Redemption From Beyond The Arc

Until three hours ago, I had never heard of Kyle McAlarney. Now I might be his #1 fan.
And this is why college hoops is magic — even in the first week of January.

McAlarney is a 6-1 guard for Notre Dame who got booted from school last year after a misdemeanor marijuana possession charge. At the time of the arrest he was the Fighting Irish's starting point guard.

McAlarney went back to Staten Island (where he holds the all-time high school scoring record) and took classes, worked out and paid the price for his mistake.

(While I have a working knowledge of many illicit substances from my college days, weed was not high on the list. However, my junior year I did smoke dope once before a practice with two of my more regularly stoned teammates. I shot the ball so well that our coach jokingly asked if I was on anything. I said yes and we all had a big laugh.
Not really — I was so freaked out and paranoid I nearly threw up.)

McAlarney and Notre Dame took on UConn tonight in South Bend. It was a raucous, fierce, physical and frantic affair and McAlarney was the best player on the court. He went for 32 points, hit every big shot for the Irish and even stuck his nose in on defense.

It would not be a stretch to say that McAlarney was the least gifted athlete on the floor (a position with which I have deep, intimate experience.) UConn's roster is filled with tough, rangy, quick, wildly athletic youngsters and McAlarney put on a clinic.

He rained three's and resurrected the seemingly lost art of the jump stop for feathery mid-range jumpers instead of plowing into people willy-nilly, pell-mell, helter-skelter. And when the Irish squandered all of their 21-point lead to fall behind, McAlarney rescued them with a clutch three. Notre Dame won 73-67.

He played the way most of us play the game — or played. Which is to say — below the rim. It was the game you always dream of playing — national television, flawless at both ends, putting your taller, more chiseled, faster teammates on your back and carrying them to victory in front of a gonzo crowd that includes your gear-wearing mom.

A year ago, he was disgraced. Tonight he was the best player in the country.

Hoop dreams, indeed.

JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS ...

... comes a behind-the-scenes look at a heartwarming tale for the whole family — or a creepy psycho thriller. I can't remember ...

SAND AND SORROW: A CHANCE TO GET IT RIGHT

Imagine the gods of history looking down on us all after our failures at protecting millions of innocent human lives from their own governments — and imagine them saying to us,

"We'll give you another chance. But this time, so as to be sure you get it right ... we'll do it in slow motion.

And we'll call it Darfur."

— from Sand and Sorrow


BrothersMcC has asked you to buy a book (Not On Our Watch) in the battle against genocide and to go see a movie (Darfur Now!) in the battle against genocide.

We are asking you now to stay home and watch TV in the battle against genocide.

Sand and Sorrow airs on HBO tomorrow night — Thursday, December 6th — at 8pm. The film was made by Peabody-award-winner Paul Freedman. George Clooney narrates and is the executive producer.

Sand and Sorrow follows our good friend human rights activist John Prendergast, fellow activist Samantha Power and New York Times columnist Nick Kristof on a first-hand journey from refugee camps to war-torn villages and finally to the halls of the U.S. Senate — where, well, you can only imagine what they find there.

(And if you're saying, "Sweet, I don't have HBO" then I'm happy to let you know that Sand and Sorrow will be streaming on hbo.com the entire weekend.)

I asked J.P. why we all should turn our backs on Survivor, Ugly Betty and Smallville tomorrow night:

"Genocide is a unique crime against humanity. It means people are targeted for their identity, for who they are. For the first time in history, a citizens' movement is growing against a genocide while it is still happening. You have a chance to be part of that movement. Watching the film can educate to empower."

And there you have it.

And I believe that making that effort is not an act of generosity. Or of self-sacrifice. It is an act of self-improvement. It is — in the end — a selfish act. As it should be.

I'll venture even further — that there really is no such thing as altruism. Doing what you think is right — or doing something because you can't not do it — is not unselfish. Nor is there any reason that it should be.

