-shirts and jackets and even jockey shorts bearing the insignia of their favorite racer. And if someone wants to stand up and give Jimmy Johnson the finger every time he goes round the track, then that fan is a fully blessed hierophant of NASCAR faith, an Elijah calling the faithful back to the blessed days of Dale Sr. (Who, truth be known, was awfully unpopular with fans until he died.)

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Indeed, considering how much the elders of NASCAR have bullied drivers and bellowed at the press, brownnosed sponsors and bastardized the sport with callous rule changes and rulings, the only legitimacy NASCAR can claim to have is the belief of its fans in racing, something which goes far beyond NASCAR but keeps the organization on its throne. No wonder the Silly Season defines NASCAR, for it is propped up by the endless machinations of collective opinion and conjecture.

Not very substantial stuff, which is why NASCAR could so easily disappear. If fan attendance and TV ratings are any indicator, the sucking sound in the NASCAR blogosphere is the noise of a sport headed down the drain.

(Perhaps there’s nothing unique about this. Silly Season 24-7-365 may come with the Internet turf and is afflicting every sport, every news event. But I blog NASCAR–sort of–so I’ll keep my fragmented lens pointed in that direction.)

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If NASCAR is the sum of what we believe about it – a gospel known as Silly Season — then what we truly know about NASCAR unimportant. This puts NASCAR up (or down) there with TMZ and the Tea Party Express, where truth is ipso facto what is interesting or desired if not exactly factual. Putare ergo NASCAR sum: What I believe is what NASCAR is.

Such a position allows everybody to be an expert, armed with knowledge that doesn’t have to be true to be real. You want NASCAR’s demise to be due to poor performances by Dale Earnhardt Jr., or dominating ones, at season’s end, by Jimmie Johnson? Then so be it.

The most obtuse – and thus apt — definition of “silly season” as it refers to NASCAR I think was gargled out of the mouth from Babelfish from and pasted on a bogus site titled About Pro Home Insurance:

The tenure stupid deteriorate is an during length used tenure in a universe of NASCAR. It refers to a duration during a deteriorate when drivers, sponsors, as well as alternative assorted group members make known their skeleton for a following season, customarily definition which they have been relocating to a opposite team. The NASCAR stupid deteriorate customarily began around mid-summer as well as lasted until early autumn, in copiousness of time to hope for a next season. Throughout a stupid season, most rumors per drivers as well as teams as well as their destiny locale whirl by a garage as well as in to a World Wide Web. However, most has altered in a universe of NASCAR, as well as stupid deteriorate is not defense to changes. For an collection of reasons, stupid deteriorate starts most progressing in a season, as well as does not appear to end, as well as if it does, it is weeks prior to a Daytona 500. Each year, it has turn increasingly lengthy.

“The NASCAR stupid deteriorate” — mangled translation fer sure but sheer poetry  as well.

Actually, I understood that better than a PR release from NASCAR dated August 30, 2010, that announced (no less) a re-organization of their marketing communications department:

… Following a comprehensive review of its communications function and public relations activity across the industry, NASCAR announced today that it will move immediately to create an Integrated Marketing Communications (IMC) department that will better position the sanctioning body to lead best practices and provide overall thought leadership in the communications space for the entire industry.

“Our sport has unique challenges and very diverse constituencies and it has become clear that NASCAR must be a catalyst in this space to help all stakeholders find greater value,” said Brian France, NASCAR’s Chairman and Chief Executive Officer. “This is a major investment for the company at a critical time and represents an elevation of this highly-important function for NASCAR and the industry. We are confident this evolved approach will yield immediate and long-term value for NASCAR, its media and business partners and the industry as a whole.”

The new communications structure will allow NASCAR to be even more effective on the competition aspects of the sport, an area where NASCAR was regularly cited in the review as being among the best when compared to other major league sports by media in all genres. It also positions the sanctioning body to take a much more strategic and offensive approach to selling the sport in a constantly-evolving traditional, digital and social media landscape. Three areas that will see greater communications resourcing and organizational focus moving forward include: brand and consumer marketing; digital and social media strategy and activation; and strategic collaboration with industry stakeholders …

Boy: “thought leadership in the communications space” … “a strategic and offensive approach to selling the sport” (my italics). Who are these guys trying to communicate with, anyway? Maybe it was code meant for their corporate bedmates, but the tone of it made me think that NASCAR is trying to charm back market share in its usual ham-handed, bullying manner.

