Okay, so here was my weekend...
(For the first leg, from Toastie's, Danny's and Jitter's early start, click here.)
Friday, June 1: Syracuse to Philadelphia
+ Willie and I leave about 10:45 for Philly. Driving is very smooth, little incident into the city itself.
+ Willie and I get lost about .5 miles away from our hotel (which would be the first of several times on this trip). We go into the airport and then end up driving around the ghettos of S.Philly for about an hour. We eat pizza off the hood of my car.
+ Willie Moe and I look for something to do, so we go to the McDade Mall in Suburban Philly. To call it a mall might be stretching it, but we use the restroom and plot our next move. While in the KMart at the mall, we find out that Sandra Day O'Connor had just resigned, and outside, within the last 5 minutes, a torrential downpour had erupted. We look out the window, and sure enough, it's cats n dogs.
+ We are soaked as we go to a McDonalds to ask to look at a phone book to call the hotel. The lady behind the counter says they don't have one. Willie calls information, where we get the address, 1600 Bertram. Turns out there are two Bertram Roads in that very section of Philly. We spend an hour driving up and down the wrong one. We cross railroad tracks while the lights are flashing and the safety arms are down: it is exhilarating!
+ We get to the hotel, open up the rooms and each take a dump. Shortly thereafter, Jitter, Danny, Jeff and Toastie show up, and boy can they make an entrance! They bring beer so we get the party started (even though I did sign that "No Parties" waiver at the front desk). Phelpsy soon shows up, then Javen (who suddenly has the new nickname G-Baby), Tucker and Dunford after that. Just the ten of us.
+ We eat some cheesteaks, change and cab it to Chickie's & Pete's where we have more beers and the most delicious cheese sauce I've ever had. We are all drunk and began singing TV theme songs (as is our specialty) outside the restaurant. We were all completely stumped on the first line of "Parents Just Don't Understand" and kept confusing it with the first lines to the opening song on "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." I was afraid we would have our Philly passes revoked. Our cabs showed up very late, and we all got back to the hotel and crashed.
Saturday, June 2: Philadelphia to Baltimore
+ We wake up, slightly worse for wear, and without food. We all drive to the park and do some tailgating with the frisbee and a few beverages. Phelpsy, while usually correct, did miscalculate the traffic, as we were to the park in 15 mins flat without any rush. He had figured that Live 8 would have brought traffic to a standstill, but it was in a different part of town. Still, better to err on the side of caution I guess.
+ The ten of us go to the Phillies-Braves game. Beautiful day. Beautiful stadium, Citizens Bank Park. Willie and Phelps get "Build-a-Phanatics." Great cheesesteak (with provolone, though Phelps prefers the Whiz) and very good beer. They had Red Hook, Anchor Steam and (oh my!) Victory Hop Devil! Where were we? A baseball game or a brew-fest?
+ Phillies win. We leave the stadium. Some weird knock-kneed guy cuts off half a dozen people on the way to the restroom, including yours truly. We get pictures at the stadium and in the parking lot, then head back to pick up cars at the hotel, then we bid a fond adieu to Phelps, and the City of Brotherly Love.
+ Straight shot to Baltimore, under 2 hours. Nice drive. We get to the hotel, where we put all our stuff and plan. We think of going to a place to eat, but the local joint is packed. A limousine nearly takes the front end off a minivan in the parking lot. We buy beer and head back to the crib.
+ We are all hungry, so we go to Ruby Tuesday's, home of the Buy-One-Get-One-For-A-Penny special/scam. We rack up huge amounts of beers, and are seated in a very reasonable amount of time.
+ The poor waitress ("...that POOOOR WOMAN...") gets the punishment of serving the 9 of us, and on her 3rd night working there no less. We are relatively well-behaved, though we do get strange looks from a group of old people. ("This man is an attorney, so you better be careful" said one in a half-joking way.) We all eat nice meats, except for Toastie and Dunford, who load up on salad. Toastie becomes jealous when he sees all the meats that he turned down.
+ Dan starts feeling badly, then stands up to go to the restroom, but hits his head very hard on the lamp hovering over his head. "Are you okay?" asks the waitress. Danny replies, "Yes, I just don't care to hit my head when I stand up." He says it out of frustration, not to be mean. However that doesn't stop the entire table from doing an impression of Dan screaming at the waitress and recreating the moment. We finally leave (probably followed by a sarcastic standing ovation from the Ruby Tuesday's staff).
+ Not everyone is feeling well, so we head back to the hotel. I am in the mood to go out, but no one else is. I get pouty and bitchy about this when it becomes clear that no one wants go to out. But I have my own reversal of fortunes when I discover the game of Dang-It! (later renamed "Frisbeer"). The object of the game is to knock other people's beer cans down with the frisbee. This would result in a "Dang-It!" where the person whose beer you just toppled would have to finish it. This led to a great evening of clean fun, though we were ordered off the front lawn of the Red Roof Inn by an angry staff member there, who threatened to call the cops. Since we're not allowed back in the state of Indiana anymore, we decided this was not a good idea.
+ We went inside, and partially, I assume to spite the man who kicked us out, got even more rowdy, downing more and more beers, and getting more and more rambunctious. We created the Uber-bed, which was the act of pushing the two queen beds together to create one giant collosal bed. Lots of homoerotic subtext going on, but nothing happened. Seriously.
+ Toastie took his shirt off and began the most hilarious pantomime in the history of the world from the outside of the hotel. (At one point, we open the door only enough to hear him say, "What do you want soundbites?" only to slam the door on him.) He did the classic "falling down the stairs" routine. Epic. This is all a little hazy but there is video available.
Sunday, June 3: Baltimore
+ We wake up for another game of Frisbeer, this time with perhaps a hint of regret. We don't all remember what happened last night, but we know it was probably less than pure. We lifted Toastie's ban on the Bob Evans chain of restaurants and chowed down.
+ We saddle up for the Orioles-Indians game. We get to the ticket machine for the train into Baltimore, but for some reason the machine won't take Dunford's coins. Thank God we got there when we did, because the line queued up pretty fast once we got there.
+ We get on the train, which takes us right to Camden Yards. It's a beautiful stadium with a lot of old-style charm. We walk the interminable ramp to get to our seats, but decide to join Danny and Jeff down in left field. We make some friends, including a guy in a yellow Len Bias jersey and a guy who shouts "Go home, Indian!" to Jitter, who is wearing his hometown Cleveland cap. Tribe beats the Birds.
+ After the game we go to Fuddrucker's for some huge hamburgers and all conversation stops. Plenty of ballgame left, gotta pace ourselves. Jeff leads us into what we think may be the belly of Baltimore's Little Italy, but we end up in a well-lit bar district.
+ We start at a sports-bar type place, which really isn't our style, but we get a table and everyone sits down. I go to the bar to try and order a pitcher or two, but the bartender never even looks at me. I stand at the bar for literally 10 minutes and not a sniff. The place isn't busy. We say F this and leave. A waitress asks, "Leaving already?" to which Danny yells, "Well it would be nice if someone would take our $^%&@!% order!" A bit harsh? Perhaps, but we all felt his frustration.
+ After window shopping a couple of pubs, including one with a 25 cent ladies night (Bouncer: "It's 25 cents for ladies only. You guys got boobies?" Javen: "In a way.") We end up at a place called Reefers (I think?), which had a sea theme. We start off drinking $2 plastic cups, but realize this might not be the way to go. The $7 pitchers were much more economical. The place suits us perfectly. We have one entire side of the bar to ourselves, there is music playing loudly, but not so loud that we have to scream to one another. Suddenly ...
+ The music comes on, and then the words: Just two good ol' boys, never meanin' no harm... Reverse dang-it. We erupt into a 9-man chorus of the Waylon Jennings classic. We then get a string of very sing-a-longable songs, which is all we need. Amazing how something like that can suddenly light a spark. We have re-railed...
+ We start racking up pitchers. One after another after another. The barkeep says he is impressed by our binging on a Sunday night. He says the record for pitchers is 25, and if we get to 25, he'll buy us a round of shots. Upon reflection, I question the authenticity of this so-called record, as the only evidence of its existence was a hand-written sign that said 25. But the gauntlet had been thrown down.
+ While it may be true we spilled a pitcher's worth of beer on the floor at this place, we racked up 30 pitchers. Thirty pitchers for 9 guys is more than three pitchers a piece. And that isn't even counting the one we ourselves vetoed because Dunford gave some to some girls at the bar. Talk about integrity! We told everybody that Toastie was getting married the next day.
+ The rest of the night is a haze. I thought I lost my cell phone, then proceeded to send Willie a text message, even though he was standing right next to me. I think I ate a slice of pizza, but cannot be sure. I think we took a cab ride home, but am not positive, though I think we did because I kept telling Toastie in the cab ride that he better treat that girl right. And Danny said to the cabbie, "I don't care how you get home, just keep it under $25." Thank God he was there. Danny also pretended to break up a faux fight between Toastie and I. Good stuff. As Will said later, "That's what you call committing to the material."
+ On a personal note, I was so bombed that I couldn't fall asleep, so I got my iPod and sat outside the hotel room in the fresh air. I was either in my underwear or pajama shorts, but I don't remember which and I didn't care. I kept playing the theme song for "G.I. Joe" on my iPod, and I don't know why. There was something soothing about it, and it made me less apt to vomiting. It worked because I didn't puke. Go Joe!
Monday, July 4: Baltimore to D.C. and back to Syracuse
+ The next day was especially painful. We split up for our last journey to the same destination. This time it's RFK Stadium in Washington, D.C. My head is spinning and even a Big Mac and fries is not helping. I get disoriented and have to call Javen to ask him how to get out of our hotel complex.
+ The drive is only about 45 minutes from the BWI area to the stadium, but one thing I never even thought of was the need for cash to pay for parking. It was $10 and Willie and I were flat broke. We had credit cards and post-dated out-of-state checks, but no cash. So instead of being able to park, we had to search for an ATM. I went to a gas station, but the man behind the bullet-proof glass said they didn't have ATMs. I went to a shopping district down the street, but the man in the National Liquidators said their ATM was out of money. These places are all in a relatively not-good section of town. Finally there was a Safeway with a working ATM. When the money finally came out I felt like a slot winner at a casino.
+ We finally make it into the stadium and to our seats. RFK is one of the old multi-purpose "cookie-cutter" stadiums that were all the rage in the 1970s, but are now being replaced with baseball- or football-only stadiums (see Veterans Stadium in Philly, Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, etc). It doesn't have a tenth of the charm of the other two ballparks we saw, which is a good reason that D.C. should build a new stadium. Outstanding attendance, though.
+ There were about four Mets fans sitting a few rows ahead of us, and they were being really loud and obnoxious. They are yelling at girls and making fun of the beer vendors. Toastie started to get annoyed with them and started yelling, "Oooo, I'm so tough. I got my shirt off." Toastie and Jitter began countering every one of their cheers. So you would hear: (THEM) Let's go, Car-los! (US) Strike out, Car-los! They were pretty built dudes, but there were still 9 of us, so I wasn't too worried. Danny said to Toastie, "Dude, THEY are US when we're not hungover." While this is true, I realized that the difference is we are not mean-spirited guys, and we primarily act this way to entertain ourselves, not draw attention to ourselves. If attention comes our way, so be it, but it's a byproduct, not our goal. Mets end up winning.
+ Toastie and Will are clearly ready to head back to Syracuse. So we leave immediately after the 7th inning stretch. It's a 6 hour drive, but we find a way to make it in 8 hours, due to some clever wrong turns and bad decisions on our part. Still, the drive through Pennsylvania was much nicer than usual due to the backroads and scenery we were able to see, forgoing the usually nightmarish 4 hour death march up through Route 81. We got home about midnight. And then I started typing this.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Sunday, June 12, 2005
For Your Inconsideration...
I believe it was the late Anne Frank who said, to paraphrase, "Deep down, I believe that people are good at heart." Keep in mind, she never worked retail. But seriously folks...
I don't think that most people are good. I think that at least half the population are selfish, arrogant, self-absorbed, inconsiderate assholes who only show consideration or decency for others when it benefits them. Alternately, many people act selfishly, while trying to put across a facade of compassion and selflesness. It's better to look good than to be good.
I see it every day dealing with "The Public." I'd say ninety percent of the people I talk to every day are very nice or at least neutral/tolerable, but you will always get the person who has an axe to grind, a bone to pick, a [noun] to [verb], and "needs to get this taken care of." These people are less interested in getting results or getting things accomplished correctly, than they are about grandstanding and making sure you understand that they are very powerful and they will get what they want.
I understand what it's like to be a frustrated customer, so I know the urge to call up a company to start raising hell. But let's face it, if I'm doing that, all I'm doing is taking my anger out on some Johnny Pencil-Pusher (like myself) who didn't cause my problem, and can fix it 9 times out of 10 with just a heads-up as to what the problem is. Most of my transactions with companies have been resolved before I hang up. But to some people, actual results are secondary to playing "Whose D-ck is Bigger?"
A lot of conversations start like this: "Okay Bill, this is the 4th time I've called on this. I've been bounced back and forth and I keep getting the runaround. I need to get this taken care of, and it needs to be taken care of today. If you can't do it, then I want a supervisor. And if a supervisor can't do it, I want the president of the company. And if the president of the company can't do it, I'm going to call my very good friend Mr. Attorney General Elliot Spitzer and file a class action lawsuit against you. And I don't mean against your company, I mean against you personally."
