You Only Live Once

Following the Obama love fest known as Inauguration, I partook in arguably the stupidest thing I've done in a long time.

Maybe it was my liberal juices in overdrive? I had also just ingested half an apple fritter and a peanut butter and jelly roll from Winchell's. The sugar possibly could have clouded my judgment.

So when I walked outside and a fellow Obama supporter asked me if I wanted to take a spin on his motor scooter, the only thing that came to my mind was, "you only live once".

The closet comparison to this motor scooter would be the one Harry and Lloyd drove to Aspen in Dumb and Dumber. Coincidentally enough, both motor scooters get 70 MPG.

After strapping on the bright yellow helmet, I proceeded to embark on a one block journey, featuring many fits and stops and frequent breaking with my right leg. Now my right hip feels like someone forced me to do this great party trick. Go figure!

I should have known better. I've been quick to judge Jay Williams, Kellen Winslow XXIV and Ben Roethlisberger for being idiots on motor bikes.

The moral of the story: while you do only live once, unless you're Jesus or Bobby Ewing, you also only die once.

We've Only Just Begun

This is really happening. It still seems too good to be true. Today's inauguration is a celebration for everything that's great in our country.

Soon to be president Obama is a global superstar. He's MJ post-Thriller, pre-Bad. We all know how that turned out. Luckily, Barack doesn't have a yearning for major reconstructive plastic surgery, zoo animals, or Jesus Juice.

Maybe this is my crazy lib side talking, but if this isn't inspiring, if this hisotric moment doesn't conjure up even the least bit of patriotism, then I must be more out of touch than I generally think I am.

On a sidenote: How pissed are the Skinheads right now? Seriously. It's great. This is the all-time fuck you to anyone who believes in "white supremacy". It's on par with Jake and Elwood driving through the Nazi parade in Blues Brothers.

For the first time in about eight years, I listened to Marvin Gaye's "Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holla)" and didn't feel like it applied to our current situation. In fact, I used to be amazed at how 40 years after it's recording, the entire "What's Going On?" album sadly continued to resonate. That's over now.

But for all the promise Obama brings, until anything changes - until people stop losing their jobs, their homes and their money, he is all hype.

Hype isn't such a bad thing. It's far better than an inaugural parade featuring Wilford Brimley, Heidi Montag and Daddy Yankee. Now that would just be a damn shame.

So for today, I'll take the hype. And I enthusiastically await to see what the next four years have in store.

Run Rickey, Run

Rickey Henderson got word Monday on what Rickey Henderson already knew long ago. Rickey Henderson is a Hall of Famer.

While the 2009 MLB HOF election rightly selected Red Sox great Jim Rice, one has to ask how a player as transcendent as Henderson (both on the field and in person) only appears on 94.8 percent of voters' ballots.

Henderson is undoubtedly the greatest leadoff hitter ever. But aside from that, a very strong argument could be made that he's one of the greatest players ever as well. There is no comparable player in baseball history. Who else can make that claim?

Rickey hit for power. Rickey hit for average. Rickey got on base. Rickey stole bases like Bernie Madoff stole money. Rickey was an All-Star. Rickey won Gold Gloves. Rickey won a MVP. Rickey won World Series. And most important, Rickey was Rickey.

So it seems rather absurd that 28 members of the Baseball Writers Association of America deemed Rickey unworthy of being a first ball Hall of Famer.

Yes, Rickey played about five years too many (I don't think he ever officially retired). But is it fair that some 250-pound sports writer from Birmingham who eats Tony Roma's and sucks down Cold Stone six times a week can vote "no" on Rickey for any assortment of reasons (my favorite is the ever present rocky relationship with the media cop-out)?

Everyone rightfully criticizes the BCS for being a complete farce. Computers clearly can't determine a true college football national champion. But for the Hall of Fame, computers make sense.

Think about it. In a sport as entrenched in numbers as baseball is, wouldn't computers be the logical choice for determining who makes it into the sacred Hall?

Jim Rice had to wait 15 years to gain election (the longest I've ever waited for anything is the nearly two year gap from Season 5 to Season 6 of Sopranos). And in the 15 years it took for Rice to push his way in, his career numbers stayed exactly the same.

