Category: Sardonic Side

Circle the wagons; here we go again. The intercollegiate silly season is back.

The NCAA, which could have a ton of stuff to scrutinize – such as sham student athletes, bogus courses and skewed higher education priorities – is taking a hard look at its member schools who have Indian mascots and nicknames.

Among the 30 institutions: the Florida State University Seminoles. All were required to turn in “self evaluation” reports addressing issues of racism and discrimination. Theoretically, the NCAA’s executive committee could ban the use of Indian names and mascots – and sanction those that continue the practice.

FSU, which has used “Seminoles” since 1947, historically has had a close working relationship with Seminole Tribe leaders. But that might not be good enough for the NCAA, which listens to a lot of axe-grinding sorts outside the Seminole Tribe who feel any Indian name, no matter the motivation and context, is inherently harmful to Indian self image.

Should that politically correct agenda prevail, FSU could wind up like Stanford, Marquette, St. John’s and dozens of other universities who had to jettison their long-standing, Indian-themed names.

But if that were to happen, here’s a suggestion. Pick a name that would still acknowledge the Seminole nexus, but in a more contemporary, racially-neutral fashion. Call ’em the Casinos.

How ’bout them ‘Nos!

We all applauded last year when a bad movie, “The Punisher,” was filmed here. The city could not have been more accommodating, and it was worth it. The production crew liked what they saw; it meant a seven-figure economic impact; and Tampa looked pretty good.

More recently Tampa put out another red carpet – literally this time – for the star of “Citizen Verdict,” which made its local premier at Tampa Theater. The movie is billed as a reality TV show parody – if that’s even possible – and prominently features Jerry Springer, the king of cultural bile. “Citizen Verdict” was made here in the Bay Area.

A comic book movie with over-the-top violence and pyrotechnics is bad enough — unless you’re a teen-aged male. But, hey, it was John Travolta and Thomas Jane.

But rolling out the red carpet for Springer, who embodies everything we ought to hate about trashy, exploitative media that panders to the lowest common denominator? Why not a strip of linoleum – or at least red shag — if he had to be in our midst?

It’s too much to ask, we all acknowledge.

But suppose, just suppose all those disparate geo-political/cultural-religious elements who publicly mourned the late Pope John Paul II and professed such an abiding respect for him were to accord the Holy Father the ultimate act of respect.

Silly us. That would mean no wars. No terrorist acts.

No one is that respectful.

In fact, Rome’s city fathers would have settled for a much more modest form of respect.

The death of a beloved pontiff brought more than an unprecedented number of world leaders and pilgrims to the Eternal City. It also brought the notoriety of price gougers.

“The closer you get to the basilica, the higher the prices,” noted Franco Cioffarelli, the city’s financial chief.

With security the top priority, it would have taken more resources than Italian authorities could muster to monitor and crack down on price gouging. Actually, it would have taken a miracle.

The World Values Survey, a global network of social scientists, has come up with a study that rates countries’ inhabitants on their sense of well-being. In short, who is happiest?

The Stockholm, Sweden-based WVS interviewed 120,000 people on six continents representing 82 societies and 85 per cent of the planet’s population. The U.S. made the top 15 — barely.

WVS determined that the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico was the happiest.

Which begs a certain question.

Given Puerto Rican emigration patterns, that must say something about life in Orlando and Spanish Harlem. Perhaps it’s ecstatic.

Say this about Jose Canseco: He radiates believability when it comes to being the poster boy for steroids. An Action Hero torso and 600-foot home runs will do that. However, his inject-and-tell book, “Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant ‘Roids, Smash Hits and How Baseball Got Big,” is a he-said, they-said mixed bag. Que sera, syringe.

Where Canseco’s credibility atrophies is when – in the process of naming names of steroid users – he drops a dime on Wilson “Another Taco, Please” Alvarez. That’s the portly pitcher who misspent five seasons with the Devil Rays frustrating everybody but American League hitters.

Wilson Alvarez? Imagine if the Krispy Kreme poster lad hadn’t been doing steroids? Better yet, don’t.

But maybe in some perverse way this is what the steroids scandal has needed. To wit: Too many young athletes, regrettably, will continue to look at Canseco, or Jason Giambi, Mark McGwire, Ivan Rodriguez, Sammy Sosa, Juan Gonzalez, Barry Bonds or Bret Boone and think a growth-hormone deal with the devil may still be worth it.