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NASCAR’s current spin docs Jim Hunter and Ramsey Poston are getting a new boss–and a tweaked mission. I feel for these guys.

And there’s nothing like starting such a mission by shooting your current messengers (demoting Ramsey Poston and Jim Hunter) and initiating a “worldwide” search for a Chief Communications Officer.

Surely there’s a CCO in Pakistan who speaks English better than any of us.

And will do it on the cheap.

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Now back to the surgence of “silly season” belief, a schizophrenic hijacking of all sense of knowing what is important and what isn’t. In the court of fools, farts are  gold; in a land where silly season rules, shit on a joker’s stick trumps the collective wisdom of the Nine Muses every time.

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The Fool and the Nine Muses: Who’s leading who by the nose?

To wit: Just about every economist now believes that the TARP bailouts of 2008 saved the economy from tumbling into the abyss of depression and trimmed the unemployment rate by some five percent. But such facts have nothing do with the more potent, albeit false, belief that TARP was a socialist bailout of Jewish bankers which put a huge burden on our grandchildren.

To pine for NASCAR’s Golden Age (when the danger of racing truly infected the psyches of drivers) is like calling for America’s reclamation from evildoers and Black Housers and Commie-Progressive-Democrats, delivering us safely back into white-dominated, xenophobic, sabre-rattling past. It’s far easier to sell something that sounds too good to be true than something that merely is.

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Ah, for the golden age of Fireball Roberts to come agin, with his lucky Wynona in tow.

These silly season beliefs require no precision; if you believe that your daddy’s NASCAR makes the present moment seem like Babylon – or worse, Washington or Beverley Hills – fine. But to say this constitutes a consensus just because a lot of people are saying makes me wonder how much your daddy got around. “My Daddy’s NASCAR” is like saying “Our America,” as opposed to the one we have now. I daresay that beach racin’ is no way like the Brickyard, though they share the same era. Millions of like-believing fans repeat the same phrases without any real clue why their fellows are agreeing with them. It only suffices that they believe.

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Yer Daddy’s racin, Indy vs, Datyona style, ca. 1950.

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Four

“Silly” speculation and rumor about NASCAR dwarfs hard race reporting, which only the knowledgeable (and thus suspect) have any right (and agility) to report. What’s up with Junior? Where is Mark Martin going, and when is Kasey Kahne beginning? Why is Tony so surly with the press? What is bad bad NASCAR up to, making examples of drivers and teams which don’t make them as much money and fining drivers for saying things detrimental to the sport? Which drivers are dating and/or marrying which model, whose wife or girlfriend is having a baby? When will NASCAR change the goddam Chase format? Does anyone care that Jimmie Johnson stands to win an unprecedented fifth consecutive Sprint Cup Championship? Doesn’t everyone hate that?

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Such fluff is the stuff NASCAR dreams are made off. We fill our pipes with this dope and puff away, ruminating and speculating and masturbating over possibilities, gnawing away on the bones tossed to us by the officious and secretive, delivering the news by callous track and sport and media entities like NASCAR.com, the FOX News of racin’, as far and balanced as any corporate bedmate can be.

I so feel sorry for NASCAR journalists. (If you haven’t soaked a real one, do try Monte Dutton of the Gaston Gazette. I edit a blog called NASCAR This Week which features his coverage of the NASCAR season). They are bound by the conventions of their trade to be fair-minded, have no favorites and call things like they see it–with eyes trained on the entire sport– but are assigned to a beat where thehenanagans of the bloated, greedy and autocratic ruling body is a rung above roller derby.

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Monte Dutton (r)  on duty at the track.

The print press corps–the most informed and thus most difficult to control –have been relegated to increasingly minor spaces in track media centers, swept aside in NASCAR’s zeal to get airtime from radio and TV.  To make matters worse, these print journalists aren’t especially liked either by fans unless their sentiments fuse with their own. But that I guess is the nature of media consumption everywyere these days. People tune in to hear what they already believe, rather than to become convinced of this or that truth.)

And third, the print journo crew aren’t beloved by their newspapers, either. The American motorsports reporting cadre is about half the size it was five years ago as newspapers relentlessly sphincters its newshole becausee silly season competitors have sliced off their market share of advertisers and readers.

