Don Byas, Master of the Sexophone

Don Byas, the tenor who forms the bridge that links the swing and bebop eras, used to say “I don’t play the saxophone–I play the sexophone.

You can understand his transliteration if you believe that the greater part of that basic human function is gentle seduction, and not just rocking penetration.

Byas, born Carlos Wesley Byas in Muskogee, Oklahoma in 1912, played in two of the leading Midwestern “territory” bands of jazz’s early days, Benny Moten’s Kansas City Orchestra and Walter Page’s Blue Devils.  After a brief stay in California, he came to New York in 1937 and played with Don Redman and Lucky Millinder, but other than a brief but noteworthy solo on “You Set Me on Fire” with Andy Kirk’s Twelve Clouds of Joy, he left no mark during this period.

Walter Page’s Blue Devils

All that changed when he took over the tenor chair previously occupied by Lester Young in the Count Basie Orchestra in 1941.  The Basie band recorded frequently, and Byas’ solo on “Harvard Blues” was recognized immediately for the aesthetic that would mark his playing for the rest of his career; a gorgeous tone, an athletic vigor and a sense of form.  His solos had a beginning, middle and end, and were not just repetitious riffing or bombastic blowing.

Andy Kirk and His Twelve Clouds of Joy

Byas came of age when jazz was bounded by the 78 rpm records of the day.  Songs were limited to three minutes or thereabouts, and the concision imposed by that format made you or broke you as a soloist.  You had to have something to say, know how to say it, and be able to bring your thought to a conclusion with something resembling aplomb.  Contrast the well-crafted solos produced by Byas under that regime with the meanderings produced by tenors in 60s and 70s and you will agree that it is better to spend a brief moment with a genius than a quarter hour with a bore.

Don Byas Meets Dizzy Gillespie: Buxom lass included at no extra charge.

Byas was more than just a miniaturist, however.  As a omnivorous participant in the late night “cutting” sessions where New York musicians established their relative rank in the manning of rutting bull mooses, Byas was capable of taking and holding the stage against up-and-comers, one of whom (Allen Eager) simply walked off to get a drink after Byas launched into a lengthy improvisation to Cherokee, a notoriously difficult set of harmonic changes that Byas had chosen as a challenge.  You can get a sense of the extended invention he was capable of by listening to his solo on I Got Rhythm that is included in the Smithsonian History of Jazz and the Commodore Sessions, both still in print.

Max Roach, drums, Oscar Pettiford, bass

Byas would form an adjunct part of what is generally recognized as the first bebop group in 1944, jamming regulary with trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, bassist Oscar Pettiford, pianist George Wallington and drummer Max Roach.  When Dizzy got his first date as leader a year later, Byas joined him for the sessions that produced the bop classics Night in Tunisia and 52nd Street Theme.

Byas’s rhythm, phrasing and harmonic ideas remained rooted in the swing era, but he could match the young pioneers, with their high velocity and harmonies that Louis Armstrong famously derided as “Chinese”, note for note.

Don Redman

In 1946 Byas made a fateful decision that accounts for his relative obscurity today; he left for Europe on a tour put together by Don Redman and didn’t return for another 24 years.  By then both swing and bop were history, and the fashion in tenor solos had moved on to a sound that resembled, in its most extreme form, a man having an argument with his instrument.

Byas stayed in Europe in part to avoid the New York haunts of his younger days, when he had developed a drinking problem.  He seemed to find peace in Europe, where he became an exercise fanatic, invariably inviting friends whom he hadn’t seen for awhile to punch him in the gut as hard as they could to prove how fit he was keeping himself.

He also became something of a bon vivant, serving up Louisiana fare to friends and his many female admirers.  He found his way to more than a few women’s hearts with both his sax and his cooking.

GOP Appoints Bodacious Three-Babe Panel to Handle Affairs

WASHINGTON, D.C.  Rocked by a second revelation of infidelity by a high-ranking party official within a week, the Repubican Governors Association today appointed a panel of three babelicious beauties to manage the organization’s affairs while it deals with the adverse publicity.

Jindal:  “Guys–where’s my date?”

“We’re focused on solutions, not problems,” said Assistant Executive Director Sherburne Taylor.  “We don’t like to be known as the party that always says ‘No’, so we’re trying to say ‘Yes’ more often.”

