Mitchell Report/Maniwaki Retort

December 13th, 2007. What a miserable day it was. The weather outside was absolutely foul. Cloudy, cold with bitter, freezing rain. Inside, I was stuck on my couch, hepped up on vitamin C and multiple cans of Campbell's finest trying to sweat out the nasty, nasty flu I had caught.

This was one of those bugs that you'd catch when you were a kid. The one that layed you out just before you were supposed to go on the much anticipated tobaggon session/ski trip/hockey tournament. The one that no matter how much you tried to protest, the harsh reality was that you were going to be stuck in the house sneezing your Underoos off whilst all of your buddies on their GT snowracers were crashing into each other, reenacting "The Road Warrior" rocketing down the local hill.

This was the bug that had clamped the ankle bracelet on and assigned me to house arrest. Where I sat on the couch. Cup in hand. And just when I thought I was starting to feel better, I flicked on the press conference where Senator George Mitchell was presenting the findings in his report on steroid use in Major League Baseball.

And proceeded to rapidly deteriorate.

Admittedly, I was on the edge of my couch, salivating not from ailment, but from the prospect of hearing which names would be called out by the Senator in his document, even as he repeatedly pleaded with the public not to focus on them. Rather, he asked that we pay heed to the recommendations that he put forth, so that the game of baseball would once again be represented as rosy and Rockwell approved.

Fair enough, but I wasn't having it. I headed to my closet and produced my pitchfork. I demanded names. I demanded blood. An attempt to rustle up an angry mob proved to be fruitless. I was ailing after all. And this was Canada.

I retreated back to the couch and ingested the rest of the days proceedings like a bitter pill: Commissioner Darth Selig's follow up hand wiping/press conference, Players' Union head Don Fehr's address, the whirlwind of commentary provided by journalists reputable and not-very. Not a remedy for my condition in the slightest.

That eve, and many Campells later, I was feeling a tad better physically, so I sat down to jot down my take on the fiasco. Only to lose the better part of one of the most comprehensive and systematic breakdowns of one event ever to be published in these e-pages. It appears that the flu bug had somehow infected my blogging software as well. After doing my best impersonation of Linda Blair, spewing curses and waves of vomit, I resided myself to the fact that this day, December 13th, 2007 was just plain bad...

Over the next few days I regained strength, absorbed more analysis on the Mitchell Report and came up with some conclusions of my own. May I submit for your general perusal and enlightenment:

The Official Maniwaki Retort To The Mitchell Report

In which we will break down this mess down into its key points. Starting with the obvious:

1. Drugs Are Bad Kids. Really. Like you didn't know this. Remember how bad you felt when Ben Johnson got stripped of his Olympic Gold? And then they handed it over to Carl Lewis who was probably juiced as well, but didn't get pinched? The same guy who looks like he would star in some direct to dvd B-rate action flick alongside Mario Van Peebles? Didn't that suck?
Of course it did. So you know that injecting yourself with performance enhancing agents is shifty.

2. Lying about it is even shiftier.Especially after you've been pinched, or know that you're about to be. Raf, Big Mac, I'm looking in your direction. Clemens, Gagne, I'm burning holes through you with laser vision. That being said:

3. Mitchell's Report Is Hearsay. As I'm sure there was more compelling evidence presented in the Salem Witch Trials. Players named in passing by other players and club officials in casual conversations between all parties. Unfair comparisons drawn. Example. Andy Pettitte shooting himself up twice with HGH (in '05 before it was even banned) to come back from an injury should NOT be in the same document as Jose Canseco, who wakes up puts steroids on his Corn Flakes.
This document has absolutely no shred of legal credibility and serves only to convict in the court of public opinion.