While I am slightly flattered by all the attention I get in these conversations, we all know it's 99% posturing and 1% reality. Men are much worse than women in this regard, because men have to be macho. Whenever a man calls up, it's as if he's Homer (the Greek storyteller, not the Simpson), ready to regale me with a long narrative of his life. It's always, "Okay Bill. [Sigh.] Okay. Here we go, okay. Let me start this from the beginning. I hope you have time for this, because it's a long story. Okay, okay. Here we go. It was 1951 and I was born on a small sheep farm in Nebraska..." and it always ends up being a matter of $6.83 that could have been explained in the amount of time it takes to heat up a Hot Pocket.
But this is how people are, in all walks of life. My problem is much worse than yours. It's much more important that I get this than you get that. Whatever happened to you...That's nothing, listen to this. Everyone is entitled to a certain amount of self-involvement, but some people are so consumed by it, that they step over anyone they can.
I experienced three examples of rudeness this weekend. Two of them occurred in my car, one while I was on the shitter. Let me briefly recap them in random order, along with the type of assholishness they each represent:
1) Futile and Unneccessary Pride
Rage and I are coming from the mall, taking the back roads as we are sometimes wont to do. We are on one particular two-lane road, which will soon merge into one. The car in front of me is moving a little slowly, so I start to pass him on the left side. Instead of maintaining his previous speed and allowing me to pass, this stupid fucker speeds up, not allowing me to pass him. Keep in mind, this is about a 35 mph speed limit.
So I look at the driver of the green sports car in question, and it's some 19 year old, wife-beater-clad wigger with a shaved head, who keeps eyeballing me through his rearview. Fine, I say, I'm not in any hurry, if he wants to drive faster, more power to him. (Plus, I don't want to start a ruckus, in case Li'l Eminem has a gat in his glovebox.) But this little punk son of a bitch drives even slower than before. The lanes merge, and he's going a full 3 to 4 mph slower than he was, proving that this need for speed was only a matter of puffing his chest out. God forbid a 2002 Saturn should outrun his pimpmobile.
We come to a red light, which promptly turns green. White Chocolate decides to sit there, leaning back in his ride, one extended arm on the wheel, bobbing his head to music that isn't even playing. I could have played into his hands, showing my frustration by yelling out the window or leaning on the horn, but instead (somewhat in an effort to show he wasn't getting to me), I gave him a friendly quick beep-beep, as if to say, "Hey buddy, just in case you didn't notice, the light's green now. Thanks so much...." This guy wasn't really doing anything illegal, he was just trying to be slick, to prove Quien es mas macho. You win buddy.
At this point, I'm sitting at another red light, right up on this dude's ass. And in my mind I'm going through the fantasies we all have about the guy getting out of the car and coming back, and me grabbing his arm and rolling up my window so he couldn't get it out, and then snapping his arm at the elbow the opposite way it was supposed to go, and then dragging him for about five blocks hanging off the side of my car. Alas, it never happened.
But the light turned green, and I had to turn left. The punk bitch in question went straight, and unbeknownst to me, Rage rolled down her window and yelled "Douuuuuche Baaaaaag" so loud that I swerved a little. It was a pretty satisfying ending, I must say.
2) Valuing yourself over others.
This weekend was my dad's birthday, so I went to Rochester to visit him. I had to be back home Sunday by about 5:15, so I wanted to get on the road. As usual, I lost track of time, so I was a little late getting out of my house, and on the road. In other words, I was in a hurry.
As I'm taking the one-lane road to get to the expressway, which will take me to I-90 to get back to Syracuse, there is a small bit of blockage in the road. A car is facing one way, a motorcycle the other. They are both parked in the middle of the road, having some sort of conversation. There is no room to either side of them to pass.
Of course, I think to myself, these vehicles will disperse when I get closer so as to let the natural flow of traffic continue, perpetuating the utilization of the great infrastructure system that President Dwight D. Eisenhower envisioned some sixty years ago. Surely, when my presence was felt by these two motorists, the would either say good-day and be on their way, or at least move in such a way that would allow my vehicle's passage.
Much to my surprise, the cars stayed exactly where they were. At first, I assumed that they were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not sense my approach. I gave this possibility about 5 seconds before I realized that they would not move without some kind of auditory prompt. So I gave the customary double-beep honk, a friendly way of saying, Hey, there are other people on the road too, jackass. After the honk, the Asian gentleman on the motorcycle in my lane, slowly turned his head, in a manner that said, "Fine asshole, I'll move." His head did not turn as if surprised, but slowly, and with aggravation, which proved to me that he and the other driver were both well aware of my presence, but decided their little chat smack in the middle of Wickford Way was more important than my simply getting around them.
The motorcyclist makes a slow, half-assed effort to get on his bike, and drive ever-so-slightly out of the way, just enough so I could get out. He gives no sign of apology for inadvertantly blocking my way. As I'm driving by, the woman in the car to my right begins waving her hand at me. Since it was ungodly hot and I had the windows up and the A/C on, I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I could clearly see her face, and her mouth was saying, "Excuse me, excuse me." This was being said not in the spirit of "Excuse me for being in your way," but rather "Excuse me, can I have a word with you?" or "Excuuuse me, I was having a conversation with Evel Knievel over here and you have just interrupted it."
What's amusing is that this woman probably actually expected me to stop my car and talk to her. This woman is probably the type who busts everybody's balls at her job and is used to having people obey her. (You can just tell these things by looking at some people.) And if I wasn't in such a hurry, I may have actually stopped to say, "Listen to me you [string of expletives]...." But instead, I laughed and drove away. Who are these people? Seriously...
3) Lack of Common courtesy.
The most embarrassing bit of intrusion came when I was enjoying an evacation of sorts at work. There are two stalls at work: a large one with a turning lock mechanism, and a small one with a slide-lock. I always try to go to the large stall, because it is close to the wall, further from the urinals, and has more room to stretch out.
Full disclosure: I am not comfortable in public bathrooms. I have what one might call "stage fright." I need solitude and silence in order to pee with other people in the room. Which makes me extra angry when people at work either strike up a conversation with me when I'm taking a leak, or God forbid, start talking on their cell phones(!) to make appointments or talk to friends. (There are free courtesy phones that offer a great amount of privacy, moreso than the restroom would. Oh, and the little matter of a phone at everyone's desk?!)
So I already have a predisposition to using the restrooms at work. It's really disgusting when you think about it: all the males in the building getting rid of waste in just two toilets. And since our restroom is on the first floor, it gets the most traffic, not only from the employees who work on the floor, but also people from other floors coming back from lunch or coffee, visitors to the building, and various other types.
So imagine my surprise when I was sitting on the can, enjoying a nice game of solitaire on my Palm Pilot, lost in my own little world, safe in my own little cocoon, and suddenly, whooosh, the door flies open, leaving me sitting there with my pants down, and some guy I've never seen standing there.
Now this is a pretty common mistake, I would think, someone walking into an occupied stall, so it wasn't the even itself that bothered me; accidents happen. It was the context surrounding the intrusion. First: this is not a large bathroom. There are two stalls and the first one was empty. The door to that one was probably open, so it was fair game. I would think that in such a setting, one would see a closed door and think, There is a chance that stall may be occupied. I generally look for shoes in such a situation. If there are shoes, I usually take the leap of faith that someone is using that facility.
Now, the question that everyone asks me when I tell this story is, "Did you lock the door?" And I've told mostly girls about this, so I'm assuming that this is a common occurance in ladies' rooms. I thought I did lock it, but I didn't do a great job of checking it. Even still, I can't remember the last time that I was on the crapper, even with the door completely secure, where someone yanked on the door to see if it was open, only to find it locked. I don't think it's ever happened at work.
Second: When this guy opened the door, he showed no sign of remorse, apology or embarrassment. I don't know about you, but if I ever walked in on someone with their pants down, I would give them a "sorry" or "oh my God, I'm so sorry about that" or "I thought it was full, I'm sorry." Instead, I yelp out an "oops!" and the guy stands there for a full second. (I didn't make eye contact, thank God, because I couldn't look this guy in the face if I knew who it was.) Instead of apologizing, he just let's out a "huh," like an exhaling laugh, and closes the door. I would have settled for "excuse me" or even "my bad," but I just get a snicker.
Third, and this is the kicker: After he closed the door, this inconsiderate prick who barged in on me and didn't apologize didn't even use the restroom! I would think he would sit down in the next stall, since he obviously had to go. Or if it was just toilet paper he sought to blow his nose, I would think he would reach into the other stall and grab a handful of t.p. But instead, he does nothing of the sort. So at least I think, Good, this means the guy's leaving and I can get out of here and call my therapist. But instead, the bastard stays in the bathroom for five full minutes. He starts washing his hands, combing his hair, practically brushing his teeth. You would think this guy was scrubbing in for open-heart surgery.
The infuriating part of this is that I had to stay in the stall, completely finished with my drop-off, bored with my solitaire game, legs falling asleep. The right, honorable thing to do would have been for this gentleman to leave the restroom within 15 seconds of our unholy altercation, never to be seen or spoken of again. But instead, he camps out in the bathroom like Tom Hanks in "The Terminal," knowing damn well that I cannot, under any circumstances, leave the stall until he is gone. The fire alarm could have gone off, and I wouldn't have been able to leave until he was at least a mile away. It's an unwritten rule.
I guess my point is that all of these situations, while none were major to begin with, could have been diffused with a little bit of common courtesy and/or concession on the part of the parties involved. All three of these incidents appeared to be willful attempts to piss me off. And who the hell am I to piss off? Why would you even care? Why waste your time?
Current obsessions:
Movies: The Woodsman, Kinsey, Undertow
Music: Babbletron ("Space Tech Banana Clip"), Zero 7, Stephen Malkmus, Cannibal Ox, Rogue Wave.
TV: Curb Your Enthusiasm (again)
Web: billsinsider.com, wikipedia.com
Misc.: Crossword puzzles
Beer: Middle Ages Pale Ale, Magic Hat Hocus Pocus, Mercury Hef/Saturn IPA (homebrew), Sam Adams White Ale, Upper Canada Lager.
I don't think that most people are good. I think that at least half the population are selfish, arrogant, self-absorbed, inconsiderate assholes who only show consideration or decency for others when it benefits them. Alternately, many people act selfishly, while trying to put across a facade of compassion and selflesness. It's better to look good than to be good.
I see it every day dealing with "The Public." I'd say ninety percent of the people I talk to every day are very nice or at least neutral/tolerable, but you will always get the person who has an axe to grind, a bone to pick, a [noun] to [verb], and "needs to get this taken care of." These people are less interested in getting results or getting things accomplished correctly, than they are about grandstanding and making sure you understand that they are very powerful and they will get what they want.
I understand what it's like to be a frustrated customer, so I know the urge to call up a company to start raising hell. But let's face it, if I'm doing that, all I'm doing is taking my anger out on some Johnny Pencil-Pusher (like myself) who didn't cause my problem, and can fix it 9 times out of 10 with just a heads-up as to what the problem is. Most of my transactions with companies have been resolved before I hang up. But to some people, actual results are secondary to playing "Whose D-ck is Bigger?"
A lot of conversations start like this: "Okay Bill, this is the 4th time I've called on this. I've been bounced back and forth and I keep getting the runaround. I need to get this taken care of, and it needs to be taken care of today. If you can't do it, then I want a supervisor. And if a supervisor can't do it, I want the president of the company. And if the president of the company can't do it, I'm going to call my very good friend Mr. Attorney General Elliot Spitzer and file a class action lawsuit against you. And I don't mean against your company, I mean against you personally."
While I am slightly flattered by all the attention I get in these conversations, we all know it's 99% posturing and 1% reality. Men are much worse than women in this regard, because men have to be macho. Whenever a man calls up, it's as if he's Homer (the Greek storyteller, not the Simpson), ready to regale me with a long narrative of his life. It's always, "Okay Bill. [Sigh.] Okay. Here we go, okay. Let me start this from the beginning. I hope you have time for this, because it's a long story. Okay, okay. Here we go. It was 1951 and I was born on a small sheep farm in Nebraska..." and it always ends up being a matter of $6.83 that could have been explained in the amount of time it takes to heat up a Hot Pocket.
But this is how people are, in all walks of life. My problem is much worse than yours. It's much more important that I get this than you get that. Whatever happened to you...That's nothing, listen to this. Everyone is entitled to a certain amount of self-involvement, but some people are so consumed by it, that they step over anyone they can.
I experienced three examples of rudeness this weekend. Two of them occurred in my car, one while I was on the shitter. Let me briefly recap them in random order, along with the type of assholishness they each represent:
1) Futile and Unneccessary Pride
Rage and I are coming from the mall, taking the back roads as we are sometimes wont to do. We are on one particular two-lane road, which will soon merge into one. The car in front of me is moving a little slowly, so I start to pass him on the left side. Instead of maintaining his previous speed and allowing me to pass, this stupid fucker speeds up, not allowing me to pass him. Keep in mind, this is about a 35 mph speed limit.
So I look at the driver of the green sports car in question, and it's some 19 year old, wife-beater-clad wigger with a shaved head, who keeps eyeballing me through his rearview. Fine, I say, I'm not in any hurry, if he wants to drive faster, more power to him. (Plus, I don't want to start a ruckus, in case Li'l Eminem has a gat in his glovebox.) But this little punk son of a bitch drives even slower than before. The lanes merge, and he's going a full 3 to 4 mph slower than he was, proving that this need for speed was only a matter of puffing his chest out. God forbid a 2002 Saturn should outrun his pimpmobile.