We do these things because they make us feel better about ourselves. They make us feel stronger. They make us feel good.

So let's be appallingly selfish and self -centered.

We just might get it right.

THE ONLY GOOD THING ABOUT THE WRITERS' STRIKE ...

... is that you have the chance to catch up with a great TV show.

The Friday Night Lights party is one I am just now joining. A month ago, I hadn't seen a single moment of this compelling, emotionally real, impeccably acted series — now in its second season.

Evidently, I'm not alone in my tardiness.

Friday Night Lights has struggled in the ratings thus far but NBC has stuck with it. Take advantage of this rare wise network decision.

We finally tuned in to the show on a recent Friday night mostly because I was curious about Connie Britton, with whom I'd been in class. You'll remember her from The Brothers McMullen, Spin City and from playing the same role in the film version of Friday Night Lights.

And she was excellent. As she always is.

But so was the rest of the cast. I mean, every single actor was on the money. And the writing was good. The episode was so good — it was jarring.

So we watched it the next week — and it held up. And the week after.

Damn, man. We needed to get the whole story. So we rented Season 1.

The pilot of Friday Night Lights is as good as it gets on network television. It was art. It really was.

And the next few episodes (we've seen 4 so far from Season 1) were nearly it's equal.

And the big, honking revelation is Kyle Chandler. If ever there was an example of the right guy for the right part, this is it. As Eric Davis, the complicated, tightly wound head coach of the Dillon Panthers, Chandler is great.

He's never been great before — he's worked alot — but never like this.

And the younger actors — I mean, Holy Casting Director! (Linda Lowy , by the way) — they are superb. Except one — you tell me who it is. (Now you have to watch it.)

I've only seen 7 episodes of this show but I can confidently say — its not a football series. It is about people and the only other show that ever treated high school students with this much respect and insight was My So-Called Life.

The heartthrob is Taylor Kitsch — and he is as soulful and talented as he is good-looking.
The flat-out babe is Adrianne Palicki — and she can act.
The scene-stealer is Jesse Plemons — and he commits grand larceny at every opportunity.

Do yourself a favor and get up to speed with Friday Night Lights.

It's better than the movie.
It's better than the 789 CSI's
It's better than every sitcom.
And, believe it or not, it's better than October Road and Grey's Anatomy (the two worst shows on TV, by the way — in case you were wondering what the two most unwatchable hours of pure torture were — and I know you were)

HAPPY THANKSGIVING: OUTRAGE TAKES A HOLIDAY

By now, I think its apparent that this blog faithfully adheres to it's Celtic DNA. We seem to have two basic modes of expression — Outrage and Sentimentality.

As one given more to Outrage, I figured I'd give the tired old bastard the holiday weekend off. Actually, Outrage can give thanks to my wife Lisa — and Hootie and the Blowfish.

Lisa and I had the honor of hosting Thanksgiving for the first time. The fact that it was a resounding success is due largely (okay, entirely) to Lisa's tireless effort and determination. Over the past two weeks, it was often difficult to determine whether we were making preparations for 22 dinner guests or for the next space shuttle launch.

All of Lisa's hard work and attention to detail paid off in spectacular fashion — and she was even gracious enough to share the credit.

Sure, I made a few runs to the grocery store, cleaned out a cooler and peeled a few potatoes. But I was a willing bystander — ready for the planning and the gorging to be done.

It was, for all intents and purposes, Lisa's boulder to roll up the mountain. Trying to find room for 22 of her relatives and address their individual dietary quirks, she engaged in mental gymnastics that would have impressed Plato, Newton and Vizzini. Not to mention Olga Korbut.

So what in the Sam Hill does this have to do with Hootie?

Well, for reasons that are none of your business, I was tasked with cleaning the oven the old-fashioned way. I was feeling none too thankful, none too generous and the likelihood that Outrage would be pressed into service after all was growing.