A lonely biz, and probably a dying one, not only for the shrinkage in the sport as well as the industry which covers it: but also because the Internet allows anyone to squawk away about anything, regardless of skill or qualifications. The blogosphere made silly sport of journalism, allowing license to fill a beat with the semblance of news; NASCAR bloggers are, on the whole, opinionated, biased, celebrity-crazed and prone to rant as they would, unbound from the old-school journalistic standards.  They have poured the highest, most combustible octane into the mix – no, nitro – adding a blinding whiteout of posts to the conversation, tooting and blatting every which way like matchsticked farts.

When NASCAR created its Citizen Journalist Corps, identifying 28 NASCAR blogs notable for their “professionalism, reporting and commentary,” they allowed these new media sites to get media creds for race events just like “traditional” media, as well as receive full access to their media outlets. Not that these guys and gals didn’t already have access; it was just an appropriation into the brand, which, by so doing, I suspect NASCAR hoped to get more pink in the effusions of the blogospohere.

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NASCAR Citizen Corpspersons Tallglassofmilk (Answer This, with Carl Edwards) and Valli Hillaire (The Fast and The Fabulous)

If you’ve read this blog, then you know I am no exception to effusion. I epitomize the worst of Silly Season silliness, with only as much real knowledge of the sport as I have gleaned over the past couple of years of reading Monte Dutton’s columns, attending just three races (two Bud Shootouts and half a Coke Zero 400) and digressing to the ends of the daily mind to get from the green flag to checkers of the next race of 2010, and probably never again after that. With plenty of eye-candy thrown in for blog-scanners who picked up their online reading habits from surfing porn sites.

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Gratuitous eye candy.

In NASCAR, the Silly Season never comes to an end; on- and off-season merge into one round of loquacious speculation, with the next season launching the day after the Vegas banquet celebrating the accomplishments of the last.

In many ways, time is an illusion in NASCAR, the season the sum of so many laps and races and points on the map; it’s all just one damn oval, turning left for nine months and then dreaming for three months of those left turns, rehashing great and stupid moves, the endless attention of fans decked in their gear, holding up cellphones to capture their celebrity for eternity, fending a juggernaut of crew members and crew chiefs, owners and sponsors, NASCAR officials and nail-biting wives, family members and media and buddies oh my …

Technology reduces the field of endeavor to Just Me with my laptop and blog, chattering on about My NASCAR as if I were Brian France – or should be – offering my fool’s advice to a billion-dollar corporation who fawns on me for my money while harassing me if I attempt to infringe on Their  franchise by attempting to monetize my blog.

It’s essentially My Silly Season, with my voice and vote the only one that matters to me, even though no one else gives a shit what I think or that I even try to say it. Technology gives me NASCAR 24-7-365 access if I care to have it, and boundless room for intemperate speculation, like the silly spiculation of rain all night on a leaky roof.

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Five

Silly Season 24-7-365 delves into a thicket of science which has to do with the end of time, or theories which are re-addressing our conventions of time. In the disordered court of Macbeth, time is “out of joint,” topsy-turvy, unnatural. Our time, especially in the new media’s million-fold lens, like a fly’s-eye — is dizzy, happening all at once, all perspectives thrown in, so complex there’s no way to fully perceive or conceive it. The Editor has been beheaded and Chaos is the cup reporter, the sorceror’s apprentice now tasked to report the news.

It’s madness, really, a specie of schizophrenia, where the conscious membrane or filter has been irrupted by the unconscious substream, a babbling brook of voices suppressed and inappropriate and just damn bad now in charge, like a fool’s court. (The Fool engages in craziness as his trade; the madman doesn’t know he’s crazy; and the blogger hollers away in the voids of Cyberspace, foolishly convinced that his or her voice is the choicer madness, surely on the verge of someone’s recognition and bigtime pay and fame. Who’s the greatest fool?)

Another NASCAR blog just adds to the carnage of knowledge with another surfeit of belief, but it’s understandable – every person has a right to put up what walls and boundaries they can around infinity, carving out a semi-conscious homestead somewhere in the cyberverse.