But Wilson “Abs From Hell” Alvarez? Now there’s a real deterrent.

If it’s true, take one for the team, Wilson, and belly up to the bar of veracity. Your legacy will include something other than being the overpaid, underperforming Tropicana Dough Boy.

When this week’s “Time” magazine arrived, I couldn’t avoid a visceral reaction to its cover story, which was teased as: “What Teachers Hate About Parents.” Having been a teacher in a previous incarnation, I still have the short list.

It remains as follows:

*Shallow end of the gene pool over-represented.

*The MIAs. Always the ones who can least afford to be no-shows.

*PTA/ “Back-to-School Night” suck-ups.

*Those who never got the memo directing them to teach civilization skills at home.

*”Gifted” attitudes. Worse yet, it’s already generational.

*Those offering more resistance than reinforcement at home.

*Those who think nothing of signing off on phony excused absences – and letting somebody else (you) worry about making up for what their child missed.

*Those who don’t care that their kids show up at school pushing the dress code envelope on the gangsta, strumpet or generic slob look.

Say this about Jose Canseco: He radiates credibility when it comes to being a poster boy for steroids. An Action Hero torso will do that. In fact, the unwieldy title of his inject-and-tell book, Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant ‘Roids, Smash Hits and How Baseball Got Big , appears juiced as well.

Where Canseco’s believability atrophies, however, is when – in the process of naming names of steroid users – he fingers Wilson “Another Taco, Please” Alvarez. That’s the portly pitcher who misspent five seasons with the Devil Rays frustrating everybody but American League hitters.

Wilson Alvarez? Imagine if the Krispy Kreme poster lad hadn’t been doing steroids?

Maybe in some perverse way, this is what the steroids scandal has needed. To wit: Too many young athletes, regrettably, will look at Canseco, Jason Giambi, Mark McGwire, Ivan Rodriguez, Sammy Sosa, Juan Gonzalez, Barry Bonds and Bret Boone and think a growth-hormone deal with the devil may still be worth it.

But Wilson “Abs from Hell” Alvarez? Now there’s a real deterrent.

If it’s true, take one for the team, Wilson, and belly up to the veracity bar. Your legacy will include something other than overpaid underperformance.

Like an infinite number of monkeys at word processors cranking out the great books, the Hillsborough County Commission finally passed – at the initiative of Ronda Storms – a proposal that makes sense for everybody from downtown to Dover.

Storms wants legislative approval that would offer convicted child abusers the sentencing option of sterilization or a vasectomy. This would prevent the spawning of more would-be victims. Storms would like county legislators to submit a bill with a sterilization provision – and the rest of the commission unanimously backed her.

Two points.

One, predators and mutants who abuse children deserve the same options the abused children were given: none. Make it mandatory.

Two, a program with such serious implications needs a trial run. This can be the “voluntary” phase. A prudent starting point would be the county commission itself. The obvious upside: no possible spawning of would-be commissioners. There may be a dysfunction-deifying gene.

The recent announcement of the Trump Tower Tampa produced the predictable hoopla, hype and commentary provincialism. It comes with the territory: the wealth, the charisma, the power, the pretension, the hair. Donald Trump is a mogul, a caricature and a brand name. Love him, lionize him or loathe him, he is what he is. And he’s heard it all – and courted it all. Because it works.

As for Tampa, it’s more than reasonable to ask what TTT could mean for downtown. It’s also prudent to ask if the market is here or will be wooed here for the sort of unprecedented prices – topping out at some $6 million — being asked for the “privilege” of living in the opulent, 52-story, $220-million waterfront condo.

As for the commentary, frankly it’s no longer rat’s patootie cute to flagellate Tampa for being, well, so Tampa. Among other things — like it or not — it’s becoming the sort of hamlet that is attracting developers who build the sort of things that columnists can’t afford.

Amid all the controversy over accommodating America the Secular with the true meaning of Christmas, comes this reminder that the Yule tide may have turned for the worst. ABC reports that the Miami Heat-Los Angeles Lakers game on CHRISTMAS DAY was the highest rating for a regular-season NBA game in six years.

No ratings were available for “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “Miracle on 34th Street” and “Frosty the Snowman.”

Just as well.