A Captain Not So Courageous

It was a bad week for the travel industry.

First, Captain Francesco Schettino steered his massive cruise ship,
Costa Concordia, on to the rocks just off the Italian coast, creating
a near Titanic-like disaster. As of this writing, 11 people have died
and 21 are still missing.

To make matters worse, the Captain was one of the first to abandon
ship, ahead of most of the 4,000 passengers and crew, defying
maritime tradition that the master is the last to leave.

He later explained he “tripped” and fell into a lifeboat.

With that, Capt. Schettino instantly did three things: He did for
cruises what “Jaws” did for summers at the beach; he came up with the
worst excuse since “the dog ate my homework;” he perpetuated the myth
of Italian cowardice that was had its roots in World War II (“Did you
hear about the new Italian tank? It has six gears: one forward and
five reverse.”)

On points one and two, there is no debate. As to the last point, one
vain and spineless idiot does not represent an entire country and its
people. For every Capt. Schettino, there were hundreds of brave and
dedicated rescue workers who risked their lives to save passengers.

Most historians agree that in World War II, the Italians lacked
weapons, leadership and a desire to die for Benito Mussolini, an
inept egomaniac who made Hitler look brilliant. So they surrendered.
You want to talk Italians and military prowess? Make sure you make
the Roman legions part of the discussion.

In the meantime, the crew of a British Airlines passenger jet flying
35,000 feet over the Atlantic accidentally played a recording over the
intercom announcing the plane was about to make a crash landing in
the ocean.

Then, according to one passenger, “"About 30 seconds later, one of
the cabin crew told us to ignore the announcement. ... Imagining
yourself plunging towards a cold, watery grave in the middle of the
Atlantic is a pretty horrific thought, but they seemed very blasé
about it."

One wonders if the announcement was preceded by, “This is Captain
Schettino speaking…”

One also wonders what other recordings they have cued up on the
flight deck. “Due to a mechanical problem, we will return to the gate
where you will sit on the tarmac for seven hours. Thank you for your
patience.” “Your luggage is mistakenly on its way to New Zealand.”
“We will be charging an exit fee for you to depart the airplane.”
“Please remain calm….we forgot to fill the plane’s liquor cabinet.”
Better yet, how about a recording accompanied by cheery music that
says, “Please disregard the previous recording that said we are all
about to die.”

The airline has apologized for the miscue. One hopes they passed out
clean underwear for the passengers upon landing.

It’s also been a bad week for Republicans. The South Carolina
Republican primary has morphed from a frank but cordial exchange of
views into biker bar brawl. This isn’t a campaign; it’s hand-to-hand
combat.

There’s already been one fatality. Rick Perry has announced he is
saddling up and riding back to Texas after performing so bad in the
debates, he must have been channeling former Perot running mate
Admiral Stockdale.

Then, 16 days after the fact, Rick Santorum was declared the winner
of the Iowa caucuses, beating Mitt Romney by 34 votes.

This would normally not be a game changer. As one observer said of
the archaic way Iowa votes, “It should be a Swiss watch. Instead it’s
a sundial.”

But for Romney, loosing to Santorum anywhere at anything can’t be a
good thing.

While this was going on, Newt Gingrich’s ex-wife said in an interview
he was giving speeches on family values at the same time he was
advocating an “open marriage” for the couple.

Finally, a Pew Research Center poll found that 53 percent of those
surveyed Dec. 7-11 said Republicans were more extreme than Democrats
and 51 percent said Democrats were more willing to compromise.

Here’s to competent captains, less pre-recorded messages and an
absence of mud in Republican politics.

True Blue

Good news, Dodgers fans. In an attempt to lift the dark clouds that
have recently enveloped the franchise I have a plan that will bring about a new golden age for the storied team.

I intend to buy the Los Angeles Dodgers.

I reached this decision after noting that almost everyone but me wants to own the team which is currently for sale. Being no dummy, I decided if a whole bunch of really rich people think it’s a good idea to own the Dodgers, maybe I should join
the fun.

I have a plan.

I promise an end to cold hot dogs and warm beer. I promise to reduce the number of advertisements that currently tattoo every inch of the stadium. I will also eliminate kiss cams, dance cams and obnoxious kid cams. This is a ball game, not You Tube.

