The Departed
Happy September (again). This is the ninth (and a half) issue of Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit — it’s just like all those other email newsletters, except it procrastinates real bad.
On the Chinese lunar calendar, today is the fifteenth day of the eighth month — aka, the Mid-Autumn Festival, aka the Mooncake Festival. Mazel tov!
Fall Festivities
It’s autumn, the best season — one of the main reasons to live in a part of the world that has real seasons — except for this year, which so far has been mostly hot and muggy, or cold and rainy. (Today was cold and rainy.)
Speaking of the weather, if you’re an American, it’s hard to think of nice September days without also thinking of that particular cool, crisp day with the clear, blues skies, the one we all solemnly vowed to never forget — though, I don’t think we all agree on what to remember about it. That junior turned out to be only our second-most idiotic president? That we ever called Rudy “America’s mayor”? Or the exact melting temperature of steel? From jingoistic buffoonery to the proliferation of crackpot conspiracy theories, I’m mostly reminded that the tragedies in this country seem to only ever increase in scale. Even when we rebuild, even when we pay tribute to the dead, we just manage to cause more death.
Speaking of the dead, while September will end with the Mooncake Festival, August ended with the lesser-known Hungry Ghost Festival — which sounds like Pac-Man cosplay — but it’s more like Halloween with more angst, when the dead walk among us. TimeOut Hong Kong’s description: “As the gates of the underworld open up, spirits and ghouls of the departed escape and roam the earth.” Reading about it more, it seems like most people celebrate by honoring their dead ancestors and helping to guide them back to the underworld. But in my family, the only celebration — indeed, the only notification that it’s the Hungry Ghost Festival at all — is receiving a random text from my mom with very earnest warnings:
Next year, Hungry Ghost Festival falls on August 18. PLEASE MARK YOUR CALENDARS (or give me your cell phone number, and I can have my mom remind you). And remember, DO NOT go out after dark.
2023 Red Sox, RIP
This September also marks the last month of regular season baseball — aka, where Red Sox playoff hopes go to die. At the beginning of August, the Sox were still in the running to grab a playoff spot; by the end, not so much. And this month, they’ve finally overtaken their longtime rivals, the New York Yankees, to claim last place in the division. (It hasn’t been the most inspiring of seasons for either team.)
This month, you can also count Chief Baseball Officer Chaim Bloom among the departed. As Jon Couture writes, Bloom’s dismissal from the Red Sox comes as no surprise — his entire tenure was largely uninspired — and this uneven season was the icing on the crapcake. But then, the blahness of this franchise has been going on for a while with this ownership group, no matter how forcefully they try to tell a different story. In his writeup of the press conference announcing Bloom’s firing, Couture quotes Red Sox CEO Sam Kennedy:
“We’re aiming for World Series championships. That’s it. That’s the aim. That’s the goal. That’s why we’re here. We’re here to win championships. Our fans deserve World Series championships. As many as we can possibly win while we’re here,” CEO Sam Kennedy told reporters Thursday, as emphatically as anything he offered across his 20-minute session. “We’re not going to waste this opportunity. We’re here to win, and we’re here to be competitive.”
“The goal, the commitment has never wavered once. We’re here to win.”
Well, “never wavered” — except for that time when they didn’t do what they needed to do to sign superstar Mookie Betts, and that other time when they also let All-Star Xander Bogaerts get away.
Alex Speier notes, “Bloom is the third consecutive baseball operations leader to last less than four years on the job.” Over the last 12 seasons, from Cherington to Dombrowski to Bloom, the Sox have finished first in their division four times and finished dead last six times. It’s been a bumpy ride.
In that same span, the team also won their fourth and fifth World Series titles under this ownership group, whom we’ll forever be indebted to — for the 2004 championship and the entire Theo era, for keeping and rejuvenating Fenway Park, and for all the other successes since 2002 when John Henry and co. first took over. But there is only so long the good feelings can last. That historic 2004 season is a long time ago now — long enough for America’s mayor to become America’s clown.
Or, OK, maybe, maybe, maybe: It’s very possible that I’ll just never forgive Tom Werner, et al., for letting NESN play-by-play announcer Don Orsillo go after the 2015 season. For one thing, Orsillo’s presence in the broadcast booth would have made a season like this one more bearable — that’s the benefit of having an everyday announcer you enjoy listening to, whether your team is winning or not. (See the Padres fans replying to this Orsillo tweet — if anyone should be disappointed and bitter over how their season went, it should be Padres fans.) For another thing, Orsillo’s replacement Dave O’Brien remains as annoying as all hell. That’s the trouble with having an announcer that’s no fun to listen to, even when you’re winning. What I’d give for O’Brien to go wherever Bloom goes, and to be reminded of them only during the Hungry Ghost Festival.
Other rabbit holes
Robbie Robertson, RIP. I used to listen to Robbie Robertson a lot, but never approached him from his roots-playing, via Dylan and The Band. It was through a tiny world music/art rock back door, via Manu Katché’s drums and Peter Grabriel’s backing vocals, and via Daniel Lanois and his one degree of separation from Brian Eno. But as with John Cale (circa 1992), I was first introduced to Robertson’s music by the uncoolest of the uncool: Jay Leno’s Tonight Show, where Robertson performed “What About Now”. (For a more recent example of late-night TV introducing the hip to me, the unhip: here’s Weyes Blood on Colbert.) But all the obits I read seemed to ignore Robertson’s solo career. Likewise, his artist page on Spotify doesn’t even link him back to Dylan or The Band. And while everyone talks about Robertson’s guitar playing, none of the tributes mentioned his singing, which is still what I think of first. And then, there is what I think is his very best stuff — when he started exploring his Native American heritage through his music, introducing a much younger me to beauty, to mystery, and to injustice. I haven’t listened to these songs in a long time, but upon his passing I’m reminded of the impression they left on me. A cool dude.
William Friedkin, RIP. I’m not brave enough to rewatch The Exorcist — which my parents allowed me to see way too young and which scarred me, indelibly, forever. (How about warning me about those demons, mom!) If I saw that chunky cardboard VHS box today, it would still give me the willies. But after watching a TV profile on Friedkin in my Edinburgh hotel room (while convalescing with Covid) just a few weeks before he passed, I did go and rewatch The French Connection and Sorcerer. Two things: (1) Roy Scheider is as good as anybody, doing anything; and, (2) Sorcerer is the best, way better than The Wages of Fear, no contest.
Long live Nicko McBrain. Speaking of Scotland, I went to Ireland and the UK over the summer just to see Iron Maiden for the 16th and 17th times — because I am old and so are they, and how many more chances will there be? No one outside the band knew it at the time, but turns out, Maiden’s 71-year-old drummer had suffered a stroke at the beginning of the year — and the man still managed to recover in time for the start of the tour. (Best band ever.) Glad Nicko’s OK. Glad I made the trip to see him. Looking forward to the next leg of the tour. Up the Irons!
And that’s it for this month’s makeup edition. Will there be a tenth? Stay tuned to find out. In the meantime, have a good one.
jf