“Is that a minority report in your pocket, or are you just glad to see us?”

The panel will consist of Misti Fogg, a receptionist from Arlington, Virginia; Destiny Hope, a steak restaurant hostess from Tysons Corner, Maryland; and Naomi Jean Embree, an aerobics instructor from Wilmington, Delaware, who is undergoing name implant surgery.

Sanford:  “Can’t a guy take a couple of days off, lie about his whereabouts, and go to Argentina with a bodacious galpal without everybody getting all bent out of shape?”

Nevada Senator John Ensign last week disclosed that he had had an affair with a campaign staffer, and this afternoon Virginia Governor Mark Sanford revealed at a press conference that a recent unexplained absence from office was spent in Argentina with “a dear, very dear, oh my God yes that’s it–YES!  Ahem–dear friend.”

“He wants to know if our refrigerator is running for President in 2012.”

The troika of buxom beauties will handle filing, typing, large and small Post-It Notes and party strategy leading into the 2010 mid-term elections.  Rising star Bobby Jindal, Governor of Louisiana, said the appointment of the three women to handle party affairs was an interim measure.  “We will take on additional staff as needed,” Jindal told reporters.  “For some reason I didn’t get a girlfriend in the first round of hiring.”

Vikki Carr Reinvents Herself With Vocal Tribute to Internet

SAN ANTONIO, Texas.  Vikki Carr, the 67 year-old chanteuse who has sung for five presidents, hasn’t had a top-selling record in over a decade.  She hopes to end that losing streak with her new CD, “That Crazy, Wacky Thing We Call the Internet!”, an attempt to re-position herself for a youthful audience ”hip” to technological innovation.

Vikki Carr

“We were on the tour bus going to the Missouri State Fair and we read an article in USA Today that said the internet was here to stay,” recalls her manager, Del Floyd, Jr.  “So we said–what the hey!–let’s do an album around it!”

The stars come out at the Missouri State Fair!

In addition to the title song, Carr sings a soothing lullaby called “I Caught Daddy Bookmarking a Porn Site”, a fast-paced polka titled “I’ve Had it With My Dial-Up Connection”, and ”I’ve Got So Many Passwords, I Can’t Remember Them All”, a bluesy song about a woman who forgets her six-letter combination for shopping on-line at the L.L. Bean website.

 

“Vikki, you have two very nice chimichangas.”

Carr, whose real name is Florencia Bisenta de Casillas Martinez Cardona and who records in both English and Spanish, changed the course of history when she asked President Gerald Ford to name the Mexican dish he liked best, according to Ford’s autobiography “A Time to Heal”.  “I like you,” Ford replied within earshot of his wife Betty, setting off a drinking binge by the First Lady that resulted in the founding of the Betty Ford Clinic. 

Dino!

While Carr’s music is decidedly middle-of-the-road, she attracted the attention of Rat Pack charter member Dean Martin in the late 60′s, as the boozy Italian crooner called her “the best girl singer in the business.”  Martin was hospitalized from the blow to his head that Carr landed after she learned of his patronizing remark, but he recovered and was eventually able to drink without the use of a wheelchair.

“Need to write your doctor about your cramps?  Try email, baby–you’ll save on stamps!”

Carr admits her technological skills aren’t “up to snuff,” but says she’s experimenting with email as a way of keeping in touch with her grandchildren.  “They’re just adorable,” she says as she affixes a “forever” stamp to her computer screen and hits “Send”.

Saying Nobody Trusts Him Anymore, Madoff Asks For Leniency

NEW YORK.  Lawyers for Bernard Madoff asked a federal judge for leniency for the convicted swindler yesterday, saying his reputation has been irreparably damaged by allegations against him.

“Trust me!”

“Mr. Madoff has had difficulty persuading other inmates to trade cigarettes and cans of mackerel with him,” his lawyers argued in a letter delivered to U.S. District Court in Manhattan yesterday.  “If he receives the full 150-year sentence, his fellow prisoners may have doubts that they will ever see a return on their investment.”

 

This currency is fishy.

Inmates have long used non-contraband items such as cigarettes and more recently, cans of mackerel, as the coin of the realm within prison walls.  “Say I want youse to do sumpin for me, like shank somebody with a shiv,” says Vito “Baby Flats” Gravano, who is serving a fifteen-sentence at the Allenwood, Pa., federal prison for loan sharking and extortion.  “You and me might agree on a price of two ‘macks’, thereby proving David Ricardo’s maxim that trade benefits both parties.”  Ricardo was a British economist, and not a member of an organized crime “family”.