I will build enough concession stands and hire enough people to run
them so that fans won’t miss three innings of a game trying to get an
order of nachos.

I won’t charge more for parking than your car is worth.

I will obtain a third baseman, a left fielder, a catcher and relief
pitchers, none of whom are at the beginning or end of their careers.

I will build a statue of Vin Scully at the entrance to the stadium.

This I swear. But first, there are several obstacles I need to
overcome.

First, I'm a bit short on experience. Actually, my only experience is
managing a T-ball team for 6-year-olds and playing in a few softball
leagues . But, hey, a hit is a hit and a run is a run. How complicated can it be?

In addition, I understand that a Dodger owner is the curator of a
civic treasure which immediately lifts me head and shoulders above the
buffoons who have mishandled the franchise since 1998 when Peter
O'Malley cashed out.

Second, it appears that I will need somewhere in the vicinity of a
billion dollars. First I thought I might ask for donations from my
readers. But that would probably fall short of the price for a Happy
Meal.

Then it occurred to me: You don't need a billion dollars to buy a
franchise. In fact, you don't need any money at all. The only
requirement is cunning and guile. And maybe a little larceny in your
heart.

Frank McCourt's purchase of the Dodgers was mostly a no-money down
transaction, financed with debt. An IOU if you will. After running
the franchise into the ground by using its assets to gild his personal lily, he
filed for bankruptcy. Major League Baseball accused McCourt of “looting” the team of $189 million.

Now, he has the team up for sale for north of a billion dollars. Most
people think he’ll get it.

Even after paying off his loans, his ex-wife and a few hundred
lawyers, he'll pocket a nice chunk of change. And you were worried
that Frank would be reduced to be selling bags of oranges on freeway
offramps.

Third, I’ll have to overcome the competition.

There are some noble and good men involved in the bidding: Peter
O’Malley, Fred Claire, Magic Johnson, Joe Torre. All would restore
the good name of the Dodgers.

There are a few sketchy ones as well.

For example, Mark Cuban, whose boorish behavior as an NBA franchise
owner, has cost him hundreds of thousands in fines. I can’t wait to
see the first time he comes charging out of the stands to argue a
third-strike call with the umps. It would be like having Milton
Bradley in charge. Let’s go for an owner with a little dignity for a
change.

Then there’s Thomas J. Barrack, a billionaire real estate investor
and founder of Colony Capital, located in Santa Monica. There are a
few things on his resume that set off alarm bells. He once worked
for Herbert W. Kalmbach, President Richard Nixon's personal lawyer
(ring!). He also once worked for Saudi princes and helped open
diplomatic relations between Saudi Arabia and Haiti, then ruled by
Jean-Claude Duvalier (ring!). He owns the Neverland Ranch (ring!).
In the summer, he lives in a castle in the South of France. (ring!).

Bill Burke, a businessman who founded the L.A. Marathon, allegedly offered McCourt $1.2 billion last August. According to a story in the L.A. Times, the bid was largely bankrolled by Chinese investors. The Dodgers in the hands of Communists? Really?

Also bidding is Steven Cohen, a hedge fund billionaire who in an act
of supreme confidence, has already hired an architect to redesign
Dodger Stadium. The Securities and Exchange Commission is
investigating his firm, SAC Capital Advisors, as part of the
government’s broad crackdown on insider trading. Although Cohen
himself has not been targeted, Major League Baseball remains leery of
Wall Street after Bernie Madoff fleeced the owners of the Mets.

Somewhere in between are the likes of:

Orel Hershiser and Steve Garvey, two former Dodger stars;

A group headed by former agent and current Chicago White Sox special
assistant Dennis Gilbert, talk show host Larry King and Jason Reese
of Imperial Capital;

The family of the late Roy Disney partnered with Stanley Gold, who
runs the family investment firm.

Probably a dozen other potential buyers who are keeping it quiet.

As for me, I’ll approach the Dodger sweepstakes as though I was
buying a used car. I’ll walk around a bit, kick the tires then make
a low-ball offer.

If I succeed, you’re all invited to sit in the owner’s box with me.
If not, see you in the bleachers.

For the Record

As is the habit of this column at this time of year, we pause to take
a look back, not at world events or notable deaths or achievement in
sport, but at newspaper corrections.