4. Quit blaming the Player's Union. Yes, they share in part of the blame for the steroid era, acting as another body that moves as slow as Sid Bream rounding 3rd in '91 but the Mitchell report makes them out to be the KGB. Hate to break it to you, but it's the Union's job to go to the wall for their players and protect their privacy rights. Just like:

5. It's the Commish's job to lay the smack down on steroid offenders. And not turn a blind eye to the problem, tacitly encouraging it to bring fans back to the park in the years following his cancellation of the World Series. Then, because he's too busy destroying what's left of baseball in Montreal and ripping off the city of DC, he finds that the league that he's been entrusted to oversee has gotten so mammothly ridiculous with rampant steroid use, it makes Barry Bonds' swollen head appear as the "natural physical progression of an elite player in his 40's."

Then. Only after Commissioner Darth Selig, gets pressured by the Emperor (Congress) to clean up his act, does he hire Mitchell to conduct the investigation, making himself out to be this crusader of fair play, disavowing any culpability in the situation at all by vowing to crack down on steroids. After championing a weak policy for years that didn't include Human Growth Hormone until the end of 2005.

Can we impeach this guy already? Or overthrow his regime via armed insurrection?

Unfortunately this fiasco will not serve to be the final chapter in the steroid era, but in turn will act as the final chapter in the first book of the trilogy. I fully expect two more volumes of this nonsense to hit the shelves over the next few years...


"Launch The Star Destroyers! Make certain they bombard the surface of the planet with HGH."

Maniwaki Invades Screens Large And Small!!

...{Loads newsreel}

....{Dims lights}

.....{Film rolls}


....In an unprecedented amount of quality screen time in the last week, the Maniwaki Mauler has successfully infiltrated two productions...

...The first. An NHL.com ad shot in GM Place, in which we, the crowd, were directed to chat amongst ourselves during an imaginary time out, while an imaginary Roberto Luongo sat on the bench. After which I decided that this extra extraordinaire is ready to graduate to the next level. Give me green screens with alien clones of Tony Twist crashing through the roof of the Garage wielding Easton composite sticks that glow like Lightsabers, and we're in business...

...The second. The Epic. Watchmen. As much as I want to fanboy out and describe every last detail, I won't give any of it away. This ain't that kind of a site so go get your spoilers from somewhere else. I will say though that the shot we filmed tonight was on the New York set in which I maintained my usual professionalism and composure and shit my Owlship...

Let The Evidence Speak For Itself

Jose Guillen, perennial psychopath, club house cancer and starting Right Fielder in my All Fuck Off Team, can now add steroid induced suspension to his rap sheet. This is the same guy that is perpetually whining and starting shit where ever he goes. If he's not throwing a tantrum in the Angels' dugout for being pulled for a pinch runner, he's accusing their pitchers of putting foreign substances on the ball, all after being traded away to Nationals (a squad that will be interrogated under the Maniwaki Spotlight soon enough). Fifteen games was the verdict.

And not a shred of sympathy from Camp Maniwaki.

In contrast, The Jays' Troy Glaus and Mets' Scott Schoeneweis, also accused of juicing during their time with the Halos, walked. Not enough evidence.

Now Glaus is still with the Jays and Schoeneweis was, and they haven't been busted for anything and for that I'm pretty stoked.

BUT.

The whole thing does look pretty shaky. So much so that the Angels might have think about changing their name yet again. To something like:

The Los Angeles Angels Of Anaheim That Bought A Shit Load Of HGH As Well As Other Steroids And Went On To Win The 2002 World Series.

Oh Yeah...

...and to top it off, I turned on the telly to see that the Jays are interested in acquiring one of two Canadian Top Guns, either pitcher Erik Bedard from the Orioles or outfielder Jason Bay from the Pirates.

AND it looks like Scott Niedermayer is going to lace up for the Ducks again this season. As I have him on my fantasy squad, all of you bitchezzz in the pool better watch out!!

A Very Good Day

Ever have one of those days where the Gods decide to not only take pity on you by not throwing tons of ethereal shit at you, but instead open up the heavenly curtain to douse you with a most stunningly pristine ray of joy beamed directly from their Euphoria Ray Gun?

That's the kind of day I had.

Here's why.

As mentioned before, "Watchmen", the single most important piece of graphic literature ever to be published, is being shot as a film right here in Van.