David “The Icepick” Ricardo

If he receives the maximum sentence, Madoff would be released from prison when he is 221 years old.  His lawyers sought to reduce that term to twelve years, so that he could benefit from Social Security deductions he has paid over the course of his career.  Under federal sentencing guidelines, a judge has discretion to impose less severe penalties based on mitigating circumstances including poor health and unmitigated chutzpah.

“I call dibs on the top bunk!”

“The system is designed so that someone who murders his mom and dad can’t throw himself on the mercy of the court as an orphan,” notes Professor Monroe Silver of Hofstra University.  “You also have to demonstrate that you’re not a threat to your parents anymore.”

As US Auto Industry Shrinks, Crash Test Dummies Fear Future

DETROIT, Michigan.  Nils Cyborg has spent his entire career with Chrysler Motors, a point of pride for the long-time Red Wings fan.  “I’m a creature of Detroit,” he says as he stares out an empty parking lot in front of Plant #2, where the popular PT Cruiser model is manufactured.

MP113_CRASH_TEST_DUMMIES.jpg

“I am not lost!”

But Nils is fearful that his two sons, Nils Jr. and Yzerman, named after the Red Wings’ great who spent his entire career in this town, won’t enjoy the same high wages and generous benefits that he did in his 29-year career as a crash-test dummy.  “The good old days are over,” he says wistfully.  “I tell the boys–go be a mannequin in a men’s wear store, the auto industry is dead.”

A fun family vacation with the kids.

The auto industry bailout plan fashioned by President Obama comes with strings attached for crash test dummies, who have enjoyed a high standard of living that gradually declined as U.S. auto makers’ saw their share of the world market for cars gradually shrink.  “I used to have my plastic polished with Fantastik spray-on every week,” says Chloe, Nils’ wife as she dandles daughter Caitlin on her knee.  “I’ve cut back to once a month–we’ve all got to sacrifice.”

The Cyborgs are economizing in other areas as well.  In the past, they ordered elaborate Christmas cards with embossed printing, but this year they’ve settled on a smaller and simpler card with just a family photo on a standard template.  “It’s just as well,” says Chloe.  “Nils is a closet atheist and he only goes to church for the kids.”

“Hoping your holidays are filled with love and laughter–the Cyborgs.”

Nils has a job for now, but he knows his current lifestyle could come to an end in the blink of an eye.  “Every day when I get in that demonstrator, I kiss the kids goodbye like it’s my last day on earth.  I never know when I’m going to go through a windshield and get melted down for a plastic kitty box or something.”

UN Says North Korea Has Tested Multi-Blade Razor

NEW YORK.  The head of the UN’s International Atomic Energy Agency today confirmed that North Korea has developed and tested a multi-blade razor that could be used to shave American faces on the west coast if launched from an intercontinental ballistic missile.

IAEA Director-General Mohamed ElBaradei:  “They could also have roll-on deodorant.”

“I am concerned that if we do not act swiftly, forcefully and ineffectually as usual, we will have a situation on our hands where member nations will be at risk from nicks and cuts to facial moles,” said IAEA Director-General Mohamed ElBaradei.

Kim_Jong-Il.jpg

Kim Jong-il

North Korea is a Communist dictatorship headed by the clean-shaven but mercurial Kim Jong-il, a lover of Hollywood movies, platform heels and many other artifacts of American culture.  He is said to have conceived a plan for North Korea to become a world shaving superpower by 2010, and has sent shoplifters into Japan to acquire American prototypes for the Yong-nam “Chongu”, which could leapfrog his nation past second-tier grooming nations such as Finland and Greece.

kim_jong_il.jpg

“A clean, close shave every time!”

“This is a matter of national pride for Kim, or Jong-il, whatever,” said Lloyd Freebold, a professor of political science at Helena State College in Montana.  “If the North Koreans can gear up to build a multi-blade razor, a toaster oven is not far behind.”

Gillette’s “World Shaving Headquarters”, also known as the “United Nations of Shaving”.