It’s certainly not an attempt to mock the field of journalism. After
all, the profession has kept a roof over the head and food on the
table of this column’s author for a good many years.

Rather, it’s a reminder that in the act of producing hundreds of
millions of words each year, sometimes an error slips through. It
keeps us vigilant but humble.

More importantly, it’s often downright funny.

What follows, then, are the coveted Mea Culpa Awards for 2011, based
on data culled from Internet sources and our own personal collection.

You Say Obama, I Say Osama

It was natural that when troops commanded by Barack Obama killed
Osama bin Laden, confusion would result. But the Sacramento Bee
managed to mangle the names twice. Their correction: “A Washington
Post story on Page A12 on May 2 and a McClatchy Newspapers Washington
Bureau story on Page A13 on May 6 mistakenly used the name Obama
instead of Osama in references to Osama bin Laden.”

Food for Thought

A recipe for honey nut banana muffins included a comment that “you
may want to add a little fried fruit to the mix … to make the flavor
more interesting”. Dried fruit, that should be. The Guardian, U.K.

In a recipe for courgette risotto, one ingredient was “200ml white
wine vinegar”. The result was not ideal. It should have been white
wine. The Guardian.

Chile's Supreme Court has ordered a newspaper to pay $125,000 to 13
people who suffered burns while trying out a published recipe for
churros, a popular Latin American snack of dough fried in hot oil.
Judges determined that the newspaper failed to fully test it before
publication, and that if readers followed the recipe exactly, the
churros had a good chance of exploding once the oil reached the
suggested temperature.

On a page of news briefs, a small photo purported to show “Lady Gaga,
wearing a jewel-encrusted lobster on her head”. A reader notes: “She
is wearing a crayfish.” Of course. The Guardian.


Words, Words, Words

A clue in yesterday’s Quick crossword was “small mollusk”. The answer
sought was shrimp, which is not a mollusk but a crustacean. The
Guardian.

An item in the Extra Bases baseball notebook last Sunday
misidentified, in some editions, the origin of the name Orcrist the
Goblin Cleaver, which Mets pitcher R. A. Dickey gave one of his bats.
Orcrist was not, as Dickey had said, the name of the sword used by
Bilbo Baggins in the Misty Mountains in “The Hobbit”; Orcrist was the
sword used by the dwarf Thorin Oakenshield in the book. (Bilbo
Baggins’s sword was called Sting.) New York Times

Camper Killed By Fumes was corrected because the original referred to
Ysbyty Gwynedd hospital. This is tautologous; “Ysbyty” means hospital
in Welsh. The Guardian.

Confusion Reigns

Last week’s column revealed that I was the third born of the four
Abraham children, which was news to my brothers and sister. For the
record, I was the second born. Eastern Courrier.

Quotations in a story about the Istrouma High School-Broadmoor High
School football game that appeared in The Advocate on Saturday, Oct.
29, were wrongly attributed to Broadmoor coach Rusty Price. The
reporter who wrote the story thought he was interviewing coach Price
after the game. Because the interview subject was not Price, the
reporter is unsure whom he spoke with. Baton Rouge Advocate.

In yesterday’s Western Daily Press we carried a photograph with a
caption referring to the Welsh mezzo-soprano Katharine Jenkins.
Unfortunately a technical error failed to update the picture on the
page before it was printed. We would like to apologize to Miss
Jenkins for any embarrassment caused. The printed picture showed
Conservative MP for Hendon Matthew Offord and his dog Maximus taking
part in the Westminster Dog of the Year event at Victoria. Western
Daily Press, Australia.

Bad Ideas, Badly Executed

A story in Saturday’s Real Deal section suggested that a fun thing to
do for Halloween is to write “poison” on a plastic jar or bottle and
fill it with candy for the kids to eat. A picture that accompanied
the story showed a skull and crossbones image similar to the symbol
used to indicate something is poisonous. The Citizen understands the
need to train children not to touch and never to eat or drink from
bottles or jars with that symbol on it, and it was a lapse in
judgment for us to have suggested otherwise. Ottawa Citizen.