I put the iPod on "shuffle" and commenced scouring and scrubbing:

Screaming at the Wailing Wall — Flogging Molly
Go All the Way — The Raspberries
If I Should Fall From Grace With God — The Pogues
8 More Days Till The Fourth of July — Ike Reilly Assassination
Oceans — The Format

I was feeling slightly better, a bit more thankful.

I'm Goin' Home — Hootie & The Blowfish

(ed. Yes, I have the entire Cracked Rear View on my iPod. And proudly. In fact, I once got into it — on a music nerd message board — with Peter Blackstock about, ironically, his outrage over the success of Hootie and Darius Rucker's supposedly substance-free lyrics. When I pointed out that I'm Goin' Home was a moving and deeply personal tribute to Rucker's late mother, it marked my one and only victory in a music argument.)

I'm Goin' Home changed the tenor of my day.

Because that song is about me ... and it is about my family.

While I continue to mourn the loss of my mother — and the things we don't get to share — hearing that particular song never fails to shake me out of whatever self-centered, self-indulgent jackassery I've allowed to take over.

Then Lisa walked in the kitchen. Then Eirann walked in behind her. And, although the rest of clan McClatchy was strewn up and down the eastern seaboard, I had 'em all there for 4 minutes and 11 seconds.

I was surrounded by my family. And for that, I was thankful.

Have a nice vacation, Outrage.
Sentimentality, fasten your seat belt.

Thanks, Lisa.
Thanks, Eirann.
And thank you, Hootie.

DINNER AND A NEW KIND OF ACTION MOVIE

I recently had the good fortune to share a meal and hang out with John Prendergast (above.)

J.P. (I call him that because those are his initials — and we played hoop together in high school) is a human rights activist and the best-selling author of Not On Our Watch — which he co-wrote with Don Cheadle.

After years toiling as what he calls a "policy wonk" in Washington, D.C., J.P. changed his focus to activism and, in the process, helped jump start the global attention now focused on the genocide being perpetrated in Darfur.

In his role as activist, he has tirelessly crisscrossed the globe speaking to anyone who will listen (and not a few who didn’t want to) in the fight to end the horrific suffering of the people of Darfur. Along the way, J.P. has also been able to enlist many and various celebrities and big shots in this battle.

Although J.P. and I had not laid eyes on one another in over 25 years we were lucky enough to fall right back into an easy rapport. It was immediately apparent why he has been able to accomplish so much. His is an infectious and energizing presence. He has limitless passion — for his work, for sports, for his family — and he’s a very good storyteller. Plus he’s pretty funny.

All in all — a perfect dinner companion.

For my part — I was able to keep the bar staff busy.

More than anything, what struck me about J.P. was the urgency of his behavior.

Whether he was talking about the unspeakable tragedies he has witnessed, eating a roll or listening to one of my wild embellishments of past athletic exploits — there was motion, intensity, a kind of "more to be done" vibration pulsing across the table.

And the source of that is clear — for J.P., each moment that escapes, that is not fully utilized, translates into more innocent deaths, more devastating violence and more grinding despair.

J.P. has reached a place of influence — one that allows him (and those who work with him) to impact events in the worst place on earth. It’s exhilarating, fleetingly satisfying, maddening and sleepless.

There is always more to do. There are always faces that haunt.

The battle rages on. Many have joined the fight. Many more are needed.

What can one person do?

On November 2nd — the documentary Darfur Now! opened in New York and Los Angeles. If you live there, go see it. Over the next two weeks, it will open in cities across the country. If it opens in your city, go see it.

I know that most of us go to the movies to escape, to laugh, to watch stuff blow up and forget about how tough life is. But — trust me — Saw IV and The Game Plan aren't going anywhere.

On the other hand — how often can you actually help stem the tide of innocent blood and feel the power of having made a palpable difference — by going to a movie theater.

Genocide is happening right now. This very instant.

Now you know what one person can do.

This being a blog with an inescapable Irish shadow, I’ll hit you with a quote from an 1846 article in the Times of London discussing the plight of the starving Irish after a second potato crop failure:

“It is possible to have heard the tale of sorrow too often.”