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A blog is like Yorick’s singing skull, providing another View on The News, babbling away to fend off the towering tide of social media it is part of. Cogito ergo putare — I think, therefore I believe; I dream, perchance to invade NASCAR’s inside realm, join that party, schmooze with my driver, tweet with his wife about their baby and dog, drive the damn car myself to victory.

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This media —- the space I litter with my own dusting of posts — offers the perception of inclusion exactly the way the Silly Season creates a virtual sense of NASCAR’s reality, even though it’s all smoke and mirrors, the way celebrity outshines the person who ferries it, the way that the coded jargon of political campaigns are rallying cries of nonsense. Give me back my daddy’s NASCAR? Sure. Party with butt-nekkid Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian in the glow of their sex tape? Unzip and have at it. Take back this country to prelapsarian Kansas, 1950, to the one nation under God proposed by Glenn Beck’s over-written Founding Fathers, deists become fundamentalists in Beck’s rodeo-clown view of history? It’s a free country, right?

Silly season madness gives all the permission in the world because anything goes in its fool’s court, or rather,  nothing truly happens in the minds of believers. It is a rebellion against time, or a subversion of it, freeing oneself of the briars of the present for the womblike glade of the pre-historial past with its million-year-dreamtime. Who wouldn’t want to revert, if they could? Why do you think substance abuse is so prevalent in this country as millions take exception to their reality and clock out for their zombie zone of their choice.

But maybe science has to take some of the blame for this. Traditional conceptions of existence which have been a part of our brainpans for hundreds of thousands of years are getting drowned by a quick update as new discoveries of the universe pour in.

Time itself is changing as the universe’s mysteries become better known. And what the space docs diagnose is not that the universe will come to an end – sorry, end-of-worlders – but rather that time itself will cease, rendered meaningless in the evolved order of things.

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An article by George Musser in the Sept. 2010 issue of Scientific American titled “Could Time End?” identifies four cosmic stages which will result in the end of time as we know it:

1. Loss of directionality — Time’s arrow breaks: “Time will stop marching forward when the universe exhausts its useful energy and reaches a condition of general stasis.” This follows the model of the eternally expanding universe but works in other models as well. “From then on, the only activity will be the random fluctuations of density and energy, causing clocks, if there are any left, merely to jiggle back and forth.”

2. Loss of duration — Time can now longer be measured: “The concept of duration will become meaningless when all systems that mark out regular time intervals fall apart or get swallowed by black holes. Energy may leak back out of the black holes, but it does so as radiation – that is, as photons and other massless particles. Because such particles have no fixed scale and do not change with time, they cannot be used as the basis for new clocks.”

3. Loss of causality – Time morphs into space: “Time may be reduced to just another dimension of space, breaking the link between cause and effect. One way that can happen is if our universe is a “brane” floating through a higher-dimensional spacetime, and this brane begins to whip around so fast that the time dimension bends over and becomes a spatial one, producing what we would experience as a ‘big freeze’”

4. Loss of structure – Time’s geometry dissolves: “Time disappears altogether as the universe descends into anarchy. This anarchy breaks out at the deepest level of reality, even deeper than that of the known particles and forces. Processes become so complex that they cannot be said to occur at specific places and times.” In this concept, the universe may actually be two-dimensioned, taking on what is only a three-dimensional appearance because of “regularities” – stars which don’t change for a long time. But where stars collapse, universal forces become chaotic; when all stars have burnt out into black holes, the illusion of 3-d space disappears, leaving the Projectionist to deal with a complex, timeless soup of chaos.

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Scary stuff, I guess, though neither you or I will be around for it; we’re talking tens of billions of years in the future when these events might happen. And of course, read the column titled “50, 100 & 150 years ago” in the September 2060 issue of Scientific American and the leading-edge concepts laid out above will seem so silly and stupid, refined as our sensibility will have become due to half a century of advanced knowledge. That is, if the Christian Rapture doesn’t come first, re-establishing God’s time on Earth.

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But we don’t actually have to wait to see what happens –- all of the scenarios for time’s end are in play right now  in the concept of Silly Season 24-7-365, as empowered in the speeding universe of cyberspace. Omnimedia is not omniscient – reserve that for The Deity of the bicameral mind, which we began to lose some 10,000 years ago – but it is everywhere and everything at once, which sort of makes any timeful passage through it rather Goth. It’s hyper-immediate yet hypo-sensical; hippocampical and hypno-cucumberal; where is this shit coming from but rents in the fabric of sense, shredded by this whirling dervish of preter-knowledge and uber-beliefs.