The Skeney Says column in Saturday’s Townsville Bulletin described
her state after receiving surgery at a dental practice on Kings Road.
The line “my cotton-wool-stuffed face squished against the window,
eyes rolled back at them and slack jaw drooling blood down my chin”
was an exaggeration for the purpose of humor and was not intended to
reflect on the services of the surgery. On the contrary, Skene was
treated exceptionally well by the practice through the whole process,
and is sorry for any misunderstanding her piece may have caused.
Townsville Bulletin.

No Typos, Just Bad Reporting

A Comment piece about voting rights for prisoners said that even if
all the inmates of Durham prison turned out and voted in the same way
they could not put a dent in MP Pat Glass’s majority. Indeed they
could not: the prison is not in Glass’s North West Durham
constituency. The Guardian.

On Aug. 3 this year the Daily Mirror published an article regarding
the death of Miss Catherine Zaks, aged 21, in Krakow, Poland. The
article contained claims that Miss Zaks, from Robertsbridge, East
Sussex, abused drugs and had engaged in casual sex following the
break-up of a long-term relationship. Miss Zaks’ parents have pointed
out that these claims are entirely false and that their daughter was
much loved, and of good character. We are happy to set the record
straight and apologize for any distress caused. Daily Mirror, U.K.

An item published in The Australian on Nov.15 (Strewth, “Losing the
threads”, page 13) referred to a report in The Zimbabwe Guardian that
Jacqueline Zwambila, the Zimbabwean ambassador to Australia, stripped
to her underwear in front of three male embassy officials. Ms.
Zwambila denies the allegations, and a governmental investigation in
Zimbabwe has cleared her of any misconduct charges. The Australian
apologizes to Ms Zwambila. The Australian.

There was an error printed in the story titled “Pigs Float Down the
Dawson”…The story, by reporter Daniel Burdon, said “more than 30,000
pigs were floating down the Dawson River.” What…piggery owner Sid
Everingham actually said was “30 sows and pigs,” not “30,000 pigs.
The Morning Bulletin, Australia.

In an article published on The Sun website we incorrectly stated that
Julian Brooker, 23, of Brighton, was blown 15ft into the air after
accidentally touching a live railway line. His parents have asked us
to make clear he was not turned into a fireball, was not obsessed
with the number 23 and didn’t go drinking on that date every month.
Julian’s mother did not say, during or after the inquest, her son
often got on all fours creeping around their house pretending to be
Gollum. The Sun, U.K.

…And This Column’s Personal Favorites

Our panel listing the expected highlights at Glastonbury this summer
catapulted into the festival’s headliners a band not so much obscure
as unknown, even to those expert in Judaic contributions to rock. The
group Frightened Rabbi should have been the Scottish band Frightened
Rabbit. The Guardian.

Otherwise Occupied

Responding to a plan by the Occupy movement to demonstrate at the
Rose Parade on Jan. 2, the local Tea Party folks decided to join in
the fun, setting up a riveting contest to determine which fringe
group could be the most obnoxious.

It looks, however, that we’ll be spared this ideological pillow fight
on Colorado Boulevard. The Tea Party has opted out.

Maybe they realized that when the other guy looks stupid, there’s
nothing to be gained in looking stupid as well.

Look, I’m in sympathy with some of the aims of the Occupy crowd.
For whatever else they have done, they have made income inequality,
the widening gap between the haves and have-nots and the corrupting
influence of money on politics a part of the national dialogue.

They have made it clear that this nation’s inability to create jobs,
to prevent the wholesale evictions of economic victims from their
homes, to protect citizens from predatory corporate practices is
intolerable.

And they are willing to risk a face full of pepper spray and arrest
to protest it.

Unfortunately, they have failed to move their arguments beyond the
street. And many of their good intentions have been hijacked by
anarchists, aged hippies, druggies, off-the-beaten-path religious
zealots and other assorted chest beaters. The result is a message so
muddled that it has become unclear.

They are at risk of becoming irrelevant. The absolute wrong way to
regroup, however, is to attempt to politicize a hundred thousand
people who show up once a year to smell the roses, listen to the
bands, root for their football teams and enjoy a slice of Americana.

It would be like teaching the catechism to the Taliban.

The plan as of now is to have the Occupy protestors march behind the
rest of the parade as it winds its way through Pasadena. That will
put them smack dab behind a phalanx of police and a line of
mechanized street sweepers whose job it is to clear the streets of
refuse.