Computers would surely elect Andre Dawson and Bert Blyleven - two players who should be in but may never make it.

Set the program to eliminate the roiders (sorry Mark "I'm not here to talk about the past" McGwire).

Let the numbers speak for themselves and within their historical context.

Because if anyone deserved to be elected with 100 percent certainty, it was Rickey.

The Curious Case of Ken Griffey Jr.

Not all mistakes are built to last.

Almost nine years ago, the Seattle Mariners traded their best player in franchise history to the Cincinnati Reds. At the time, the deal seemed like a coup for the Reds. They snagged baseball's marquee player. A 30-year-old superstar who appeared well on his way to demolishing Hank Aaron's all-time home run mark.

The Mariners got the baseball equivalent to a bag of movie popcorn that's half filled with overly salted kernels (OK it wasn't that drastic. But that trade was essentially Mike Cameron for Ken Griffey Jr. That's like the Lakers trading Kobe for Ricky Davis).

I remember how I felt after hearing the trade went down. The singular force for me having any interest in baseball was gone. I couldn't believe it. I knew it was a mistake.

In the ensuing years, while many "Mariners fans" gloated about how the team was far better without Griffey, I maintained that Griffey belonged in Seattle, and the franchise would have at least one World Series title with him.

Since 2004, I have actively campaigned for the M's to bring Griffey home (I even spent 2 hours in a sweltering Caribbean bar waiting on an ESPN Deportes story regarding the possibility that Junior might be interested in a return to Seattle).

This year is no different. So once again, I am publicly advocating for the return of Ken Griffey Jr. to Seattle.

The Mariners need Griffey as much as he needs them. By losing Raul Ibanez to free agency, the M's anemic offense is currently fit to battle the cast of Gossip Girl in a home run derby. Last season's fatal flaw was not filling the gaping whole in the lineup left by Crazy Jose Guillen. They can't afford to make the same mistake twice.

Critics will argue that signing Griffey will be no more than a publicity stunt - an easy way to put fans in the seats, or a "typical" Mariners politically correct signing. But is that such a bad thing? The team needs to make money in order to keep feeding Carlos Silva Double Stuffed Oreos. And if one thing is for certain, it's that Griffey is recession proof.

They say Griffey is way over the hill. While his .249 batting average, 18 home runs 71 RBI's and .778 OPS supportthat claim, a bothersome knee is largely to blame for the dramatic fall off in production compared to his 2007 numbers (.277, 30, 93, .868).

Junior can DH and play some spot left and center when needed. Safeco Field was built for his left handed power stroke.

Money isn't a motivating factor. From all reports, it seems like Junior just wants to play. By signing Pat Burrell, the Rays have effectively bowed out of the running. And going back to the NL is an accident waiting to happen. Junior can be had for probably $7 million plus incentives.

The Mariners offer Junior not only the best chance to play, but also the only chance to properly end his career.

This story needs a happy ending. I know I shouldn't put my faith in heroes. But I can't see Junior any other way.

I know I'm right. I feel it. I see it. I believe this with all my heart and soul.

Hopefully, the people who can do something about it feel the same way.

Beau & Me

I generally shy away from crying at movie theaters. I'll look up at the ceiling, pinch myself, shove a fistful of Sour Patch Kids in my mouth - anything to avoid making a scene.

I saw Marley & Me today and that all changed. I spent the final 20 minutes of the movie in near hysterics, trying to shield my teary eyes from my 7 and 10 year-old cousins.

Going into it, I knew that Marley, the incorrigible, but lovable yellow lab died. But Marley's demise mirrored that of my beloved yellow lab, Beau (renamed "The King" by yours truly during his elder years).

Seeing it on the big screen conjured up some very happy and very painful memories.

After his near-death expeirence, The King came back like Tony Soprano after Uncle Junior shot him in the stomach. Sure, he was a little weak at first. But by the summer, he was back in stride, enjoying the mild Seattle sun and the freshly cut grass.