And so we hurry on to Fontana with all of the current NASCR storylines intact, like tethers to a gigantic floating racecar a la the animated flick “Cars” – Johnson surging, Harvick on his rear bumper, Hamlin floundering, Kyle Busch flubbing, Smoke surging then gurgling, Bowyer waving sheepishly far in the rear, every appeal to reverse NASCAR’s penalty against his time for chassis intolerance rejected—as if that ever happens).

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Oh and don’t forget the sideline hoopla which a race gal drinks like Southern Comfort, all of those cute babies held by drivers in firesuits, hot girlfriends become moms, the dream of multimillion dollar romance engaged as the heads of those NASCAR soccer moms are replaced with every Sally and Sarah and Betty Jo to fuck around with Photoshop as they dream the dream from dingy trailers and foreclosing bungalos around the heartland.

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Living the dream.

Silly season 24-7-365 makes it all too possible to emigrate to the lah-lah Land of Oz and call it home, rid of dustbowl Kansas 2010 (where the summer was especially feral, coming off an exceptionally ferocious winter) for good. What You Will is the alternate title for Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, a bit of foolery to entertain the troops between the holy rigors of Christmas and Epiphany; only now its “What You Will, All The Time” in silly season parlay. Disney World become My World, not because it’s possible but  because I believe it’s so.

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Six

So what news did you catch on Wednesday, the final day of drafting this post? The 24-hour news cycle was busy.

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Randy Moss was suddenly traded to the Vikings from the Patriots.

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The sports channels of ESPN and NFL-TV were throbbing on the testosterone of receiver Randy Moss’s sudden departure from the New England Patriots for the Minnesota Vikings, with speculation ripe on the wires about why the Patriots would do such a thing (Moss did not have a catch in the Patriots’ 41-14 trouncing of Miami last Monday night) and what it will mean for the 1-2 Vikes’ struggling offense.

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Roy Halliday pitched a no-hitter against the Cincy Reds in the first game of their division playoff.

All that talk was suddenly eclipsed by the news, in the early evening of the no-hitter thrown by Roy Halliday of the Philadelphia Phillies against the Reds (who led the league in hitting during the regular season) in Game One of their division playoffs. It was the first no-hitter to be thrown in post-season play since Don Larson pitched a perfect game against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series, and only the second time such a feat had been accomplished in the majors. Adding to that, Halliday pitched a perfect game earlier this year against the Rays. Talk about all of that! Which the sports wires did, shoving Moss aside as news that was so earlier Wednesday.

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Missing Pretty White Young Woman Paige Johnson.

On CNN’s tediously outraged “Nancy Grace,” we got the next installment in the Abused Pretty White Girl cycle, with news of the disappearance of Paige Johnson, a beautiful teen mom, and another story about a young black mother who left her 3-year-old girl alone to go out dancing; the child was found by cops at 3:30 a.m., wandering the neighborhood near her home. Guess where America’s sympathies flow.

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Singer Toni Braxton and Octomom Nadya Suleman.

Over at TMZ.com, we hear that singer Toni Braxton (who has sold more than 40 million albums over her career) is facing bankruptcy with possible liabilities of more than $50 million dollars to creditors ranging from Neiman Marcus, the William Morris Agency, the Four Seasons Hotel, the IRS, Orkin Pest Control and the City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau. And it looks like Octomom Nadya Suleman will avoid foreclosure due to an offer of $20,000 by the fetish porn site Clips4Sale.com; all she has to do is have her hair washed and endure some tickling.

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Bumper-butters David Reutimann and Kyle Busch.

Over at Jayski.com’s Silly Season site, we find out that NASCAR officials plan to meet with Kyle Busch and David Reutimann, tweaking their 2010 “have at it, boys” policy with a soft, penalty-less reminder that their actions affect all the racers on the track. Also, Kenneth Luna, a crew member in the Nationwide Series, was suspended by NASCAR for violating sections 12-1 (actions detrimental to stock car racing) and 19 (violation of NASCAR’s substance abuse policy). And another crew chief – this time Steve Kuykendall, crew chief of the #13 team that competes in the NASCAR Nationwide Series was suspended for garage shenanigans involving carburetor tweaks. Another example made of someone who apparently doesn’t have a positive financial impact on the corporateion — the #13 team isn’t even listed on Jayski’s site.