Gillette introduced the first multi-blade razor, the Trac II, in 1971 at its “World Shaving Headquarters” in Boston, and competitors such as Shick soon followed suit.  Western nations entered into a multi-blade razor non-proliferation pact in 1989, but there is concern that Bic disposable multi-blades may have fallen into the hands of rogue regimes.

“This shaving drone has five honking blades!”

North Korea is a self-described ”Juche” or self-reliant state, with a cult of personality centered on Kim Jong-il.  Many reports of his activities are unverifiable, such as the claim that he defeated former NBA legend Michael Jordan in a game of “H-O-R-S-E”, and reports that he completed a 18-hole round of golf in sixteen strokes. 

Korean beer ad

“Maximum Duffer Kim Jong-il did indeed score a sixteen at the OB Beer Pro-Am Tournament held at the luxurious Baekdu Mountain Country Club,” said Minister of Information Kim Jong-suk.  “He was granted a ‘mulligan’ off the first tee by unanimous acclamation of the people, then hit the pin on holes one, two and three using a mashie-niblick.”

Monkeying Around With My Money

Scientists are studying monkeys for clues on human financial behavior.  The Boston Globe

It was time, I figured, to bite the banana.  My brokerage statements from Simian Financial Advisors had been piling up for months and lay on my desk, staring at me in silent reproach.  At some point I’d have to actually look at them and see how much I’d lost, on paper at least, in the recent downturn.

 

I ripped open the most recent envelope–no need to see the bloody trail of how I got to where I am today.  Ouch–down 25% since last September!  While not as bad as some of the chimps I play cards with at my club, it still hurt.

I picked up the phone and called Hairy, who’s been handling my money for years.

“Oooo-ooot GREET!” he screamed into the phone.  It wasn’t a good idea to call him before 4 p.m. when the market closed.

“Hairy–it’s me.  Or what’s left of me,” I said grimly.

“Chatta,” he boomed over the wire.  “Great to hear from you.”

Once a saleschimp, always a saleschimp.  Guys like Hairy just can’t turn it off.

“It’s not so great to be talking to you,” I said.  “I just opened up my account statement–I feel like I just read my own obituary.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad,” he replied, trying to buck me up.  “We’ve got a hot little tech stock that’s ready to take off.”

 ”Tech, schmeck,” I said.  “I should have opened a Christmas Club account!”

“Now, don’t start in with that,” he said.  “You know, you’ve built up a little cash in your account.”

I was stunned.  “I have?”

” . . . but exchange-traded funds are hot!”

“Yeah–I don’t know if it’s dividends or what, but I’ve got a nice little play for you–assuming your wife hasn’t castrated you since we spoke last.”

That was always his sales pitch.  Whenever he’d call me with a short play against the box on cocoa futures or Microsoft options, I’d tell him my wife wouldn’t let me.

“Excuse me,” he’d say, his voice dripping with testosterone.  “Has your wife made any money for you today?”

Well, no, I’d always have to admit.  “But I have to give her an end-of-year statement.”

“Why?” Hairy would ask.  “Is she your bank of something?  Did you go public and not tell me about it?”

“It’s called trust,” I’d say.  “And love.”

He’d hold the phone at arm’s length then, because he’d be laughing at me.  This is a guy who always hires a Jane Goodall-lookalike stripper for the holiday parties at his firm.

 Jane Goodall and sock monkey:  Kowa-bunga baby!

I swallowed my pride.  “Okay–tell me about it,” I said, and he launched into his sales pitch.

“It’s a banana-backed securitized obligation.  Your yield can never be less than 13%.”

“Who’s the issuer?” I asked.  I’d learned to ask the tough questions.

I heard him inhale, trying to work up an air of self-righteous umbrage.  “Why Simian Financial Advisors, of course,” he said, ending on a huffy note.

“Is that the full legal name?” I asked skeptically.

There was silence at his end of the line.  “Well, actually,” he said after a moment, “it’s Simian Financial Advisors I, S.a.r.l., a Luxembourg special purpose limited liability company.”

“Jesus, Jane–who gave you this god-awful frost job?”

” . . . with no operating history, and no assets except banana-backed receivables–correct?”

Like a lot of people, I’d started to pay attention to what was on my account statement now that I knew that Barney Frank was flying all over the world on the bankers’ dime while pretending to get tough with them whenever a television camera light went on, and his portfolio had mysteriously remained–stable.