And the Irish people died.

Is it really possible?

BULLY PULPIT

On Monday I had occasion to drive from Columbus, OH to Pittsburgh, PA and back. A little over six hours in all. My iPod was on the fritz and the cd player betrayed me. I was stuck with the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the unbearable:

The radio.

The choices east of Columbus and southwest of Pittsburgh — an area herewith known as the "The Forbidden Zone" — boiled down to the following:

1. Six to eight versions of Glenn Beck — Beck and his phlegm-throated sidekick spent an inordinate amount of time making fun of the nameless "celebrities" being victimized by the horrendous wildfires in Southern California. Beck seemed to be immensely irked at the fact that celebrities have money and opinions.

Like he doesn't have an abundance of both.

Beck proceeded to fashion anemic, profoundly unfunny riffs on a central theme — People idiotic enough to live in nice houses in Southern California are getting exactly what they deserve. And if they happen to have made a couple of successful movies and aren't Bruce Willis, then they really, really deserve it.

I know it's easy to pick on Glenn Beck — seeing as how he's a loudmouthed halfwit and all — but in all fairness, he does do two things worthy of note:

He stands up for the rights of wounded veterans and he champions the cause of the criminally undermanned and largely ignored Border Patrol.

Now back to him being a dick — he rails against those who waste time with trivial things and who can't see what's really important. Then he spends an hour yucking it up about incinerated houses. Does everyone with a microphone have to be a hypocrite? Is it in their contract?

2. Six to eight versions of Rush Limbaugh — If I have to go into any further detail, then you're beyond reason and have already angrily scrolled to your Drudge Report bookmark for a dose of "truth."

3. ESPN Radio — OK, this was cool — some Mike Tirico and Kirk Herbstreit kibbitzing and talking football and getting the straight dope from Hall-of-Famer Steve Young. This lasted 8 minutes and I lost the station somewhere around New Concord — the birthplace of John Glenn!

4. Six to eight versions of Bill O'Reilly — O'Reilly is the biggest bully in a schoolyard of screechers, drug addicts, sexual harassers, intellectual cripples and profuse perspirers who never got enough love or chicks growing up ... and they find their revenge — one day at a time — on the radio, attacking anyone with the temerity to hold views that might even remotely conflict with their own.

Bill O'Reilly has one weapon in the arena of debate: volume.

He shouts and bullies so you can't hear that what he's actually saying is moronic. I'm no tough guy but I'm pretty sure that, given the chance, I could beat the shit out of Bill O'Reilly ...
and there would be much rejoicing.

5. OLDIES!!!! — I never thought I'd weep for joy to hear Eydie Gorme and Steve Lawrence warble "Tonight I'll Say A Prayer For You My Love."

6. Evangelical radio — I could practically see the comb-over, the sweaty forehead, the swooning rubes and the hidden mistress waiting to place the call to TMZ the second the silver-tongued charlatan slipped into his Little Bo Peep outfit at the Motel 6 later that night.

7. One version (and that was plenty) of Dennis Miller — I hate to revisit the subject of Miller's stunning decline but, Holy Tin Ear For Comedy! In the 6.7 seconds before I could lunge at the dial, Miller was able to — irony-free — let his listeners know that he doesn't like Islamic fundamentalists because he objects to the way they treated Cat Stevens.


For all their bluster and buffoonery (and the satirical fodder they provide) — Beck, Limbaugh, O'Reilly and Miller are deeply troubling. They have the bully pulpit. They dominate the airwaves so completely. People listen to them as if they are speaking some kind of revelatory truth. How exactly did this happen?

Again, I appeal to you — set me straight. What am I missing? Is Rush Limbaugh really the voice of America? Is Glenn Beck truly our national conscience? Is Bill O'Reilly our intellectual touchstone? Is Dennis Miller really the new Eric Sevareid?

Here endeth my report on the insidious liberal media conspiracy.