We come to a red light, which promptly turns green. White Chocolate decides to sit there, leaning back in his ride, one extended arm on the wheel, bobbing his head to music that isn't even playing. I could have played into his hands, showing my frustration by yelling out the window or leaning on the horn, but instead (somewhat in an effort to show he wasn't getting to me), I gave him a friendly quick beep-beep, as if to say, "Hey buddy, just in case you didn't notice, the light's green now. Thanks so much...." This guy wasn't really doing anything illegal, he was just trying to be slick, to prove Quien es mas macho. You win buddy.
At this point, I'm sitting at another red light, right up on this dude's ass. And in my mind I'm going through the fantasies we all have about the guy getting out of the car and coming back, and me grabbing his arm and rolling up my window so he couldn't get it out, and then snapping his arm at the elbow the opposite way it was supposed to go, and then dragging him for about five blocks hanging off the side of my car. Alas, it never happened.
But the light turned green, and I had to turn left. The punk bitch in question went straight, and unbeknownst to me, Rage rolled down her window and yelled "Douuuuuche Baaaaaag" so loud that I swerved a little. It was a pretty satisfying ending, I must say.
2) Valuing yourself over others.
This weekend was my dad's birthday, so I went to Rochester to visit him. I had to be back home Sunday by about 5:15, so I wanted to get on the road. As usual, I lost track of time, so I was a little late getting out of my house, and on the road. In other words, I was in a hurry.
As I'm taking the one-lane road to get to the expressway, which will take me to I-90 to get back to Syracuse, there is a small bit of blockage in the road. A car is facing one way, a motorcycle the other. They are both parked in the middle of the road, having some sort of conversation. There is no room to either side of them to pass.
Of course, I think to myself, these vehicles will disperse when I get closer so as to let the natural flow of traffic continue, perpetuating the utilization of the great infrastructure system that President Dwight D. Eisenhower envisioned some sixty years ago. Surely, when my presence was felt by these two motorists, the would either say good-day and be on their way, or at least move in such a way that would allow my vehicle's passage.
Much to my surprise, the cars stayed exactly where they were. At first, I assumed that they were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not sense my approach. I gave this possibility about 5 seconds before I realized that they would not move without some kind of auditory prompt. So I gave the customary double-beep honk, a friendly way of saying, Hey, there are other people on the road too, jackass. After the honk, the Asian gentleman on the motorcycle in my lane, slowly turned his head, in a manner that said, "Fine asshole, I'll move." His head did not turn as if surprised, but slowly, and with aggravation, which proved to me that he and the other driver were both well aware of my presence, but decided their little chat smack in the middle of Wickford Way was more important than my simply getting around them.
The motorcyclist makes a slow, half-assed effort to get on his bike, and drive ever-so-slightly out of the way, just enough so I could get out. He gives no sign of apology for inadvertantly blocking my way. As I'm driving by, the woman in the car to my right begins waving her hand at me. Since it was ungodly hot and I had the windows up and the A/C on, I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I could clearly see her face, and her mouth was saying, "Excuse me, excuse me." This was being said not in the spirit of "Excuse me for being in your way," but rather "Excuse me, can I have a word with you?" or "Excuuuse me, I was having a conversation with Evel Knievel over here and you have just interrupted it."
What's amusing is that this woman probably actually expected me to stop my car and talk to her. This woman is probably the type who busts everybody's balls at her job and is used to having people obey her. (You can just tell these things by looking at some people.) And if I wasn't in such a hurry, I may have actually stopped to say, "Listen to me you [string of expletives]...." But instead, I laughed and drove away. Who are these people? Seriously...
3) Lack of Common courtesy.
The most embarrassing bit of intrusion came when I was enjoying an evacation of sorts at work. There are two stalls at work: a large one with a turning lock mechanism, and a small one with a slide-lock. I always try to go to the large stall, because it is close to the wall, further from the urinals, and has more room to stretch out.
Full disclosure: I am not comfortable in public bathrooms. I have what one might call "stage fright." I need solitude and silence in order to pee with other people in the room. Which makes me extra angry when people at work either strike up a conversation with me when I'm taking a leak, or God forbid, start talking on their cell phones(!) to make appointments or talk to friends. (There are free courtesy phones that offer a great amount of privacy, moreso than the restroom would. Oh, and the little matter of a phone at everyone's desk?!)
So I already have a predisposition to using the restrooms at work. It's really disgusting when you think about it: all the males in the building getting rid of waste in just two toilets. And since our restroom is on the first floor, it gets the most traffic, not only from the employees who work on the floor, but also people from other floors coming back from lunch or coffee, visitors to the building, and various other types.
So imagine my surprise when I was sitting on the can, enjoying a nice game of solitaire on my Palm Pilot, lost in my own little world, safe in my own little cocoon, and suddenly, whooosh, the door flies open, leaving me sitting there with my pants down, and some guy I've never seen standing there.
Now this is a pretty common mistake, I would think, someone walking into an occupied stall, so it wasn't the even itself that bothered me; accidents happen. It was the context surrounding the intrusion. First: this is not a large bathroom. There are two stalls and the first one was empty. The door to that one was probably open, so it was fair game. I would think that in such a setting, one would see a closed door and think, There is a chance that stall may be occupied. I generally look for shoes in such a situation. If there are shoes, I usually take the leap of faith that someone is using that facility.
Now, the question that everyone asks me when I tell this story is, "Did you lock the door?" And I've told mostly girls about this, so I'm assuming that this is a common occurance in ladies' rooms. I thought I did lock it, but I didn't do a great job of checking it. Even still, I can't remember the last time that I was on the crapper, even with the door completely secure, where someone yanked on the door to see if it was open, only to find it locked. I don't think it's ever happened at work.
Second: When this guy opened the door, he showed no sign of remorse, apology or embarrassment. I don't know about you, but if I ever walked in on someone with their pants down, I would give them a "sorry" or "oh my God, I'm so sorry about that" or "I thought it was full, I'm sorry." Instead, I yelp out an "oops!" and the guy stands there for a full second. (I didn't make eye contact, thank God, because I couldn't look this guy in the face if I knew who it was.) Instead of apologizing, he just let's out a "huh," like an exhaling laugh, and closes the door. I would have settled for "excuse me" or even "my bad," but I just get a snicker.
Third, and this is the kicker: After he closed the door, this inconsiderate prick who barged in on me and didn't apologize didn't even use the restroom! I would think he would sit down in the next stall, since he obviously had to go. Or if it was just toilet paper he sought to blow his nose, I would think he would reach into the other stall and grab a handful of t.p. But instead, he does nothing of the sort. So at least I think, Good, this means the guy's leaving and I can get out of here and call my therapist. But instead, the bastard stays in the bathroom for five full minutes. He starts washing his hands, combing his hair, practically brushing his teeth. You would think this guy was scrubbing in for open-heart surgery.
The infuriating part of this is that I had to stay in the stall, completely finished with my drop-off, bored with my solitaire game, legs falling asleep. The right, honorable thing to do would have been for this gentleman to leave the restroom within 15 seconds of our unholy altercation, never to be seen or spoken of again. But instead, he camps out in the bathroom like Tom Hanks in "The Terminal," knowing damn well that I cannot, under any circumstances, leave the stall until he is gone. The fire alarm could have gone off, and I wouldn't have been able to leave until he was at least a mile away. It's an unwritten rule.
I guess my point is that all of these situations, while none were major to begin with, could have been diffused with a little bit of common courtesy and/or concession on the part of the parties involved. All three of these incidents appeared to be willful attempts to piss me off. And who the hell am I to piss off? Why would you even care? Why waste your time?
Current obsessions:
Movies: The Woodsman, Kinsey, Undertow
Music: Babbletron ("Space Tech Banana Clip"), Zero 7, Stephen Malkmus, Cannibal Ox, Rogue Wave.
TV: Curb Your Enthusiasm (again)
Web: billsinsider.com, wikipedia.com
Misc.: Crossword puzzles
Beer: Middle Ages Pale Ale, Magic Hat Hocus Pocus, Mercury Hef/Saturn IPA (homebrew), Sam Adams White Ale, Upper Canada Lager.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Zen Bastard
Okay, I'm calling it right now. If Phil Jackson coaches the Knicks, I'll eat an entire pepperoni pizza.* I'm talking all 8 slices. You can decide where we get it from. You know I'm good for it.
I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to have to do anything of the sort. But do you know why? It's because there is no chance -- none -- that Phil Jackson will be walking the home sidelines of Madison Square Garden. Do you know why? It's because they don't have any talent, or at least the kind of talent to which the "Zen Master" is accustomed.
You see, P-Jax has never had to build a team. He has never had to organically take a group of rag-tag players and turn them into players who shock the world by winning. No, Jackson (in both his coaching jobs) has walked into ready-made situations with underachieving players, and simply gotten them to play as well as they already should have been.
When he began coaching the Bulls, they were already poised for dominance. They had the best player in the game (Michael Jordan) a rising superstar (Scottie Pippen, who I still think may be the most overrated basketball player of all time), and a solid cast of role players (Bill Cartwright, Steve Kerr, Paxson, Armstrong, Hodges, etc). They were coached by the over-his-head Doug Collins. Collins is a good man and a knowledgeable basketball mind, but he doesn't seem to have the killer instinct necessary to be a great coach (which was proven in stints with Detroit and Washington later on). So Jordan calls up management to get Collins bounced, Jackson takes over and the rest is, as they say, history.
But this is a team that used to play tough in the playoffs every year, but would always end up losing to the Pistons or the Celtics. It's not like this team was built by Jackson from scratch. It's very similar to the San Francisco 49ers in 1989 (this is football now, in case you didn't know). Coach George Siefert inherited the dynasty that Bill Walsh left to him, and won the Super Bowl in his first year in the league. Why wasn't everyone praising Siefert as a genius? He won another title in 1994, in the most parity-riddled sport on the planet. People, of course, may forget that Siefert went on to coach a team that was quite mediocre -- the 1999 Carolina Panthers -- and was fired due to some piss-poor seasons. Not a genius with no talent, eh George?
So as soon as MJ retires from the Bulls, the whole team smells blood in the water and leaves. Including Jackson. Was it because he was just plum sick of coaching? Well, he may say that. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he didn't want to have to coach without MJ saving his Buddhist-genius ass every game. Sidenote: the two years in the mid-1990s that the Bulls didn't win the NBA Championship, which years were those again? Oh yes, the two years that he didn't have Jordan for a full season. Weird!
So Jackson takes one strike-shortened year off from coaching so he can coach -- who else? -- the Los Angeles Lakers. They are a proud team who had fallen on hard times due to some dips in talent and poor coaching (Del Harris and Kurt Rambis coaching the erstwhile Showtime Lakers? Say it ain't so!)
But the Lakers luck out. They get a steal in the draft by trading Vlade Divac and someone else to the Charlotte Hornets for Kobe Bryant, and they land big-man and bigger-mouth Shaquille O'Neal, because he wants to be in Hollywood movies. (I'm still waiting for Kazaam II.)
Interesting, thinks Jackson. Two superstar players on an underachieving team. Pounce!
Long story short, blah blah blah, Lakers win 3 titles and Phil Jackson's absolute genius cannot be denied. He has applied the tenets of Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" and applied them to the basketball court, and my god soon he won't have enough fingers for all those rings.
But a strange thing happened. The NBA -- actually doing something right for the first time in maybe a decade -- decides to bring back zone defense! No more illegal defense calls. (And how a sports league could ever justify calling any defense, which is strictly strategic in nature, "illegal" will never be satisfactorily explained to me.) Suddenly, the league isn't a bunch of one-on-one matchups with Jordan shooting over Craig Ehlo or Shaq dunking over Dikembe Mutumbo. Suddenly we have creative defenses that are able to isolate and contain one, or maybe even two star players, making it imperative that the team play well as a whole. Uh-oh.
Interesting that since this rule change in the 2002-03 season, Jackson has not won a championship, losing to the Spurs in '03 and getting flatly dominated by the dynamic team defense of the Pistons in '04. (And by the way, Ben Wallace, not Chauncey Billups, should have been the MVP of that series for neutralizing Shaq and allowing the rest of the team to swarm Kobe.)
So now Jackson, in a seemingly-new era of NBA where the old teams aren't dominating as much anymore, can't decide where to go. Will he go back to L.A., where Kobe, not Mitch Kupchak, is the General Manager. Jackson could go back there, but he doesn't have another Shaq, so that makes only ONE great player on the team. Hmmm...
He has also been talking about going to the Knicks, but I don't need David Aldridge to tell me that there is not a chance in hell that's gonna happen. Why? Talent baby. Jackson will never -- NEVER -- go to a team that isn't already bursting with talent. (This, by the way, is why I'm shocked he never went to the Cleveland Cavaliers, with their exciting LeBron/Ilgauskus combo.)
Who do the Knicks have? Kurt Thomas? Allen Houston? Starbury? Malik Rose? Sorry boys, but I don't see any top 25 players in that list. And that, folks, is not gonna cut it.
So I'll make my guarantee again: Jackson will not be coaching the Knicks this year. He'll probably just go back to the Lakers and take his $15 million and deal with Kobe and bang Jerry Buss's daughter and grow his Colonel Sanders beard and say pithy things about the teams he's playing against.
I'll say this, if he took the Knicks to even the conference finals with this lineup, even I'd call him a genius. But unfortunately for Knicks fans, no dice!
I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to have to do anything of the sort. But do you know why? It's because there is no chance -- none -- that Phil Jackson will be walking the home sidelines of Madison Square Garden. Do you know why? It's because they don't have any talent, or at least the kind of talent to which the "Zen Master" is accustomed.
You see, P-Jax has never had to build a team. He has never had to organically take a group of rag-tag players and turn them into players who shock the world by winning. No, Jackson (in both his coaching jobs) has walked into ready-made situations with underachieving players, and simply gotten them to play as well as they already should have been.