Frank:  “I find your behavior unconscionable, making me fly coach!”

“So my yield could be a big fat goose egg if that special purpose vehicle goes belly-up–correct?”

All I could hear was the sound of paper shuffling.  “Say, listen, would you like some tickets to a Red Sox game?” Hairy said after a while.

“No, and don’t send me one of your chintzy leatherette checkbook covers, either.”

Leatherette checkbook cover:  Sweet!

He was silent for a moment.  “So that cash balance–what do you want to do with it?”

I thought for a moment.  “I’m going all in on commodities!” I yelled in a “Eureka” moment.  It was the one kind of investment Hairy didn’t handle.

“You don’t want to get into commodities,” he pleaded with naked self-interest.  “You don’t want a truckful of pork bellies to get dumped on your lawn someday, do you?”

“Who said anything about pork bellies?” I asked derisively.  “I’m talking Planet of the Apes Souvenir Drink Cups!”

My Wife is a Decorating Zombie!

If, like me, you live with my wife, you know the pain endured by men married to women whose principal mode of creative expression–apart from adult ballet classes, and I use the term “ballet” advisedly–is interior decoration.  If not, let me tell you about it.

There are the twice-a-month visits from the town Fire Marshall to make sure that mail order catalogs are not blocking exits or stairways.  There are the sessions with the Department of Youth Services, who examine our sons for signs of neglect.  There’s the ASPCA nosing around our house, peering in the windows to make sure that the cats aren’t suffering from malnutrition brought on by excessive spending on throw pillows.

When I think of my wife’s lonely battle against her addiction, and how gallantly she struggles to stay out of stores and home furnishing web sites, I get emotional.  She has her bad days, sure, when she comes home with some gaudy objet de l’argent–another pear or rooster to adorn a mantlepiece or end table–but she always picks herself up, dusts herself off and gets right back in the game. 

God, how I admire her when she bites her lower lip and is able to say ”Just looking, thanks” as she strolls through some cute little knick-knack shop.  “You go, girl!” I want to yell, but I don’t.  The shock might set her back and cause her to grab a lamp or an umbrella stand–it’s simply too risky.

Topiary trees:  They’re like prunes–one’s not enough, but isn’t twelve too many?

I’ve supported her over the years without whining because I always assumed that her disability was genetic.  My mother-in-law has personally pulled the U.S. retail sector out of six recessions in her life, and once caused a credit card point-of-sale terminal to burst into flames, like a NASCAR vehicle spinning out of control heading into the backstretch.  That’s what can happen when you constantly push yourself to the limit, the way the pros do.

“These guys live to break the limits!”

But recently I picked up the latest offering from a home furnishing company that seems to crank out a new catalog twice a week.  As I flipped through the pages loaded with Parsons chairs, Napoleon clocks and topiary trees, my eye was drawn to little balloon-encapsuled “suggestions” lurking in the margins, pointing to particular pricey items.

“It’s an un-office office!”

“Mirrors open up a room!” said one.  “This table does double-duty as a console!” said another.  “These bottles look so authentic they fool everyone–honest!”  We may be in a recession, but exclamation point wholesalers seem to be doing okay.

“Ungh–botanical prints!”

I thought back over our recent dinners together.  I had heard these phrases before, uttered by my wife in a sing-song monotone as she stared blankly at me.  She’d been brainwashed!  She’d turned into a home decorating zombie, and I’d been too busy with work to notice.

Vance Packard

It was those damn “hints” and “suggestions” and “tips” for chairs and consoles and credenzas that did double, sometimes triple duty, like a throwback football player who plays both ways and dropkicks field goals.  The formerly reserved world of home decorating had become just another arena in which “hidden persuaders”–the term was coined by sociologist Vance Packard–had worked their hypnotic effect on an innocent, gullible woman.  Why not throw in “New and improved!” or “Extra cleaning power!” as well, as if an Italian console and side table were no better than a box of detergent.

“But we don’t need another ottoman!”

It’s enough to make a man weep, but I won’t–I won’t let them do that to me!  I’ve got to save my tears.

For the end of the month, when I open up the credit card bill.

The Missing Character From My Second First Novel

I got the news today.  My second first novel, CannaCorn, is now available on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.  Actually, it’s been for sale since April.  Why am I always the last to know?