The Occupy forces, if history repeats itself, will be joined by a
gaggle of Jesus freaks, Hare Krishnas, animal rights activists,
anti-war protestors and other rebels with a cause who have
traditionally followed the parade, much to the interest of
practically no one.

Oh, sure, the Occupy people will be waving signs along the parade
route. But their main thrust is to carry a “Octupy Octopus,” a puppet
crafted from recycled plastic bags and bamboo that takes 40 people to
operate. According to organizers, it represents Wall Street’s
stranglehold on American politics.

I saw a picture of it on their web site. It looks like a third-grade
art project.

Is this any way to win hearts and minds? It isn’t.

I suspect they are hoping for some TV exposure but I doubt they will
get much unless some militant faction decides to storm the parade
route. And that’s not the kind of exposure this movement needs.

The Occupy movement must define who they are, join with labor unions
and other sympathizers throughout the country to raise money and
support candidates that believe in their values.

It’s called working within the system and it often works. The Tea
Party did it. So can they.

But that can’t do it from a tent on some street corner. And they
can’t do it by embracing disruption as a political tool.

On Turning 70

"When I was One I had just begun.

When I was Two I was nearly new.

When I was Three I was hardly me.

When I was Four I was not much more.

When I was Five I was just alive.

But now I am Six I'm as clever as clever,

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever."



- A.A. Milne, "Now We Are Six"



WHEN I was a child, my bedtime literature of choice was anything by A.A. Milne. I enjoyed the adventures of Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin but for reasons lost in the mists of memory, his "Now We Are Six" was my favorite.

I suspect I was impatient to reach that magical age, when you left babyhood behind and began to venture out into the world on voyages of discovery and adventure.

And being 6 was wonderful. It would be another five years before television made an appearance in our house so we spent our waking hours playing outdoors and building elaborate dream worlds. Without TV to render us physically and intellectually immobile, we traveled as far and wide as our imaginations would carry us.

Sure, there were skinned knees and hurt feelings from time to time but we were sheltered by our innocence from the harsh realities of life.

I mention all this because in one more week, I reach another milestone. I will be 70. I am frankly astounded. It doesn't seem that long ago that I was 6 and playing cowboys with the boy down the street. The important things in my life were bikes, baseball gloves and comic books.

I don't feel 70. Friends say I don't look 70. If they did, of course, they would no longer be my friends.

Come to think of it, however, I seem to have a lot more doctor appointments than I used to. I have lost a good 10 yards off my tee shot, gained a few inches around my waist and seemed to forget where I put my keys. So it must be true.

There are no books called "Now We Are 70" that romanticize the path that lies ahead, and no one to read them to you at bedtime. No one wants to remain 70 for ever and ever.

At this age, you try to live each day to its fullest and look back on the journey, trying to make some sense of it all.

On reflection, it's been a wonderful trip.

I was born 18 days after Pearl Harbor. I often wonder how my parents must have felt about bringing a child into a word engaged in a massive war. Were they worried? Were they scared? I never heard them speak of it. But they were made of stern stuff. My mother was abandoned in an orphanage at age 2. My dad never knew his real father. They were married just as the Depression hit.

My life wasn't nearly as tough. My world was living the lyrics of a Beach Boy's song. We surfed, hung out at Bob's Big Boy and took our girlfriends to proms. We were true to our school.

The worst thing that happened to me in high school was flunking out of geometry. Since it was mid-term, I had to find a course to finish out the year. I chose journalism. The rest is history.

Going to college was a slap in the face. I came to realize I had lived my life in a place that kept the rest of the world at arm's length. It wasn't until college that I made friends who were African American or Jewish or Hispanic.

I learned about injustice. I was exposed to cynicism, much of it directed at the middle class from which I came.

It made for a quick transition. Two years after I had been surfing in Newport Beach, I was arrested in a civil rights demonstration on Market Street in San Francisco.

Indeed, to be 70 is to be a part of a generation that fought to bring about the end to racial segregation in this country. It's difficult to imagine now but it wasn't long ago that many American citizens were relegated to second class status, and worse, by law and social attitudes.

Putting those impediments to equality to rest was an epic moment in this country's history. Those of us who took part did so because, simply, it was the right thing to do.