Deciding that to not to pursue it in even a small way would bring eternal shame and dishonour to myself and my clan, I ventured out to become an extra, hopefully to land a small background part in this epic. (see Maniwaki #61. 'nuff said.)

To make a long story short, last week I got the call from my agency. I was in.

Ever see Jeremy Piven's character on "Entourage" when he lands the big contract? Hooting and dancing like a madman? Imagine that display by someone on 400 hits of ethereal cocaine doled out by the Comic Book Gods themselves. I was hoppin'.

For those of you who've read the book, you know what I'm talking about as my inner fanboy was firing on all cylinders. I read the 12 issue maxi series when it first came out in '86, and I haven't been the same since. Just mind warping.

For those of you that haven't read it, turn off "Dancing With The Stars", run down to your local comic shop and pick up a copy. Faster sissy.

I went to the costume fitting today in preparation for the one day shoot next week. The walk I took from the opening gates, past the set, to the airplane hangar sized costume department will be etched onto my memory for all time. The laser accurate detail that these cats have put into this flick is unprecedented. I felt like I was 13 years old again. We all need that once in a while.

Director, Zack Snyder already scored big points with "300", keeping it disgustingly true to the book, and he seems to sticking to his game plan with "Watchmen". So far it looks like we're in for a gritty film that mirrors the book and not the regular patchwork camp that usually is passed for comic book films.

And I'm going to do my damnedest, even if it's just walking across the street as NY passer by #25, to make sure it's done by the book.










"Never compromise...Even in the face of Armageddon.."

Pats Don't Scare West

I know practically nothing about the NFL. I don't know who half of the players are, I don't know who's leading what division, I couldn't tell you if a squad is in AFC or NFC. Truth be told, after many attempts, I just can't roll with the NFL.

It's not that I hate the league or the game. I've tuned into some playoff games and Super Bowls and dug them. I remember rooting for Montana and the 49'ers in the early '80s and knew that if there was any justice in the world the Cowboys would have to lose.

What kid didn't get a kick out of the Walter "The Refrigerator" Perry and the '85 Bears as they Super Bowl hustled across Soldier Field? They were the next best thing to Hulk Hogan, Roddy Piper and the rest of the lads at the WWF.

In '96, a bunch of buddies and myself got roped into hoisting the flag for Carolina as they made a Cinderella run in the Playoffs. In '05, I was ducking out of the tattoo shop where The Spouse was getting work done to root in intervals for the neighbourhood Seahawks in their Super Bowl appearance.

All in all, I get more of a kick out the overall spectacle of the NFL and it's antics than I do out of the game itself. T.O. doing push ups in his driveway during a press conference, or the Panthers Cheerleaders getting busted for snorting blow and making out in a nightclub washroom could teach ALL leagues, even the WWE a thing or two about good theatre.

Undeniably however, this 07/08 Patriots team has got my attention. They've won a lot of games in a row. They look like they could add to their already impressive record by going undefeated this season. They squeaked another tight one out last night scoring a TD with 44 seconds left. I was not surprised in the least. I knew they would beat the Ravens, just like I know they will lose to the Jets next week.

How am I privy to such information being just a casual observer to the NFL? I dreamed about it. I kid you not. Last week, I had a dream that I was sitting on the sidelines watching the Roughriders play on some high school field. This NFL receiver named "West" wearing a white jersey, sat down next to me and started trash talking the Riders. After a heated argument about the alleged superiority of the NFL he said that his Jets were afraid of no one as they would eat the Riders for lunch. And that he definitely wasn't afraid of Brady.

Pissed off at this loudmouth, I woke up.

And checked both the Pats' sked and roster that day. Only to find that they were going to play the Jets in two weeks after playing the Ravens this week? What? Was someone trying to tell me something? Who was this West? There was no one on the roster by that name? Could he be some iconic Jet of old? I don't know, but for whatever reason he came to inform me, and now you, that next week the mighty Patriots will fall to the Jets.

Sorry Tom. Sorry Bill. West has deemed it such.