I say it’s my second first novel, because my first first novel, A View of the Charles, was published by AuthorHouse, a print-on-demand publisher.  That means I published it myself.

But CannaCorn is a different story.  I mean literally it’s a different story, but figuratively too.  I have a real publisher–meaning somebody other than myself–to do the legwork of marketing the damn thing so I can get to work on my next book.  I don’t want to reveal the subject for fear that someone will scoop me, but let’s just say I will have the gay boxing fan demographic sewed up tighter than the leotards in a joint opera-ballet workshop.

Probably best not to think about it.

The advantage to you, the consumer, is that I got my first novel out of my system before publishing my second first novel, which is my first commercially published book.  All that self-absorbed crap you usually find in a coming-of-age tale–that’s nowhere to be found in my second, which will appear to the world as my first. 

James Patterson

My induction to the rarified atmosphere of commercial publishing came with a price, however–a professional editor who knew nothing about baseball.  That wouldn’t be a problem, except that my book is about a minor league baseball team in Worcester, Mass.  So we spent a fair amount of time arguing about, for example, whether a vendor at a baseball game would yell “Hey Coke here!” or “Hey beverages here!”  I may not know much, but I know the answer to that one, and she didn’t.

“Abdul–stop the car.  I see ten million bucks over by that falafel stand!”

But she’s the pro–she has edited (I was told) books by James Patterson, who earns the kind of money from each book he writes that Saudi princes ask their servants to bend over in the street to pick up and put in the change tray of their Bentleys.  So I had to go along to get along.

Do a Google Image search for “Lu Ann Wingo” and look who turns up.

The book had to be a lot shorter, I was told, and Ms. Editor (her name was never revealed to me) went to work chopping it down from 450-some pages to 330 or thereabouts.  Along the way, lots of exposition, a leitmotif and an entire subplot were excised.  Oh, and a character, in her entirety; Lu Ann Wingo, the sister half of a boy-girl sibling team that made up a Carpenters tribute band, The Carpentbaggers.

“I’ll have a hamburger, and, uh, a celery stalk for the lady.”

Gone.  Gonzo.  Outta here.  Ixnay on the emale-fay aracter-kay.

But here’s my promise to you.  I’m going to donate 10% of the profits from the book–if any–to the search for Lu Ann.  I know she’s out there somewhere, and I won’t rest until they find her.  Like O.J. Simpson, I want to prove that I’m innocent–that her disappearance had nothing to do with me.

Not to go all Johnny Cochran on you, but it was the editor who was the predator.

Clinton Placed on 20-Day Disabled List, Albright Recalled

WASHINGTON, D.C.  Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was placed on the twenty-day disabled list by President Barack Obama today after she suffered a broken elbow, and former Secretary of State Madeline Albright was signed to a one-year contract to take her spot in the cabinet.

“I landed on my funny bone.”

“Madeline Albright will give us the Secretary of State experience we need as we come out of the All-Star break,” Obama told the Sporting News.  “She’s a seasoned white female with experience handling the weird erotic obsessions of Arab dictators.”

“Have I still got it?  Yes.  Was that an intelligent question?  No.”

Clinton will undergo Tammy Wynette surgery to repair her elbow, and will play winter ball in less-troubled areas of the world to rehab her diplomatic skills.  “I’m thinking we’d send her to a Baltic state, somewhere where she’ll be able to ease her way back to the big leagues,” said White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel.  “You can’t expect her to stare down Kim Jong-il on her first day back, or tell the difference between Iraq and Iran.”

Kim Jong-il baseball shirt.

Albright, the first female Secretary of State, served from 1997 until 2001.  Her tenure was distinguished by mash notes sent to her through diplomatic pouch from Libyan strong man Muammar Qaddafi, and by the fact that she was only woman in a three-block radius of the Oval Office whom President Clinton did not hit on during his eight years in the White House. 

Muammar Qaddafi, at the release party for his ”Thriller” album.

Clinton has three and a half years left on a four-year contract, and would then be eligible for free agency. 

“That’s a lovely dress.  I’ve always wanted to see the Alps.”

“Obama might try to work a sign-and-trade deal with another western power on the eve of the 2012 elections,” said George Will, who writes about both baseball and politics.  “Maybe send her to Germany in exchange for Andrea Merkel and an undersecretary of commerce to be named later.”

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