When he began coaching the Bulls, they were already poised for dominance. They had the best player in the game (Michael Jordan) a rising superstar (Scottie Pippen, who I still think may be the most overrated basketball player of all time), and a solid cast of role players (Bill Cartwright, Steve Kerr, Paxson, Armstrong, Hodges, etc). They were coached by the over-his-head Doug Collins. Collins is a good man and a knowledgeable basketball mind, but he doesn't seem to have the killer instinct necessary to be a great coach (which was proven in stints with Detroit and Washington later on). So Jordan calls up management to get Collins bounced, Jackson takes over and the rest is, as they say, history.
But this is a team that used to play tough in the playoffs every year, but would always end up losing to the Pistons or the Celtics. It's not like this team was built by Jackson from scratch. It's very similar to the San Francisco 49ers in 1989 (this is football now, in case you didn't know). Coach George Siefert inherited the dynasty that Bill Walsh left to him, and won the Super Bowl in his first year in the league. Why wasn't everyone praising Siefert as a genius? He won another title in 1994, in the most parity-riddled sport on the planet. People, of course, may forget that Siefert went on to coach a team that was quite mediocre -- the 1999 Carolina Panthers -- and was fired due to some piss-poor seasons. Not a genius with no talent, eh George?
So as soon as MJ retires from the Bulls, the whole team smells blood in the water and leaves. Including Jackson. Was it because he was just plum sick of coaching? Well, he may say that. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he didn't want to have to coach without MJ saving his Buddhist-genius ass every game. Sidenote: the two years in the mid-1990s that the Bulls didn't win the NBA Championship, which years were those again? Oh yes, the two years that he didn't have Jordan for a full season. Weird!
So Jackson takes one strike-shortened year off from coaching so he can coach -- who else? -- the Los Angeles Lakers. They are a proud team who had fallen on hard times due to some dips in talent and poor coaching (Del Harris and Kurt Rambis coaching the erstwhile Showtime Lakers? Say it ain't so!)
But the Lakers luck out. They get a steal in the draft by trading Vlade Divac and someone else to the Charlotte Hornets for Kobe Bryant, and they land big-man and bigger-mouth Shaquille O'Neal, because he wants to be in Hollywood movies. (I'm still waiting for Kazaam II.)
Interesting, thinks Jackson. Two superstar players on an underachieving team. Pounce!
Long story short, blah blah blah, Lakers win 3 titles and Phil Jackson's absolute genius cannot be denied. He has applied the tenets of Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" and applied them to the basketball court, and my god soon he won't have enough fingers for all those rings.
But a strange thing happened. The NBA -- actually doing something right for the first time in maybe a decade -- decides to bring back
Interesting that since this rule change in the 2002-03 season, Jackson has not won a championship, losing to the Spurs in '03 and getting flatly dominated by the dynamic team defense of the Pistons in '04. (And by the way, Ben Wallace, not Chauncey Billups, should have been the MVP of that series for neutralizing Shaq and allowing the rest of the team to swarm Kobe.)
So now Jackson, in a seemingly-new era of NBA where the old teams aren't dominating as much anymore, can't decide where to go. Will he go back to L.A., where Kobe, not Mitch Kupchak, is the General Manager. Jackson could go back there, but he doesn't have another Shaq, so that makes only ONE great player on the team. Hmmm...
He has also been talking about going to the Knicks, but I don't need David Aldridge to tell me that there is not a chance in hell that's gonna happen. Why? Talent baby. Jackson will never -- NEVER -- go to a team that isn't already bursting with talent. (This, by the way, is why I'm shocked he never went to the Cleveland Cavaliers, with their exciting LeBron/Ilgauskus combo.)
Who do the Knicks have? Kurt Thomas? Allen Houston? Starbury? Malik Rose? Sorry boys, but I don't see any top 25 players in that list. And that, folks, is not gonna cut it.
So I'll make my guarantee again: Jackson will not be coaching the Knicks this year. He'll probably just go back to the Lakers and take his $15 million and deal with Kobe and bang Jerry Buss's daughter and grow his Colonel Sanders beard and say pithy things about the teams he's playing against.
I'll say this, if he took the Knicks to even the conference finals with this lineup, even I'd call him a genius. But unfortunately for Knicks fans, no dice!
*Note: This offer is null and void if (before Jackson is hired) the Knicks trade for two of the seven best players in the league. Let's say that the seven best players in the NBA are Shaq, Kobe, LeBron, K.G., Tim Duncan, Dirk Nowitzki, Allen Iverson, and Tracy McGrady, randomly, but for the record in case it ever really happens.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Baseball Been Berry Berry Boring to Me
No one could ever accuse me of being unAmerican. I am the prototypical American in many ways. Besides being lazy and out of shape, I have a short attention span, an addiction to fast food, a love of technological gadgets, not to mention a blog. I speak only one language. My ethnic makeup is indeterminate.
No sir, no one could ever accuse me of being unAmerican. Joe McCarthy and Roy Cohn would take one look at me in front of congress and say, "Next," not wanting to embarrass themselves at how Capital-fuckin-'A' American I really am.
I love my mom. I love apple pie. I don't love baseball.
[The needle on the record skips] What did he say?!
Most of my friends think I'm insane, but baseball just isn't for me. For my entire life, baseball has been practically shoved down my throat, and I have roundly expectorated it at every turn.
My distaste for baseball has waned over the years. It has gone from a white-hot hatred to a slight dislike over the last few years. I have learned to accept baseball as a fact of life. Rather than rue it's arrival every April, I have learned to see it as a harbinger of better weather.
At first I thought it was the sport itself I hated. I thought the slowness of the game and its crazy, arcane rules were what bothered me. I thought it was the fact that most games take at least 3.5 hours, approximately 90% of which is batters stepping back from the batter's box to adjust their gloves, take a few practice swings and squint up into the stands. I thought it was ridiculous, arbitrary stats like the 40/40 club. I thought it was the way they compare players at the same position by batting average rather than defensive ability. I thought it was 162 games that mean a lot on the whole, but to me are meaningless on a day-to-day basis. But I realized that these are not what bothers me about baseball, it was just the rationale I used to counter baseball fans' arguments as to why it's so superior to football (which is my obsession as far as spectator sports go).
It turns out my reason for disliking baseball is actually three-fold, and none of them really have to do with the sport itself, but more with their fans. (Let me preface this by saying that all my friends like baseball. I mean every single one of them, I think. I love my friends very much, and this is not a reflection of how I feel about them specifically, but rather the sport they love so much.)
When I was still trying to find a sporting identity, I came upon baseball first. I think the first sporting event I ever watched was the game where Pete Rose broke Ty Cobb's all-time hits record. Baseball was just simple enough for me to follow, much moreso than football or basketball or hockey at the time, yet it didn't interest me all that much. I tried. Good lord how I tried to get into baseball. All my friends at school were huge baseball fans, would trade cards every day and talk about players of whom I had no knowledge. As much as I tried to use baseball as a way into a certain social circle, it made me realize I would never cotton to it like I did professional wrestling.
My late Uncle Jim, God bless 'im, tried his damnedest to get me into baseball, and anyone else he met for that matter. He was the singular most hopelessly devoted baseball fanatic I've ever known, no contest, no argument. Anyone who ever met him would never question is undying passion for the sport. He was an encyclopedia of baseball; he knew the history of the game as any person could be acquainted with any subject. Every year, he would send my siblings and I all sorts of baseball paraphernelia (usually of the Philadelphia Phillies, his favorite team). With my little brother, it stuck; to this day he is a psychotic Phillies fan, picking up the torch my uncle left when he passed away a few years ago.
Yet curiously, his passion pushed me away. I've always been someone who does not react well to being force-fed anything. If I feel for a second that something is being overhyped, my mind immediately shuts it out. I hate hype, and even though this was just an example of someone sharing his passion, I don't think I took it that way. Perhaps I latched onto pro football as a counterpoint to the universal acclaim baseball had reached in my household and with my extended family.
So while my entire family would gather together to go to games (even major league games in Philly) or watch the World Series, I would attend, and I would be tolerant. But I never became enamored with it. Instead, I would count the months until August when NFL training camps started and I could begin my (some would say unhealthy) obsession with American football.
Feeling as if baseball was being forced on me led to my second observation about baseball fans (as I saw it): they were living in the past. My rationale was this: when I would watch specials about football (I continually use football as a comparison as it's really the only sport I know a fig about), they would talk about modern players, recent games and latter-day teams. Football, it could be argued in my worldview of the time, was a sport for the contemporary fan.
When I would see a similar special on baseball, however, it always had to harken back to the days of yesteryear. The days of Al Kaline and Jamie Foxx and Warren Spahn and Bob Gibson and Don Drysdale and blah blah blah. Any special program on baseball would begin with a camera panning across an array of old baseball cards with the likes of Mickey Mantle or Sandy Koufax, a faded pennant from the 1950s, along with a litany of other yellowing, decaying relics from the past, usually with a voiceover saying "The Giants win the pennant!" or a video clip of Willie Mays making that over-the-shoulder catch baseball fans are so fond of revisiting.
(It's worth noting that since the era of the juiced-ball, er, the neo-classic era of baseball, this has become less common. Since the Wild Card and the outstanding playoff baseball of the last decade or so, baseball fans have had a lot more recent examples of great baseball to point to. This doesn't mean that every above-average play that happens is "one of the five greatest plays in the history of sports" as Tim Kurkjian might try to convince you, but it's a start.)
This looking to the past, combined with an overly sentimental attitude toward the merits of baseball by the likes of Bob Costas, George F. Will, Mike Lupica and every other two-bit writer who wants to wax poetic about America's Pastime, made me really hate baseball. Does every person who writes about baseball have to pontificate about it as if talking about religion? Is every moment of a baseball game a transcendent, life-altering event? Can the sport itself ever be described at face-value, rather than associated with one particular writer's adolescence or loss of innocence? I once read an article that compared baseball to "a quiet piece of poetry on a summer's day." I wanted to vomit. To me this was the kind of disingenuous hooey that drove me away from the sport like snakes from St. Patrick.
What is truly ironic to me is that I probably appreciate the sport itself right now more than I ever have. I understand what is great about it. Strategically, it is a brilliant game. As a pure sport, there is a lot to love about it. I could never love it for 4 hours, 162 times a year, but maybe a couple times a week for about 70 minutes at a time. Maybe this is why I have been very interested in playoff baseball over the last 3 or 4 seasons (and not just because the hated Yankees haven't won the big one in that span); because every play matters in the playoffs, which can't be said for the almost meaningless regular season. Everything is magnified in baseball's playoffs, showcasing everything that is truly great about the sport. (This is another reason I think the Wild Card is incredible for the sport, it gives us a whole 'nother round of meaningful baseball.)
I have gone through the worm-hole friends, from a place of pure contempt, to one of pure contentment. My own personal Kubler-Ross progression has landed me here. I no longer hate the sport of baseball, although I do hate much about the organizational structure of Major League Baseball as a corporation. I still don't watch baseball, although I do follow it and know enough about it to be somewhat knowledgable in a mixed conversation. Now, when baseball is on and I don't want to watch it, I try to concentrate on the things I like: being with friends, eating brats and dogs, drinking, making lists of things in my head, drinking. Just because I succumb to baseball for the sake of social adherence doesn't mean I have kowtowed to it, or that I have to pretend I like it. I'm going on a three-day whirlwind tour of baseball stadiums thoughout the East Coast (Philly, Washington DC and Baltimore). Does that make me a sellout?
Heh heh ... no. It just makes me someone who enjoys the company of drunken idiots. It's just a coincidence that those idiots are also baseball fans.
---------------
Current obsessions:
Music: Iron and Wine (still), MF Doom, Party Fun Action Committee, Rogue Wave, Melissa Auf Der Maur
TV: Arrested Development, Cheap Seats, Scrubs, The Office (lotta potential), The Perfect Upset (Georgetown vs. Villanova 1985)
Movies: Robots (surprisingly good), Vera Drake, Closer
Sports: NFL Draft this weekend
No sir, no one could ever accuse me of being unAmerican. Joe McCarthy and Roy Cohn would take one look at me in front of congress and say, "Next," not wanting to embarrass themselves at how Capital-fuckin-'A' American I really am.
I love my mom. I love apple pie. I don't love baseball.
[The needle on the record skips] What did he say?!
Most of my friends think I'm insane, but baseball just isn't for me. For my entire life, baseball has been practically shoved down my throat, and I have roundly expectorated it at every turn.
My distaste for baseball has waned over the years. It has gone from a white-hot hatred to a slight dislike over the last few years. I have learned to accept baseball as a fact of life. Rather than rue it's arrival every April, I have learned to see it as a harbinger of better weather.
At first I thought it was the sport itself I hated. I thought the slowness of the game and its crazy, arcane rules were what bothered me. I thought it was the fact that most games take at least 3.5 hours, approximately 90% of which is batters stepping back from the batter's box to adjust their gloves, take a few practice swings and squint up into the stands. I thought it was ridiculous, arbitrary stats like the 40/40 club. I thought it was the way they compare players at the same position by batting average rather than defensive ability. I thought it was 162 games that mean a lot on the whole, but to me are meaningless on a day-to-day basis. But I realized that these are not what bothers me about baseball, it was just the rationale I used to counter baseball fans' arguments as to why it's so superior to football (which is my obsession as far as spectator sports go).
It turns out my reason for disliking baseball is actually three-fold, and none of them really have to do with the sport itself, but more with their fans. (Let me preface this by saying that all my friends like baseball. I mean every single one of them, I think. I love my friends very much, and this is not a reflection of how I feel about them specifically, but rather the sport they love so much.)