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Garrett Gordon is a chip off of dad Jeff’s shoulder. No “crybaby” jokes, guys.

Over at Answer This, the NASCAR Citizen Journalist WAG blog, things are quiet -– Tallglassofmilk, the site’s operator, must have fallen in love elsewhere –- still, on the home page there’s a pic of Garrett Gordon, Jeff Gordon’s No. 2 child, playing (OK, placed) in the chassis of a race car. A son to race to glory! There’s hope yet for Gordon’s failed dynasty.

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You had to care about “hard” news –- so few do, these days –- to tune into reports about arguments made before the Supreme Court on Wednesday about a case involving fundamentalist protesters who picketed a private military funeral in 2008. Jihadists of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas (Kansas!) used the funeral to spread their message that God is punishing the United States for its tolerance of homosexuality by killing its soldiers.

The father of the soldier (who was not gay) who was being buried was not amused and sued the church, claiming that the protests had violated the family’s privacy at an specially painful moment.

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“We’re talking about a funeral,” Sean E. Summers, a lawyer for the father, Albert Snyder, told the justices. “Mr. Snyder simply wanted to bury his son in a private, dignified manner.”

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Albert Snyder, father of Lance Corporate Matthew Albert Snyder, killed in action on March 3, 2006, in Al Anbar, Iraq,

Snyder had won an $11 million jury verdict against the chucrh’s pastor, but an appellate court overturned the ruling on First Amendment grounds. So the Supreme Court case was all about how far the right to speak your mind — no matter how hurtful your thoughts are — should go.

The lawyer on the other side, Margie J. Phelps, said the First Amendment protected the protest, where seven pickets at some distance from the funeral carried signs with messages like “Thank God for dead soldiers” and “God hates you.”

Ms. Phelps is a daughter of the pastor of the church, Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kan. Her argument alternated between smooth exposition of First Amendment doctrine and support for the church’s message.

“Nation, hear this little church,” she said. “If you want them to stop dying, stop sinning.”

Looks like Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church will have sway with the conservative Roberts court. And strange bedmates sided too with the antagonists of Westboro. The Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press and 21 news organizations, including The New York Times Company, filed a brief supporting the Kansas church. It said the First Amendment protects even hateful speech on matters of public concern.

Before the argument in the case, Snyder v. Phelps, No., 09-751, members of the church protested outside the Supreme Court. Abigail Phelps, another of Mr. Phelps’s daughters, carried a sign that said “America is doomed.”

Shades of Terry Jones and Dove World Outreach Church in Gainesville, where an “International Burn the Koran Day” was pre-empted by pleas from David Petreus and the White House, on the grounds that such “free speech” would result in more dead GI’s in Afghanistan and Iraq. And the goddamdist thing about it is that these idiots hijack so much bandwidth flouting beliefs like bared penises at a wedding—flagrantly, inappropriately, stupidly and with total abandon, because Silly Season rules are in effect, a fascism of fancy over truth, tempering superego murdered like King Duncan, the fool’s court of public masturbation in session, linking in its 24-7-365 circle-jerk politicians, NASCAR, the religious right and every 300-lb Paris wannabe with a laptop and a sugary belief that destiny awaits.

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Teaching the meaning of the First Amendment to our young.

Maybe the Mad Fools of Middleboro are right. Maybe we are doomed–not by lack of belief in their God, but rather to the surfeit of their own belief.

Clocks are racing backwards and forwards in this silly season, destroying time – history and future at once – in the manner that stock cars race counterclockwise (backasswards, turning left instead of right every time) in their furious attempt to cross the finish line ahead of everyone  else.

It’s the same way that the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare’s Macbeth danced widdershins (counterclockwise) thrice around their black simmering pot, winding up the charm to triple back-assed potency, brewing a topsy-turvy destiny for the foolish pretender who would be king and instead returned the land to chaos.

It’s the Silly Season way – 24-7-365 — and the rule of its fools is absolute.

So have at it, boys of summer, now in Chase of the home stretch, spiraling backwards to glory.

That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it, like an ape turd on a fool’s giggle-stick.

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