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In response to my post on the Olympic torch and the Tibetan flag, someone emailed me about the “incredible bias in the western media against China (would you agree?) There has been for some time. … The average [Chinese] person on the street doesn’t know anything about politics and cares even less. Making a fortune is the focus of things. But, after the CNN comments the whole nation is up-in-arms.”

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“I’ve got fifty bucks on this game,” Murphy told Ron, “All I ask is for Johnson to just keep hitting his receivers, using the pass to control the game, is that so much?”

Murphy had his elbows out wide, staring enrapt at the football game on overhead. Emil sat nearby in gentile dishevelment, nursing a pint and squinting up at the tube occasionally, while Aida sipped a glass of wine and flipped through a magazine, occasionally smiling at Ron and rolling her eyes when Murphy erupted into cheers or tirades.

“C’mon, Carter, go baby! Yeah! The Redskins got nothing.” He pounded the bar, shaking his jowls.

Ron mouthed the word “nothing!” to Aida in mock anger, and she decided it was time to give Murphy the needle. She brushed mid-length black hair back and looked at the screen then spoke slowly, the careful drawl Ron loved. “Redskins, that’s just about the worst of the nicknames, isn’t it? I mean, Indians and Braves are bad enough, but it’s disgusting that Washington, home of the federal government that directed the genocide against Native Americans, calls its team the Redskins.”
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I turned on the Giants game last night and was amused, mildly surprised, and bemused by the thunderous boos Barry Bonds received at Dodger stadium. I heard later that it got vicious in parts of the stands, with at least one fight breaking out.

Which surprised me a bit because the Dodgers fans I’ve known have always made such a point of how laidback they are, as if the root word of fan were not fanatic.
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I’ve been thinking about the difference between playing professional football and dogfighting.
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My fears about the Giants are gradually being realized. I was afraid their bullpen problems would come back to bite them in the butt, and it’s happening. Tuesday night the bullpen once again gave up the game in extra innings.
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“We’re Yankees fans. New York is supposed to be in the world series,” their eyes half-close as Yankees fans say these things, in smug self-satisfaction. This winter I had several Yankee fans explain their version of baseball reality to me this way.
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We have a German shepherd mix (the mix probably something like greyhound — see what you think here) who has gone from young and fleet to acting like an old guy remarkably fast — it might be one of the fastest trips through middle age ever made.
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Man oh man, it got hot here fast. I took the dogs out at dawn and could have worn shorts. Mid-summer fry an egg on a sidewalk hot now. And here I am with a pile of leftover notes from the weekend’s posts, including Wittgenstein. But I ought to have my wits about me for that, and it’s too hot. Even in shirtsleeves during my walk down Market street just before 8 AM this morning, it was sticky.

Besides, I have a story to tell — a story involving deception and skullduggery and secrets and male pranks.
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My Twins lost two out of three to lowly Kansas City and got swept in a two-game set at home by the Indians. They’ve lost four of five, and to the teams I picked to finish 4th and 5th in their division. Okay, it’s still early. Still I’m concerned about one Justin Morneau.
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If this weather keeps up, the surprise of 2007 is going to be the havoc created for baseball’s schedulers.
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