When I was still trying to find a sporting identity, I came upon baseball first. I think the first sporting event I ever watched was the game where Pete Rose broke Ty Cobb's all-time hits record. Baseball was just simple enough for me to follow, much moreso than football or basketball or hockey at the time, yet it didn't interest me all that much. I tried. Good lord how I tried to get into baseball. All my friends at school were huge baseball fans, would trade cards every day and talk about players of whom I had no knowledge. As much as I tried to use baseball as a way into a certain social circle, it made me realize I would never cotton to it like I did professional wrestling.
My late Uncle Jim, God bless 'im, tried his damnedest to get me into baseball, and anyone else he met for that matter. He was the singular most hopelessly devoted baseball fanatic I've ever known, no contest, no argument. Anyone who ever met him would never question is undying passion for the sport. He was an encyclopedia of baseball; he knew the history of the game as any person could be acquainted with any subject. Every year, he would send my siblings and I all sorts of baseball paraphernelia (usually of the Philadelphia Phillies, his favorite team). With my little brother, it stuck; to this day he is a psychotic Phillies fan, picking up the torch my uncle left when he passed away a few years ago.
Yet curiously, his passion pushed me away. I've always been someone who does not react well to being force-fed anything. If I feel for a second that something is being overhyped, my mind immediately shuts it out. I hate hype, and even though this was just an example of someone sharing his passion, I don't think I took it that way. Perhaps I latched onto pro football as a counterpoint to the universal acclaim baseball had reached in my household and with my extended family.
So while my entire family would gather together to go to games (even major league games in Philly) or watch the World Series, I would attend, and I would be tolerant. But I never became enamored with it. Instead, I would count the months until August when NFL training camps started and I could begin my (some would say unhealthy) obsession with American football.
Feeling as if baseball was being forced on me led to my second observation about baseball fans (as I saw it): they were living in the past. My rationale was this: when I would watch specials about football (I continually use football as a comparison as it's really the only sport I know a fig about), they would talk about modern players, recent games and latter-day teams. Football, it could be argued in my worldview of the time, was a sport for the contemporary fan.
When I would see a similar special on baseball, however, it always had to harken back to the days of yesteryear. The days of Al Kaline and Jamie Foxx and Warren Spahn and Bob Gibson and Don Drysdale and blah blah blah. Any special program on baseball would begin with a camera panning across an array of old baseball cards with the likes of Mickey Mantle or Sandy Koufax, a faded pennant from the 1950s, along with a litany of other yellowing, decaying relics from the past, usually with a voiceover saying "The Giants win the pennant!" or a video clip of Willie Mays making that over-the-shoulder catch baseball fans are so fond of revisiting.
(It's worth noting that since the era of the juiced-ball, er, the neo-classic era of baseball, this has become less common. Since the Wild Card and the outstanding playoff baseball of the last decade or so, baseball fans have had a lot more recent examples of great baseball to point to. This doesn't mean that every above-average play that happens is "one of the five greatest plays in the history of sports" as Tim Kurkjian might try to convince you, but it's a start.)
This looking to the past, combined with an overly sentimental attitude toward the merits of baseball by the likes of Bob Costas, George F. Will, Mike Lupica and every other two-bit writer who wants to wax poetic about America's Pastime, made me really hate baseball. Does every person who writes about baseball have to pontificate about it as if talking about religion? Is every moment of a baseball game a transcendent, life-altering event? Can the sport itself ever be described at face-value, rather than associated with one particular writer's adolescence or loss of innocence? I once read an article that compared baseball to "a quiet piece of poetry on a summer's day." I wanted to vomit. To me this was the kind of disingenuous hooey that drove me away from the sport like snakes from St. Patrick.
What is truly ironic to me is that I probably appreciate the sport itself right now more than I ever have. I understand what is great about it. Strategically, it is a brilliant game. As a pure sport, there is a lot to love about it. I could never love it for 4 hours, 162 times a year, but maybe a couple times a week for about 70 minutes at a time. Maybe this is why I have been very interested in playoff baseball over the last 3 or 4 seasons (and not just because the hated Yankees haven't won the big one in that span); because every play matters in the playoffs, which can't be said for the almost meaningless regular season. Everything is magnified in baseball's playoffs, showcasing everything that is truly great about the sport. (This is another reason I think the Wild Card is incredible for the sport, it gives us a whole 'nother round of meaningful baseball.)
I have gone through the worm-hole friends, from a place of pure contempt, to one of pure contentment. My own personal Kubler-Ross progression has landed me here. I no longer hate the sport of baseball, although I do hate much about the organizational structure of Major League Baseball as a corporation. I still don't watch baseball, although I do follow it and know enough about it to be somewhat knowledgable in a mixed conversation. Now, when baseball is on and I don't want to watch it, I try to concentrate on the things I like: being with friends, eating brats and dogs, drinking, making lists of things in my head, drinking. Just because I succumb to baseball for the sake of social adherence doesn't mean I have kowtowed to it, or that I have to pretend I like it. I'm going on a three-day whirlwind tour of baseball stadiums thoughout the East Coast (Philly, Washington DC and Baltimore). Does that make me a sellout?
Heh heh ... no. It just makes me someone who enjoys the company of drunken idiots. It's just a coincidence that those idiots are also baseball fans.
---------------
Current obsessions:
Music: Iron and Wine (still), MF Doom, Party Fun Action Committee, Rogue Wave, Melissa Auf Der Maur
TV: Arrested Development, Cheap Seats, Scrubs, The Office (lotta potential), The Perfect Upset (Georgetown vs. Villanova 1985)
Movies: Robots (surprisingly good), Vera Drake, Closer
Sports: NFL Draft this weekend
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
It's Oscar Time!
I don't care if it's lame or not, but I love the Academy Awards. I've watched them since I was about 10 years old, before I could legally get into the theater to see 90% of the movies that were nominated for awards.
It is a much higher level of award show. It stands alone above crap like the People's Choice Awards, Grammys, American Music Awards, MTV Video Music Awards, for two main reasons.
Firstly, it's a far more classy affair. Yes, all award shows are all masturbatory on some level, with mass self-congratulation running rampant. But the Oscars are just different. I don't know if I can put my finger on exactly why. Maybe it's the fact that everyone gets dressed up, hindering the rogue t-shirt-n-jeans element you are likely to find at any music awards show. The way the theater is lit is far more conducive to what feels like an intimate affair.
Secondly, and the reason that the Oscars are far more significant than any imitator is that the awards given out are legit. By which I mean that the awards and nominations given are the least spurious of any award show.
An award show, besides being a fashion show and a free commerical for any entertainment product that can be sold, should act as a time capsule, crystallizing the best of a given genre or field for future generations to review. This does not happen in almost any other award show.
The Grammys are the most egregious example of this. If you look at a random sampling of Grammy Award winners over the last 20 years or so, you will see that the Grammys not only play favorites (Sting, U2, Eric Clapton, Phil Collins) regardless of the overall quality of their work, but they also have a lousy track record of anticipating what music will last. Also, most of their awards to older or more established artists are more akin to Lifetime Achievement awards. For example, my favorite band in the whole wide world, Steely Dan, won the grammy for their 2000 album, Two Against Naturewhich was, inarguably, their worst album to date. (It's not a bad album, but it's the least good one they've ever made.) But if you look back, none of their great, legendary albums made even a dent in Grammy lore. I mean, for God's sake, Olivia Newton-John's "I Honestly Love You" was 1974's Record of the Year.
The Oscars, by contrast, is like a survey of great -- or at least excellent -- cinema. If you look at the nominees every hear for the last 30 years, it can be argued that close to 80% of the nominees for Best Picture are at least very good, if not great movies.
Here's a short list of the legendary movies that were either nominated for or won the Best Picture Oscar in the 1990s alone: Saving Private Ryan, Fargo, Braveheart, Pulp Fiction, The Shawshank Redemption, The Silence of the Lambs, GoodFellas. The Academy gets it. Even when there's a curious inclusion like The Full Monty or Chocolat or The Godfather: Part III or Jerry Maguire, they usually get it as close to right as can be expected by a mainstream industry.
The fact that the Academy Awards are not so bogged down in politics makes it as pure as something like an award show can possibly be. The Grammys (I use them as my whipping boy because of their sheer ineptitude) are about which record label politics the best, not what is the best music.
Having said that, I will now do a brief Oscar recap. I will rate each of the major categories on strength of category (ie. the overall quality of the nominees in comparison to past years, from one to ten), then my own ranking of each of the nominees. I will put an asterisk films/performances I haven't seen, but rate them on my overall impression of the actor, actress or film.
Yes, it is stupid to give out awards for art. But I don't care. I will watch the Oscars every single year because I love them so much. I also usually do very well at "Oscar Pools" and picking the winners. This was a bit of a weak year for movies, but they probably picked close to the best of what was out there.
At least they're not the Grammys, what a crock of shit they are.
It is a much higher level of award show. It stands alone above crap like the People's Choice Awards, Grammys, American Music Awards, MTV Video Music Awards, for two main reasons.
Firstly, it's a far more classy affair. Yes, all award shows are all masturbatory on some level, with mass self-congratulation running rampant. But the Oscars are just different. I don't know if I can put my finger on exactly why. Maybe it's the fact that everyone gets dressed up, hindering the rogue t-shirt-n-jeans element you are likely to find at any music awards show. The way the theater is lit is far more conducive to what feels like an intimate affair.
Secondly, and the reason that the Oscars are far more significant than any imitator is that the awards given out are legit. By which I mean that the awards and nominations given are the least spurious of any award show.
An award show, besides being a fashion show and a free commerical for any entertainment product that can be sold, should act as a time capsule, crystallizing the best of a given genre or field for future generations to review. This does not happen in almost any other award show.
The Grammys are the most egregious example of this. If you look at a random sampling of Grammy Award winners over the last 20 years or so, you will see that the Grammys not only play favorites (Sting, U2, Eric Clapton, Phil Collins) regardless of the overall quality of their work, but they also have a lousy track record of anticipating what music will last. Also, most of their awards to older or more established artists are more akin to Lifetime Achievement awards. For example, my favorite band in the whole wide world, Steely Dan, won the grammy for their 2000 album, Two Against Naturewhich was, inarguably, their worst album to date. (It's not a bad album, but it's the least good one they've ever made.) But if you look back, none of their great, legendary albums made even a dent in Grammy lore. I mean, for God's sake, Olivia Newton-John's "I Honestly Love You" was 1974's Record of the Year.
The Oscars, by contrast, is like a survey of great -- or at least excellent -- cinema. If you look at the nominees every hear for the last 30 years, it can be argued that close to 80% of the nominees for Best Picture are at least very good, if not great movies.
Here's a short list of the legendary movies that were either nominated for or won the Best Picture Oscar in the 1990s alone: Saving Private Ryan, Fargo, Braveheart, Pulp Fiction, The Shawshank Redemption, The Silence of the Lambs, GoodFellas. The Academy gets it. Even when there's a curious inclusion like The Full Monty or Chocolat or The Godfather: Part III or Jerry Maguire, they usually get it as close to right as can be expected by a mainstream industry.
The fact that the Academy Awards are not so bogged down in politics makes it as pure as something like an award show can possibly be. The Grammys (I use them as my whipping boy because of their sheer ineptitude) are about which record label politics the best, not what is the best music.
Having said that, I will now do a brief Oscar recap. I will rate each of the major categories on strength of category (ie. the overall quality of the nominees in comparison to past years, from one to ten), then my own ranking of each of the nominees. I will put an asterisk films/performances I haven't seen, but rate them on my overall impression of the actor, actress or film.
Original Screenplay (Strength of Category: 6)
1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (Winner)
2. The Incredibles
3. The Aviator
4. Hotel Rwanda*
5. Vera Drake*
Eternal Sunshine... was an excellent screenplay. In fact, I think the screenplay was better than the movie ended up turning out to be (though I loved Kate Winslet in it). The Incredibles was maybe the best-written animated movie I've ever seen, and The Aviator was very well-structured, although they could have left a lot out, and it was somewhat odd to have Howard Hughes be considered the underdog throughout much of the film. I heard that Hotel Rwanda wasn't that great a script, that it was more of a genocide-by-numbers script. And please, Vera Drake? Mike Leigh directed that, which means half the movie was probably improvised anyway. I don't think it should count.
Adapted Screenplay (Strength of Category: 8)
1. Sideways (Winner)
2. Million Dollar Baby
3. Finding Neverland
4. Before Sunset*
5. The Motorcycle Diaries*
Sideways was brilliantly-written; mature and funny and heartbreaking at the same time. It never took the easy way out, or made a cheap plot move (which can't be said for Million Dollar Baby, as good as that script is). Finding Neverland was also excellent, but I think it was the Barrie-Peter chemistry that drove that movie. I'm sure Before Sunset is outstanding, given the first film (Before Sunrise, naturally) and that Richard Linklater had a hand in writing it. I heard mixed things about The Motorcycle Diaries, and I find that the dissenting reviews of foreign movies are usually right.
Best Animated Feature (Strength of Category: 4)
1. The Incredibles (Winner)
2. Shrek 2
3. Shark Tale*
By all accounts, Shark Tale got an Oscar nomination because it was only the 3rd animated movie of the year. I found Shrek 2 forgettable, as I found the first Shrek. The Incredibles, however, lived up to its name.