My generation was the first to embrace rock `n' roll. Whatever else you might think about it, rock was exciting and liberating, the pulsating background music to an era of change in this country. Nobody was going to march for justice to the sounds of Bing Crosby.

We weren't the greatest generation, not by a long shot. But we can look back and see that we made a difference.

So here we stand poised on the banks of the River Jordan or the River Styx, depending on how things work out. The sun is still above the horizon but not by much.

But I'm not ready to say goodbye quite yet. Like a 6 year old, I'm still searching for worlds to explore and adventures to be had.

After all, as George Bernard Shaw said, "We don't stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing."

The Primary Problem

I’m not sure what the Republican National Committee is up to these
days.

But I’m betting that if they don’t get their game face on fairly
soon, they will be on the outside looking in on Election Day, 2012.

So far, the Republican presidential primary looks like it was
scripted by Mel Brooks. Take this week for example.

Newt Gingrich, suddenly breathing the rarefied air of a contender,
does what any serious presidential candidate would do: He travels to
New York to kiss the ring of Donald Trump and seek his blessings.

Are you kidding me? Donald Trump, a political kingmaker? The snarling
billionaire with the bad comb over who stars in really awful reality
shows? Yeah, that’s the guy.

It would be funny except for the scary fact that he may somehow
influence the choice of the next leader of the free world, should
that person be a Republican.

Newt’s not the first candidate to make the pilgrimage to Trump Tower.

Michele Bachmann made an appearance, so did Mitt Romney (although he
refused to be photographed). Herman Cain dropped by as did Rick
Perry. Remember them?

But the wily Donald is withholding his endorsement for the time
being. In fact, he says if he doesn’t see a winner in this bunch he
will run for the presidency himself as an independent.

This is so much hot air, of course. It’s important to remember that
when Trump starts making noises about being president, he usually has
a TV program debuting or a new book out. In this case, his tome,
“Time to Get Tough,” is hitting the stores. Self-promotion is his thing.

Ultimately, this is all about money. Trump has it, the others want
it. Besides, Trump is going to orchestrate a candidate debate at the
end of the month. It would be wise to stay on the good side of a guy
who enjoys yelling, “You’re fired!”

Newt, in the meantime, is having a bad endorsement week. Trump came
down with lockjaw. Cain who has literally and figuratively kissed his
chances goodbye, was going to throw his support to Gingrich but
pulled back at the last moment. Gingrich has had to settle for the
support of Dan Quayle, the former vice president best known as the
man who couldn’t speak straight.

All of this raises some disturbing questions:

Why would Newt want the backing of Cain, an alleged serial womanizer?
Gingrich doesn’t need voters to remember that, in an act of unbridled
hypocrisy, he once carried on an admitted extra-marital affair with a
young staffer while decrying Bill Clinton’s moral shortcomings.

Why would Newt allow Bob Livingston, who resigned as Speaker of the
House when his marital infidelities were exposed, to throw a
fund-raiser for him in Washington, D.C. this week?

What kind of message is the Gingrich-Cain-Livingston team sending to
the country? How about “lock up your wives and daughters.”

Why would Newt want the backing of Trump? As a candidate in the
spring, the Donald experienced one of the quickest falls in recent
political history when he dropped from leading the Republican field
with 26% to 8% in the space of four weeks.

If that’s not enough, a new poll from NBC and Marist College shows
more voters in Iowa and New Hampshire would be turned off by a Trump
endorsement than positively influenced by one.

A story in the Washington Post explains a lot. “Gingrich is
struggling to get out from under a mountain of debt from luxury jets
and other pricey expenses racked up in the early weeks of his
campaign. Creditors say Gingrich has begun paying back nearly $1.2
million in bills he owed at the end of September, and his spokesman
says most will be taken care of by the end of the year...”

In the meantime, Romney has raised $32.6 million while Gingrich has
accumulated $4 milllion. Donald can you spare a dime?

And what about this debate that Trump is staging in Iowa? So far,
four candidates, Romney, Ron Paul, Perry and Jon Huntsman, have sent
their regrets, probably figuring that this particular forum will end
up being A Salute to Donald Trump’s Ego.

So far the participants consist of Newt and Rick Santorum.