The King was just shy of his eleventh birthday - still relatively young, even for a lab. But he lived a full life and touched nearly everyone he met (I still have old friends ask me about him).

There's a great line at the end of Marley & Me where Owen Wilson says, "A dog doesn't care if you are rich or poor. Give him your heart, and he'll give you his." That's the absolute truth. My wish is that everyone can experience that love.

I miss The King.

I miss my best friend.

Everybody Is A Star

Remember that ex-boyfriend or girlfriend who just won't let it go? You know, the one who's probably fixated upon your Facebook profile right now, hitting refresh every 15 seconds in a self pitying attempt to figure out what you're doing and who you're doing it with. The very same one who sends you text messages at 2:30 AM saying they're at the same resort in Cabo you both went to the year before, and they're walking on the beach. Alone.

Well, the New York Knicks have a crazy ex too. His name is Stephon Marbury. And he has taken it upon himself to go all Glenn Close, ala Fatal Attraction on the Knicks (can't you hear Starbury telling Knicks brass, "I'm not gonna be ignored").

On Tuesday, Starbury, he of the $20,840,625 salary and face of the $14.98 and under Starbury shoe line, decided to stalk his ex at the Staples Center to watch them take on the Lakers.

Earlier this month, the Knicks banned Starbury from team functions. This came as a result of Starbury refusing to go into a game when the team was shorthanded due to injuries and pending trades.

But Starbury wasn't attending the Knicks/Lakers game as a player. He paid for his ticket and took the game in as a "fan".

At halftime, Starbury told reporters, "All I've got to do is get free. Once I get free, the team I'm going to go to, I think a lot of people will be shocked."

Really, Steph? What team could that be? Maybe the Minnesota Timberwolves? That would be a real treat for NBA fans as Starbury could partner with his cousin, Sebastian Telfair, to form the biggest punk backcourt in NBA history. Telfair can be in charge of concealing firearms aboard the team plane and Starbury will monitor the T-Wolves internship program.

The Starbury Saga serves as yet another reminder about what's wrong with the NBA. Guaranteed contracts seemingly guarantee one thing - prima donnas. How someone not affiliated with a golden parachute or AIG can earn $20 million for doing absolutely nothing is a disgrace to humanity.

Countless Americans are struggling like never before and Starbury is prancing around the sidelines, flaunting the fact that he's earning a paycheck to not work.

If David Stern can destroy professional basketball in Seattle, then he surely can step in to this matter, void the remainder of Marbury's contract, and slap him with permanent expulsion for being a punk.

Athlete Behavior 101

Remember the TV show, "Kids Say the Darndest Things"?

I'm thinking about pitching a spin-off called, "Athletes Do the Stupidest Things". The pilot episode will feature embattled New York Giants wide receiver, Plaxico Burress, who thought he needed to pack some heat into a NYC night club, and accidentally popped himself in the leg.

I wish I could make this stuff up. But this actually happened. After all the brilliant crimes committed by not only NFL players, but a gaggle of other professional athletes (i.e. Ugie Urbina and Kobe), one would think that some logic would enter the minds of these highly paid pros.

Apparently not. In many ways, Burress deserves everything headed his way (NYC mayor Michael Bloomberg is angrier than a GM shareholder). If you're stupid enough to bring a gun into a club, then it's only fitting that you shoot yourself in the leg. Life would be far too cruel if Burress had accidentally shot another person.

Of course, there's the argument that the large majority of professional athletes are actually good, law abiding citizens. It's just the select few morons who get all the pub for drowning dogs and brandishing weapons. If anything, pro sports is a microcosm for American life.

But athletes should be held to a higher standard. I don't buy the Charles Barkley "I Am Not A Role Model" credo. These guys are not only role models, but their actions are highly impressionable on kids (I remember screaming like Larry Johnson once after I rejected some kid who was at least half a foot shorter than me).

Wouldn't it be great if we could get through a professional sports season without a domestic abuse charge, weed bust, or a murder?

Hopefully it will happen sooner than later. Because the Michael Vick's and Plaxico Burress' should stand for something aside from sheer stupidity.

They should stand as cautionary tales.