Best Supporting Actor (Strength of Category: 7)
1. Virginia Madsen - Sideways
2. Cate Blanchett - The Aviator (Winner)
3. Laura Linney* - Kinsey
4. Natalie Portman* - Closer
5. Sophie Okonedo* - Hotel Rwanda
Okay, so I haven't seen the last three, but I know Laura Linney is very underrated. I know Natalie Portman is overrated as an actress (though she made a nice comeback in Garden State, in my opinion), and I know nothing whatsoever about Sophie Okonedo. Cate Blanchett was very good, but somewhat artificial, playing Katherine Hepburn. It wasn't an "impression" but it was an affectation. I preferred Madsen ever so slightly; the key to her performance was not how she delivered lines, but what she didn't say. I know that sounds corny, but her very presence drove the film to being so great.
Best Supporting Actor (Strength of Category: 8)
1. Morgan Freeman - Million Dollar Baby (Winner)
2. Alan Alda - The Aviator
3. Jamie Foxx - Collateral
4. Thomas Hayden Church - Sideways
5. Clive Owen - Closer*
Morgan Freeman finally got a well-deserved Oscar, and this was no lifetime achievement award. He was magnificent in Million Dollar Baby. Alan Alda is always so natural, and over the last decade or so he's played real scumbags, and he's great at it. I think Jamie Foxx was better in Collateral than in Ray, because you forgot it was him, which I did not do in Ray. Thomas Hayden Church was similar to Virginia Madsen in Sideways: maybe not the best actor, but an overall presence in the film that makes him invaluable. Didn't see Closer, but it was nice to see Clive Owen get some recognition; I saw him in a movie called Croupier a few years ago and he's a tremendous talent.
Best Actor (Strength of Category: 9)
1. Clint Eastwood - Million Dollar Baby
2. Johnny Depp - Finding Neverland
3. Leonardo DiCaprio - The Aviator
4. Jamie Foxx - Ray (Winner)
5. Don Cheadle - Hotel Rwanda*
Someday, Johnny Depp will win an Oscar. Ditto Don Cheadle. Both are dynamite. DiCaprio was surprisingly good as Howard Hughes. Jamie Foxx was good, but never transcended Ray Charles's spirit in my opinion; I was always conscious that I was watching Jamie Foxx doing a Ray Charles impersonation. Contrast that with great real-life portrayals in movies like Chaplin (Robert Downey Jr), Malcolm X (Denzel Washington), Lenny (Dustin Hoffman), The Insider (Russell Crowe) or JFK (Gary Oldman). Ironically, none of which won the Best Actor or Supporting Actor Oscar. Moreover, I thought Leo's Howard Hughes was a more compelling character than Foxx's Ray Charles, mimicry and technique aside.
I also would like to formally protest Paul Giamatti's second Oscar snub in a row (for Sideways, after last year's American Splendor), but who would you take out? Oh, and yeah, I bought Clint Eastwood's performance more than any of the other nominees; he was the perfect blend of toughness and heart.
Best Actress (Strength of Category: 6)
1. Hilary Swank - Million Dollar Baby (Winner)
2. Kate Winslet - Eternal Sunshine...
3. Imelda Staunton - Vera Drake*
4. Annette Bening - Being Julia*
5. Catalina Sandino Moreno - Maria Full of Grace
I just realized that Million Dollar Baby is so good because of it's acting, not much else. Swank is great at playing white-trash, and she was (like Eastwood) grit and vulnerability rolled into one. Kate Winslet was easy to fall in love with in Eternal Sunshine.... I'm sure Imelda Staunton was amazing, but I didn't see it. Annette Bening playing an aging British actress? I don't know, but didn't see that one either. Moreno was good in Maria Full of Grace, but not Oscar-good; every year they throw in one foreign or exotic-looking actor or actress. She is very pretty, but like many foreign films, her performances was more hype than actual great acting. I thought the pregnant woman in Maria stole the movie.
Best Director (Strength of Category: 6)
1. Clint Eastwood - Million Dollar Baby (Winner)
2. Alexander Payne - Sideways
3. Martin Scorsese - The Aviator
4. Mike Leigh - Vera Drake*
5. Taylor Hackford - Ray
Clint Eastood was as sparse as he can get. It seems that after a lot of disappointing and forgettable fare in the 1990s (anyone remember Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil?), he's got his proverbial groove back. Payne's shifts in tone from funny to serious to romantic to funny to heartbreaking were brilliant, and so sudden. Scorsese did yeomanlike work on The Aviator, but it's not quite up there with his 'A' material. Mike Leigh is one of the finest directors of the last decade, so I'll bet Vera Drake is top-notch. (See Secrets & Lies for Leigh's genius.) Hackford should not have received a nomination for this; he did what he could with what he had, but it's not a very good film.
Best Picture (Strength of Category: 5)
1. Sideways
2. Million Dollar Baby (Winner)
3. The Aviator
4. Finding Neverland
5. Ray
The problem with this year in movies is that there was not one single clear-cut Best Movie out there. There were several very good ones, but I wasn't wowed by really anything this year (unless you count Dodgeball, and you probably think I'm kidding). I give Sideways the slight (and I mean slight) edge over Million Dollar Baby, mainly because the "plot twist" in the latter's script still doesn't quite sit well with me. I feel that Million Dollar Baby had an edge in performance, they were about equal in direction, and Sideways had an edge in the screenwriting. But something in Sideways hit me. I don't know if it was being able to relate to the aimlessness of the main character, or the ambiguous-but-not-really ending. It's a great film, one that I feel will become a touchstone of modern midlife crisis, much like The Big Chill or American Beauty.
Ironic that Million Dollar Baby won the Best Picture Oscar where a superior boxing film (Scorsese's Raging Bull) could not. In fact, there are a lot of parallels between 2004 and 1980. A boxing film went up against a small drama (in 1980 it was Ordinary People). Scorsese was beaten by an actor-who-directs, being that Ordinary People was helmed by first-time director Robert Redford. (Kevin Costner's directing debut, Dances With Wolves, beat Scorsese's GoodFellas in 1990. And Rocky beat out Scorsese's Taxi Driver in 1976. Weird.) But it's a great film, and it's at its best on a small scale, when it's just the characters, though the boxing scenes are excellent too.
Ray was the opposite of Million Dollar Baby, a film that (I feel) failed in its drama and was at its best when Ray was rockin' the crowd. The musical numbers are the life blood of that film, but Ray's TV-movie-by-numbers plot failed to move or even interest me to a large degree.
Finding Neverland is a very good film, but it hinges completely on the relationship between Johnny Depp as J.M. Barrie and Freddie Highmore as young Peter Llewelyn-Davies. In fact, I would say that Highmore should have stolen one of the Supporting Actor spots. The direction is a little spotty, but the acting is magnificent.
The Aviator is a sometimes thrilling and always entertaining piece of pop cinema, but it's far too long (which is why I was a little surprised Thelma Schoonmaker, the film's editor, won the Oscar in that category). There's nothing to complain about it, but it (somewhat like Ray, but not nearly to the same degree) followed the events of Howard Hughes's life a little too literally. The difference is that where Ray tried to shoehorn his childhood into a story where it didn't belong, The Aviator was rife with subtext, from Hughes's impulsive nature, to his OCD, to his obsession with flying. Much more entertaining than I expected it to be.
I'm somewhat bothered in that, if you look at the number of major wins Million Dollar Baby got, you would think (say, ten years down the road) that it's one of the greatest films in history. It's a very good film, but much like Eastwood's Unforgiven twelve years before, it benefits from coming out in a weak year for movies.
Yes, it is stupid to give out awards for art. But I don't care. I will watch the Oscars every single year because I love them so much. I also usually do very well at "Oscar Pools" and picking the winners. This was a bit of a weak year for movies, but they probably picked close to the best of what was out there.
At least they're not the Grammys, what a crock of shit they are.
Monday, February 07, 2005
American iPod
I love the TV show American Idol. I don't just like it, I really really love it a lot. My affinity for the show straddles the line between sincerity and irony. On one hand, there's no way I can really really sincerely love it, because it's stupid. It's three no-talents judging a bunch of even-less-talents on nothing but whether or not the person has a good singing voice. Oh sure, Simon Cowell talks about "image" and "stage presence" but when's the last time they passed a person with a mediocre voice onto Hollywood? It's really a big karaoke contest, so how can I truly like it?
But I'm not going to lie to you, I get excited when it comes on. I don't get excited about most TV shows, but this is truly "event television" in the strictest sense of the word. It combines the best of reality TV, which is trainwreck-quality drama that is memorable, but fleeting, since the good contestants move on and the bad ones are dismissed. Since the idiots are sent packing, we are done with them and don't have to deal with any elongated plots over the course of several episodes. It's like the awkward one-night-stand without having to deal with the "walk of shame" since the no-talents are gone before you can tell the guy you're sorry.
On the other hand, it has the purest "reality" competition you can get, which is singing. It's not like contrived contests and games they have on other reality shows. On AI, everyone gets one shot to impress the fickle and inarticulate judges. They usually don't, and we as an audience can wonder how in the world these people can think they are talented.
I know that I don't have a great singing voice, but once in a while in the shower, I will belt out a song that sounds positively stunning to me. I know my friends wouldn't have the heart to tell me that I suck, but you would think that before I went on a singing competition, I would sing into a tape recorder or something first to see if I was fooling myself. After all, your voice sounds different in your head than it does to other people. Still, watching people cry makes me laugh because it's obvious these people don't give a shit about being great singers, but rather about being famous.
If I were going to use a personal parallel example, it would be this: imagine they had a competition for young writers (and by young I mean pushing 30 years old). Well, I have a blog, so that makes me a "writer" doesn't it? (Just as singing at home makes the AI contestants "singers." I just realized how many "quotes" I've used in this post, and I'm not even done yet.) So I enter this writer's competition. And of course, since I can barely complete a coherent sentence, Simon tells me I'm "dreadful" and Randy says "that was terrible dude" and Pauler says "you gave it your best shot but it's not right for this writing competition."
In this example, I would, myself, just say "oh well." It doesn't mean I would stop blogging. I don't do it for any kind of accolades (although, let's face it, it's only a matter of time before a seven-figure, five-book deal comes my way), I just do it for myself because I like it. This is how these failed singers should look at it: maybe I'm not good enough to be a professional singer, but that's okay because I love singing. I'm going to continue singing for myself because I enjoy expressing myself through the beautiful and timeless art of music.
But this doesn't happen. Instead, if I were a typical AI (or in this case, American Blogger) contestant, I would storm off stage crying or swearing (usually not both), saying, "Simon was intimidated by me. Randy doesn't even know a gerund from a dangling participle. Paula was really nice, though, she said I was good enough but they wanted someone with snappier prose."
This proves to me that we as a society are not breeding artists anymore, but budding celebrities. If these people truly cared about art, they would... well first of all, they would start writing songs and learning the craft of creating good music. But after that, they would not give a crap what three judges said, they would still continue to sing and be happy with it. But people want to be famous first, artistic second.
This brings me to the thing that frustrates me about American Idol, and why it makes me more and more in love with my new iPod than ever: the songs on American Idol are generally terrible. Maybe "terrible" is too strong a word, but all the songs are culled from the same style of subpar pop music that has relegated modern radio to elevator music status. It's always something by Whitney or Celine or Mariah. I don't think anyone would say these particular women sing the best songs, even if they do have the best voices.
I should say at this point that I'm by no means an underground or artsy-rock fan. I don't like bands that are weird for the sake of being weird or bands that use a lot of feedback or go out of their way to shock people. What I love is great songwriting, with decent lyrics, good melodies and even a good chorus. And in today's music scene, there are some great great bands writing great songs. Whether it's the Flaming Lips or Iron & Wine or The Shins or Stephen Malkmus or the late Elliott Smith, we are finally coming out of the terrible mid-90s funk (and I don't mean like Parliament funk, I mean like a rut) that caused mediocre groups like the Wallflowers and Matchbox 20 (sorry Jaime) and Sugar Ray to flourish. Songwriting is back and I couldn't be happier about it.
But you wouldn't even know about this modern rock revolution from American Idol, where apparently no music exists outside of R&B crooning. I understand that indie rock and backpacker hip hop don't have a great translation when it comes to singing, but to me they are far more interesting than the heartless crap they sing. Once in a while you'll hear a good Stevie Wonder song on there, but for the most part it's gutless high-register voices singing witless, hokey songs.
So by the time I'm done watching an American Idol episode, I find myself pining for my iPod more than ever before. If you haven't seen an iPod, they are only the greatest invention music has seen since Napster. It's the size of a pack of cigarettes, but thinner, and it can hold like 2 weeks worth of songs. At press time I currently have 2,398 songs on mine. Not all of them are good, in fact, I'd say less than half of them are very good. But the beauty of the iPod is that it has a built-in rating mechanism by which you can rate a song from * to ***** so you can delete them later if you want to. It ranks your highest rated songs, logs the last time each one was played and how many times it's been played, categorizes everything for you... I better slow down, I'm getting excited. Anyway, if you have a spare $300 laying around, go get one. Now. I'm serious. Oh, you should have a computer, too.
But the iPod is so magical because I can put thousands of songs on there. And I have everything from Leonard Cohen to Aesop Rock to Johnny Cash to Company Flow to Mercury Rev to Radiohead to Madvillain and so on and so forth and whatnot etc ad infinitum. I don't list all these bands to brag or to somehow show how diverse my musical tastes are. I'm doing it to prove that when I hear "I Will Always Love You" or "My Heart Will Go On," I can't wait to throw on the iPod, because I crave the diversity that awaits me. It's the kind of thing where I wish they would ask me to select the music for one episode. It would be like the week when they did all Elton John songs in season three, except they would be songs I like, not songs I picked. I figure, maybe if a lot of people watch American Idol, and a lot of people would be exposed to the music on it, maybe those people would hear something they've never heard and those selfsame people would go to the record store the next day and purchase those albums by those great artists and it would become profitable and more artists would be encouraged to make great music. I could be wrong.