Even Republican strategist Karl Rove is appalled. “We've got a guy
who is not only saying 'I'm going to make a decision about who I'm
gonna endorse shortly after this debate and I'm already leaning
someway -- and I may run myself,' and we expect him to be the
impartial moderator of the debate?" he said on Fox News.

All of this has a good chance of being the biggest bust since Geraldo
Rivera opened Al Capone’s vault.

The RNC had better bring order to this chaos if they want their
candidate to have a fighting chance.

A Thorn in the Side of the Rose Bowl

Peace has returned to the Arroyo Seco. Songbirds are singing, their
voices carried on breezes wafting through the giant oaks, the sun
beams down on happy upturned faces while serenity abounds.

Yes, folks, football season is almost over and the Rose Bowl is
returning to its somnambulant state.

It’s been a great season for the nearby residents of the bowl. The
UCLA Bruins, principal occupants of the stadium, have been so bad
that attendance is dropping by the tens of thousands.

This is just fine with the homeowners who rarely emerge during
football season for fear of being struck by falling property values.

Football games draw crowds and crowds make them unhappy. Many would
be pleased if football was prohibited and the Rose Bowl was turned
into a museum.

Oh sure, they tolerate the Rose Bowl game on New Years. It’s all pomp
and pageantry and princesses, the kind of thing that makes you proud
to be a Pasadenan.

Beyond that? Couldn’t they just go and play somewhere else?

I guess these good people didn’t notice the 100,000-seat stadium when
they moved into the neighborhood.

But all is not happy in Arroyoland. The Rose Bowl, as it has for
years, needs money. They need it for maintenance of a nearly
90-year-old facility, they need it to modernize and stay competitive,
they need it because the stadium actually operates at a loss.

They need money because the stadium by ordinance is limited to 12
events a year that would attract more than 20,000 attendees. And that
impacts the stadium’s revenue stream.

Now, the National Football League is being wooed by Los Angeles city
officials and if the NFL decides to locate a team here, it would need
a place to play while a new stadium is being built to house the pro
team.

Rose Bowl officials would like to see their stadium as that temporary
home. The money such an arrangement would generate could help pay off
a $16 million revenue shortfall in a $150 million renovation project
currently underway.

The neighbors are, predictably, upset despite the fact that the NFL
in L.A. is a long way from reality. This paper reported that the
Linda Vista/Annandale Association's 18-member board "voted
unanimously to oppose any occupancy of the Rose Bowl stadium by the
NFL," citing crowds and the negative impact on the Arroyo’s
recreational activities.

The city sees it a bit differently. “There obviously will be
potential impacts associated with the neighborhood; there will also
be significant economic impacts to the businesses in the community,
to the city's General Fund and to the stadium," City Manager Michael
Beck told this paper. "We have to take into consideration all of
those."

This particular flap highlights the hurdles the Rose Bowl faces to
remain viable.

I did some freelance work for the Rose Bowl several years ago,
writing press releases and consulting as stadium officials launched a
fundraising drive for their renovation project.

That experience left me with two impressions:

(1) Rose Bowl officials bend over backwards to be good neighbors.
Despite the bluster from local homeowners associations, complaints
from residents are taken very seriously and steps are taken to
resolve them to the satisfaction of all concerned. When the
renovation project was launched, Rose Bowl officials reached out to
residents to make them part of the planning process.
(2) Money is always an issue. People think the stadium is rolling in money. It
isn’t. Rose Bowl officials rely on revenue from the Brookside golf
courses to help pay the bills.

Is this any way to treat an icon? If any institution in Pasadena
deserves some love, the Rose Bowl is it.

The stadium’s importance to Pasadena can’t be overstated. The New
Years game itself contributes $58.6 million to the city’s economy,
according to a study by the USC Marshall School of Business.

The Rose Bowl is one of the most recognizable sports facilities in
the world. It’s very existence has elevated Pasadena from just
another Los Angeles suburb to the special status it enjoys now.

Homeowners have every right to protect their property. But there’s a
thin line between self-interest and obstructionism.

If local homeowners fear the NFL, they should help in the
fund-raising efforts to complete the renovation project. Supporting
the Rose Bowl will pay enormous dividends to the city they call home.
And peace will reign in the Arroyo.