What was my point? I don't even remember. I think it's that I love my iPod. Did that come across at all?
But I'm not going to lie to you, I get excited when it comes on. I don't get excited about most TV shows, but this is truly "event television" in the strictest sense of the word. It combines the best of reality TV, which is trainwreck-quality drama that is memorable, but fleeting, since the good contestants move on and the bad ones are dismissed. Since the idiots are sent packing, we are done with them and don't have to deal with any elongated plots over the course of several episodes. It's like the awkward one-night-stand without having to deal with the "walk of shame" since the no-talents are gone before you can tell the guy you're sorry.
On the other hand, it has the purest "reality" competition you can get, which is singing. It's not like contrived contests and games they have on other reality shows. On AI, everyone gets one shot to impress the fickle and inarticulate judges. They usually don't, and we as an audience can wonder how in the world these people can think they are talented.
I know that I don't have a great singing voice, but once in a while in the shower, I will belt out a song that sounds positively stunning to me. I know my friends wouldn't have the heart to tell me that I suck, but you would think that before I went on a singing competition, I would sing into a tape recorder or something first to see if I was fooling myself. After all, your voice sounds different in your head than it does to other people. Still, watching people cry makes me laugh because it's obvious these people don't give a shit about being great singers, but rather about being famous.
If I were going to use a personal parallel example, it would be this: imagine they had a competition for young writers (and by young I mean pushing 30 years old). Well, I have a blog, so that makes me a "writer" doesn't it? (Just as singing at home makes the AI contestants "singers." I just realized how many "quotes" I've used in this post, and I'm not even done yet.) So I enter this writer's competition. And of course, since I can barely complete a coherent sentence, Simon tells me I'm "dreadful" and Randy says "that was terrible dude" and Pauler says "you gave it your best shot but it's not right for this writing competition."
In this example, I would, myself, just say "oh well." It doesn't mean I would stop blogging. I don't do it for any kind of accolades (although, let's face it, it's only a matter of time before a seven-figure, five-book deal comes my way), I just do it for myself because I like it. This is how these failed singers should look at it: maybe I'm not good enough to be a professional singer, but that's okay because I love singing. I'm going to continue singing for myself because I enjoy expressing myself through the beautiful and timeless art of music.
But this doesn't happen. Instead, if I were a typical AI (or in this case, American Blogger) contestant, I would storm off stage crying or swearing (usually not both), saying, "Simon was intimidated by me. Randy doesn't even know a gerund from a dangling participle. Paula was really nice, though, she said I was good enough but they wanted someone with snappier prose."
This proves to me that we as a society are not breeding artists anymore, but budding celebrities. If these people truly cared about art, they would... well first of all, they would start writing songs and learning the craft of creating good music. But after that, they would not give a crap what three judges said, they would still continue to sing and be happy with it. But people want to be famous first, artistic second.
This brings me to the thing that frustrates me about American Idol, and why it makes me more and more in love with my new iPod than ever: the songs on American Idol are generally terrible. Maybe "terrible" is too strong a word, but all the songs are culled from the same style of subpar pop music that has relegated modern radio to elevator music status. It's always something by Whitney or Celine or Mariah. I don't think anyone would say these particular women sing the best songs, even if they do have the best voices.
I should say at this point that I'm by no means an underground or artsy-rock fan. I don't like bands that are weird for the sake of being weird or bands that use a lot of feedback or go out of their way to shock people. What I love is great songwriting, with decent lyrics, good melodies and even a good chorus. And in today's music scene, there are some great great bands writing great songs. Whether it's the Flaming Lips or Iron & Wine or The Shins or Stephen Malkmus or the late Elliott Smith, we are finally coming out of the terrible mid-90s funk (and I don't mean like Parliament funk, I mean like a rut) that caused mediocre groups like the Wallflowers and Matchbox 20 (sorry Jaime) and Sugar Ray to flourish. Songwriting is back and I couldn't be happier about it.
But you wouldn't even know about this modern rock revolution from American Idol, where apparently no music exists outside of R&B crooning. I understand that indie rock and backpacker hip hop don't have a great translation when it comes to singing, but to me they are far more interesting than the heartless crap they sing. Once in a while you'll hear a good Stevie Wonder song on there, but for the most part it's gutless high-register voices singing witless, hokey songs.
So by the time I'm done watching an American Idol episode, I find myself pining for my iPod more than ever before. If you haven't seen an iPod, they are only the greatest invention music has seen since Napster. It's the size of a pack of cigarettes, but thinner, and it can hold like 2 weeks worth of songs. At press time I currently have 2,398 songs on mine. Not all of them are good, in fact, I'd say less than half of them are very good. But the beauty of the iPod is that it has a built-in rating mechanism by which you can rate a song from * to ***** so you can delete them later if you want to. It ranks your highest rated songs, logs the last time each one was played and how many times it's been played, categorizes everything for you... I better slow down, I'm getting excited. Anyway, if you have a spare $300 laying around, go get one. Now. I'm serious. Oh, you should have a computer, too.
But the iPod is so magical because I can put thousands of songs on there. And I have everything from Leonard Cohen to Aesop Rock to Johnny Cash to Company Flow to Mercury Rev to Radiohead to Madvillain and so on and so forth and whatnot etc ad infinitum. I don't list all these bands to brag or to somehow show how diverse my musical tastes are. I'm doing it to prove that when I hear "I Will Always Love You" or "My Heart Will Go On," I can't wait to throw on the iPod, because I crave the diversity that awaits me. It's the kind of thing where I wish they would ask me to select the music for one episode. It would be like the week when they did all Elton John songs in season three, except they would be songs I like, not songs I picked. I figure, maybe if a lot of people watch American Idol, and a lot of people would be exposed to the music on it, maybe those people would hear something they've never heard and those selfsame people would go to the record store the next day and purchase those albums by those great artists and it would become profitable and more artists would be encouraged to make great music. I could be wrong.
What was my point? I don't even remember. I think it's that I love my iPod. Did that come across at all?
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Oxy Moron
[Ed's note: I'm gonna level with you, kids. This N.O.C.W.I.T. entry is gonna be gross. If you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip it. It discusses dealing with acne in a frank, some would say profane, manner. There it is, you've been warned.]
When I was in junior high, I developed really really bad acne. From about 7th grade until about my senior year of high school, my face was filled with red blotches and shiny pimples. I know everyone gets it, but I'll bet I got it worse. True story: when I was in 8th grade, a kindergartener asked me if I had chicken pox. I got this acne medication from my doctor that dried up my skin and made it flake off. I would routinely have to shake dead skin out of the folds of my text books in junior high.
Now it's not as if I was a social dynamo to begin with. It wasn't like I had a whole lot else going for me either, so I can't blame it all on the acne. I didn't have a personality, wasn't smart, was scrawny (I say it like it's a bad thing), had a huge nose for my face, and unmanageably thick and straw-like hair. And this was after I got the braces off.
But when it came to the one thing that set me apart from my peers at that age, it was the acne. I was never ostracized by my classmates or anything like that, since many of them had it too. Actually, only my bitch sisters and asshole brother used to tease me about it. But I took it, knowing full well that about the time mine started clearing up, those idiots would get it. And they did.
Acne was my mortal enemy for a long time. It was cruel, tormenting condition of the skin caused by dirt and oil. When Noxema and Clearasil and Oxy 10 and all the other acne-cleansing products didn't work, I would sometimes have to practice "vigil-acne" justice. (Haha! Man I'm clever!) I would pop 'em. I would pop the zit out of 'em.
Some people enjoy popping plastic bubbles, I enjoyed popping zits. It wasn't just the perverse pleasure of squeezing all that disgusting stuff out of its fleshy foxhole, or watching the volcano-like eruptions signifying the end of a blemish. It was sweet revenge -- hell, it was the only possible revenge -- against this dermatologist-mocking syndrome that had kept me at a disadvantage all those years. After all, my looks are my livelihood!
There were two particular instances where my Charles-Bronson-in-Death-Wish-like hatred of all things oily and putrescent would produce a most-satisfying result. I would like to tell you about both of them right now. If you are squeamish, you may want to skip to my I Hate Jared from the Subway Commericals entry or something.
The first incident took place in my health class at Fairport High School in 1994. Back then I was a T-Shirt 'N' Jeans guy, unlike the nattily dressed fashion plate I am today. I wore a black Vancouver Canucks baseball cap and a black t-shirt that day. There had been an immense, Mount St.Helens-size pimple right at the base of my skull. I knew what it was. There was a large bump there, but it had a putty-like fluidity about it. It was enormous. It actually gave me a headache, this monstrosity. I had been fanagling with it for a few weeks, and I was wondering when it was gonna pop. They always pop, but some take longer than others.
This day, I thankfully got to health class early, before most of the other people did. I set in the second-to-last seat in my row, and the guy who sat behind me (I think his name was Mike, but I wouldn't swear to it) hadn't shown up yet. My hat was on, but right under the snaps was this bump, making the hat uncomfortable to wear because they were rubbing against one another. I placed my two middle fingers on either side of the bump, first massaging it, then tapping it slightly. I wasn't sure if it was ready yet. I decided to test it out. With my two middle fingers flanking the mountainous lump, I pressed in, against my skull, as if I were fastening two snap-on buttons. To my great surprise, my head exploded from the back, shooting a rocket of pus behind me. It looked like the Zapruder film. I never did hear it land. Thank the lord that my classmate Mike had not been sitting behind me, because explaining that one would have been difficult. He has no idea how close he was.
The relief I felt is indescribable. It was like opening a release valve. You could practially hear the "sssssss." One side effect: there was (I'm not kidding) a small hole in the back of my head after that. In fact, when I'm shaved bald you can still see the scar. A small amount of blood actually flowed out of my head and into my hair. Luckily, I just turned the Canucks cap backward, with the brim covering up the blood, and washed it off after class. Very smart on my part. My head is not just a breeding ground for acne, folks.
The second incident took place at the Art Museum in Philadelphia in 2000. There was a very promiment pimple I had had for probably 8 or 9 years on my forehead. It sat dead-center, about an inch and a half directly above my nose, and it was the one blemish on my otherwise relatively smooth (and growing) forehead. This zit had been my albatross for years. This thing was so deep that no amount of cleaning or buffing or attempted-popping could get it out.
In early 2000, I had had enough. One day, when I was alone, I took the business end of a corkscrew (it was the sharpest object I could find at the time), went to a mirror, and dug into this thing. It was as if I were trying to excavate a corpse from a grave. Not that I've ever tried to do that. I was unable to fully remove the blemish, but I must have jostled something.
I was visiting my friend Tony in Philadelphia. We went to the art museum and did the "Rocky" thing at the top of the stairs and it was all very amusing to us. Inside the museum, my head began itching or something. I touched the pimple that I had been trying to dispose over for the better part of a decade. I used the same technique I had used before -- the pressing toward the skull -- except this time it was with my index fingers. It wouldn't budge. I tried again; nothing. One more time, with all the force I could muster, and with an inward "wedge" motion, using my fingernails, I gave it one last try. And to my delight, at long last, it finally popped. No longer would I have to deal with this distracting piece of flesh marring my otherwise perfect face. Okay, yes, it bled, and yes there is a small scar there, but it's not half as distracting as it once was.
So there it is. Kids out there with acne, fear not. You'll get the best of it eventually. These pimples may arrogantly sit on your face now, but they don't know that one day, they will meet an untimely demise.
When I was in junior high, I developed really really bad acne. From about 7th grade until about my senior year of high school, my face was filled with red blotches and shiny pimples. I know everyone gets it, but I'll bet I got it worse. True story: when I was in 8th grade, a kindergartener asked me if I had chicken pox. I got this acne medication from my doctor that dried up my skin and made it flake off. I would routinely have to shake dead skin out of the folds of my text books in junior high.
Now it's not as if I was a social dynamo to begin with. It wasn't like I had a whole lot else going for me either, so I can't blame it all on the acne. I didn't have a personality, wasn't smart, was scrawny (I say it like it's a bad thing), had a huge nose for my face, and unmanageably thick and straw-like hair. And this was after I got the braces off.
[Side note: It seems like I've never been able to get it all right at the same time. I was a weird kid, then I got normal. Then I got braces. I got the braces off, but then I became a bit of a fat kid. Then I dropped the weight and the acne kicked in. Then the acne goes away and I gain like 50 pounds in college. Then I get glasses. Then I drop some of the weight and get comfortable with my body type, and I start getting thinning hair. It's like I've always been half-dork -- some might say more than half.
There was one, shining one-year period when I was a senior in high school that was like the eye of the nerd hurricane: the acne was going away, I was 180 lbs, no glasses (even though I probably needed them). If I had only had a personality, I would have been a real catch back then. Ah well...]
But when it came to the one thing that set me apart from my peers at that age, it was the acne. I was never ostracized by my classmates or anything like that, since many of them had it too. Actually, only my bitch sisters and asshole brother used to tease me about it. But I took it, knowing full well that about the time mine started clearing up, those idiots would get it. And they did.
Acne was my mortal enemy for a long time. It was cruel, tormenting condition of the skin caused by dirt and oil. When Noxema and Clearasil and Oxy 10 and all the other acne-cleansing products didn't work, I would sometimes have to practice "vigil-acne" justice. (Haha! Man I'm clever!) I would pop 'em. I would pop the zit out of 'em.
Some people enjoy popping plastic bubbles, I enjoyed popping zits. It wasn't just the perverse pleasure of squeezing all that disgusting stuff out of its fleshy foxhole, or watching the volcano-like eruptions signifying the end of a blemish. It was sweet revenge -- hell, it was the only possible revenge -- against this dermatologist-mocking syndrome that had kept me at a disadvantage all those years. After all, my looks are my livelihood!
There were two particular instances where my Charles-Bronson-in-Death-Wish-like hatred of all things oily and putrescent would produce a most-satisfying result. I would like to tell you about both of them right now. If you are squeamish, you may want to skip to my I Hate Jared from the Subway Commericals entry or something.
The first incident took place in my health class at Fairport High School in 1994. Back then I was a T-Shirt 'N' Jeans guy, unlike the nattily dressed fashion plate I am today. I wore a black Vancouver Canucks baseball cap and a black t-shirt that day. There had been an immense, Mount St.Helens-size pimple right at the base of my skull. I knew what it was. There was a large bump there, but it had a putty-like fluidity about it. It was enormous. It actually gave me a headache, this monstrosity. I had been fanagling with it for a few weeks, and I was wondering when it was gonna pop. They always pop, but some take longer than others.
This day, I thankfully got to health class early, before most of the other people did. I set in the second-to-last seat in my row, and the guy who sat behind me (I think his name was Mike, but I wouldn't swear to it) hadn't shown up yet. My hat was on, but right under the snaps was this bump, making the hat uncomfortable to wear because they were rubbing against one another. I placed my two middle fingers on either side of the bump, first massaging it, then tapping it slightly. I wasn't sure if it was ready yet. I decided to test it out. With my two middle fingers flanking the mountainous lump, I pressed in, against my skull, as if I were fastening two snap-on buttons. To my great surprise, my head exploded from the back, shooting a rocket of pus behind me. It looked like the Zapruder film. I never did hear it land. Thank the lord that my classmate Mike had not been sitting behind me, because explaining that one would have been difficult. He has no idea how close he was.
The relief I felt is indescribable. It was like opening a release valve. You could practially hear the "sssssss." One side effect: there was (I'm not kidding) a small hole in the back of my head after that. In fact, when I'm shaved bald you can still see the scar. A small amount of blood actually flowed out of my head and into my hair. Luckily, I just turned the Canucks cap backward, with the brim covering up the blood, and washed it off after class. Very smart on my part. My head is not just a breeding ground for acne, folks.
The second incident took place at the Art Museum in Philadelphia in 2000. There was a very promiment pimple I had had for probably 8 or 9 years on my forehead. It sat dead-center, about an inch and a half directly above my nose, and it was the one blemish on my otherwise relatively smooth (and growing) forehead. This zit had been my albatross for years. This thing was so deep that no amount of cleaning or buffing or attempted-popping could get it out.
In early 2000, I had had enough. One day, when I was alone, I took the business end of a corkscrew (it was the sharpest object I could find at the time), went to a mirror, and dug into this thing. It was as if I were trying to excavate a corpse from a grave. Not that I've ever tried to do that. I was unable to fully remove the blemish, but I must have jostled something.
I was visiting my friend Tony in Philadelphia. We went to the art museum and did the "Rocky" thing at the top of the stairs and it was all very amusing to us. Inside the museum, my head began itching or something. I touched the pimple that I had been trying to dispose over for the better part of a decade. I used the same technique I had used before -- the pressing toward the skull -- except this time it was with my index fingers. It wouldn't budge. I tried again; nothing. One more time, with all the force I could muster, and with an inward "wedge" motion, using my fingernails, I gave it one last try. And to my delight, at long last, it finally popped. No longer would I have to deal with this distracting piece of flesh marring my otherwise perfect face. Okay, yes, it bled, and yes there is a small scar there, but it's not half as distracting as it once was.
So there it is. Kids out there with acne, fear not. You'll get the best of it eventually. These pimples may arrogantly sit on your face now, but they don't know that one day, they will meet an untimely demise.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
The Best Songs of 1978 - 2002 (Now With Extra Bitching!)
Back in 2002 VH-1 came out with a list they called "The Best Songs of the Last 25 Years." This was back when television (and most of pop culture) was list-crazy. Call it end of millennium obsessive compulsion, which I now have.
I guess they settled on 1978 and after so they didn't have to make another list riddled with the Beatles, the Stones, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, the Bee Gees and all the usual players. So for trying to branch out a little, I gave VH-1 some credit.
However, I was so infuriated by some of the choices on the list that I made a song-by-song critique as sort of a catharsis. I am posting the list, with my comments, strictly for posterity. Feel free to ignore it.
But first, the legend (and no, I'm not referring to Tom O'Connor):
After each song is a "YES," "NO," or "MAYBE." This indicates with whether I agree (YES), disagree (NO) or am ambivalent (MAYBE) about each selection.
$ = Sellout song; a song a group used to deviate from their fan base for more money
@ = Anthem of the times; landmark of its year/movement
! = Overrated even in its own time, but perhaps more so now
* = Outstanding songwriting
& = Much better available songs by same artist
Let's begin then:
1. Nirvana, “Smells Like Teen Spirit" (YES. Although I think the song is unbelievably overrated at face value, there is no denying it’s influence. I would not put it at number one, but I recognize its importance, even while acknowledging that it’s not as great a SONG as people think. ) @!
2. Michael Jackson, “Billie Jean” (YES. Phenomenal. It was timely at the time, but it’s still grooving now. It’s amazing how good his music was back then.) @
3. Guns N’ Roses, “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (MAYBE. It was the first one, but “Paradise City” was more rocking, “Welcome to the Jungle” more influential and timeless, and “Patience” better written. It’s a good song, but not #3.) &
4. Eminem, “Lose Yourself” (YES. I’m skeptical of mainstream rap so it took me a while to come around to this song. But if you listen to the lyrics, this is truly a transcendent song, in both content and structure. Eminem is a virtuoso here, and he has never quite duplicated it.) *
5. U2, “One” (MAYBE. Again, is this really their best? I would put “Sunday Bloody Sunday” or “Angels of Harlem” above this. But I’m not a Bono-head, am I?) &
6. Run-D.M.C., “Walk This Way” (YES. Effectively ushered rap into the mainstream. Not only culturally significant, but it’s a great tune. A moment frozen in time, if you ask me.) @
7. Prince, “When Doves Cry” (YES. A hallmark of electronic music. The lyrics are a little odd, but that’s part of its charm.) @
8. Whitney Houston, “I Will Always Love You” (NO. If ever there were a more corporate attempt at manufacturing feeling and emotion, I’ve yet to see it. This song is a travesty.) ! &
9. The Police, “Every Breath You Take” (YES. The fact that it’s overplayed aside, this is a gem. Haunting. But it is incredibly overplayed, and I wouldn’t put it top ten.) @ *
10. Madonna, “Like a Virgin” (NO. “Material Girl,” yes. “Papa Don’t Preach,” sure. I’ll give you “Borderline” if you want. This one is her most vapid and least fun.) &
11. Van Halen, “Jump” (YES. One of the best keyboard solos this side of Rick Wakeman, and DLR in his prime. An icon of 80s hair rock.) @
12. Alanis Morissette, “You Oughta Know” (YES. Maybe this song was about Dave Coulier and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the lyrics are way too obvious. But few songs capture the bitterness of a bad breakup like this song. And it is catchy.) @
13. TLC, “Waterfalls” (NO. Just because this was catchy and obvious doesn’t make it a good song. It’s more of a guilty pleasure) !
14. Sinead O’Connor, “Nothing Compares 2 U” (YES. I gotta say, it’s a great song. Her rendition is very heartfelt, so much so that I can’t even let her bullshit get in the way of that.) *
15. Pink Floyd, “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)” (YES. A great song, bombast and all.) @
16. No Doubt, “Don’t Speak” (NO. Preposterous. In the top 20? I could have expected “Spiderwebs,” but this pompous crap?) !
17. Def Leppard, “Photograph” (MAYBE. It’s a fine song, but is it really a standout from a lot of the arena rock of the 1980s? I would have expected “Pour Some Sugar on Me” for them.)
18. R.E.M., “Losing My Religion” (NO. Thematically it’s a rip-off of #9, and it was massively overrated when it came out. No hook, no chorus, pretentious as it gets. If you absolutely must put an R.E.M. song on there, make it “It’s the end of the world…”) !
19. Public Enemy, “Fight the Power” (YES. Although it’s hardly their best song, it’s the most accessible and the one they’re known for. “Don’t Believe the Hype” and “Night of the Living Baseheads” are better, less obvious songs, but this one made them look like revolutionaries.)
20. AC/DC, “You Shook Me All Night Long” (YES. The fact that it’s overplayed now shouldn’t overshadow the fact that it’s a really good song.) @
21. U2, “With or Without You” (MAYBE. I must say I think this song is overrated, although I think I may be the only person to think so. They have much better out there.) @ &
22. Cyndi Lauper, “Time After Time” (MAYBE. Cyndi plays it pretty straight with this song, but “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” is her true best.) &
23. Prince, “Little Red Corvette” (MAYBE. When you think of Prince songs, this isn’t the most memorable of them. “1999” is more influential, “Raspberry Beret” more catchy.) &
24. Celine Dion, “My Heart Will Go On” (NO. Is there anyone who wasn’t over 13 years old and a girl in 1997 who truly thinks this is a good song? Pathetic, VH1, pathetic.) !
25. Rick James, “Super Freak” (YES. A terrific groove. He’s a pretty horrible human being, but it’s a great post-disco song.) @
26. Bon Jovi, “Livin’ on a Prayer” (YES. It’s between this and “Wanted Dead or Alive” but when you compare this song to their recent output, you forget how hard these guys rocked, once.) @
27. Grandmaster Flash, “The Message” (YES. It’s the first rap song with any kind of social commentary. The beat is one that has become legendary.)
28. Britney Spears, “... Baby One More Time” (NO. Seriously, who’s making this list?)
29. Bruce Springsteen, “Born in the U.S.A.” (YES. This probably should have been listed higher if only for its cultural impact the year it came out.)
30. Janet Jackson, “Nasty” (MAYBE. Very popular, kind of a cool song, but all of Janet’s songs run together somehow.)
31. Dr. Dre feat. Snoop Doggy Dogg, “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” (NO. It was popular, but it was one of the worst songs on “The Chronic” and turned rap into shitty synthesized crud.) $
32. Pearl Jam, “Jeremy” (YES. The apogee of their songwriting and a hallmark of the era.) * @
33. Tina Turner, “What’s Love Got to do With It” (YES. A great pop song of the ‘80s that Tina lucked into.) @
34. Peter Gabriel, “In Your Eyes” (MAYBE. Again, do people really love the song, or is this because of “Say Anything…”? I prefer “Sledgehammer.”)
35. The Sugarhill Gang, “Rapper’s Delight” (YES. From a purist’s standpoint, this is a travesty since they didn’t even write the lyrics, but this is a great song.) @
36. Joan Jett, “I Love Rock ’n Roll” (YES. The fact that a female singer can sound this hard is awesome.)
37. Alicia Keys, “Fallin'” (YES. A smash, even though it looks destined to be a one-hit wonder.)
38. The Clash, “London Calling” (YES. Completely underrated. I wonder if the “gurus” at VH1 would have even put this on if Joe Strummer hadn’t recently died.) @
39. Tom Petty, “Free Fallin'" (MAYBE. Hmmmm… I don’t know. This was popular in its day, but I don’t think it’s stood the test of time to be considered an outstanding song.)
40. Michael Jackson, “Beat It” (YES. This song is still as fresh and fun as it was when I was 8 yrs old.) * @
41. Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Under the Bridge” (MAYBE. The song is well-written, and a nice departure from their thrashing they-wish-they-could rap junk, but I’m not 100% sold.)
42. Blondie, “Heart of Glass” (YES. You gotta have one Blondie song on here.)
43. The Go-Go’s, “Our Lips Are Sealed” (MAYBE. “Vacation” should probably be here. It’s actually a decent song, but dated.)
44. Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive” (YES. Even though it’s been played out because of the ‘70s revival, it’s still a fantastic tune.) @ *
45. Aerosmith, “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” (NO. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.) $ ! &
46. Queen and David Bowie, “Under Pressure” (MAYBE. This may be more of a case of the tail wagging the dog. It’s a good song, but honestly, if the exact same recording were made by, say, Men at Work, would people really tout it this highly?) &
47. Shania Twain, “You’re Still the One” (NO. This comes from that terrible time period where ballads were all the rage. This one does not stand out in any way.) !
48. Naughty By Nature, “O.P.P.” (YES. One of the first cases where a legit rap song became popular. It has playfully sexual lyrics and a great hook.) @
49. Journey, “Don’t Stop Believin'” (YES. An anthem of the 1980s. Sweeping, soaring, timeless.) @ *
50. Lenny Kravitz, “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” (YES. Another throwback to hard rock’s glory days. Rockin’ and even the message isn’t heavy-handed.) *
51. George Michael, “Faith” (YES. Great song, one of the great songs of the late-‘80s. Catchy and cool.) *
52. The Rolling Stones, “Start Me Up” (YES. A killer riff, provocative lyrics. It’s old school and it feels like a classic from the ‘60s.)
53. Marvin Gaye, “Sexual Healing” (MAYBE. It exemplifies mediocre R&B of the ‘80s; it’s an okay song, but if it were anyone else beside Marvin Gaye singing it, would it be as popular?)
54. Goo Goo Dolls, “Iris” (NO This song is pure bloated crap. The lyrics are not too bad, but the bombast combined with its constant airplay makes it unbearable.) ! $
55. Talking Heads, “Once in a Lifetime” (YES. Though I prefer “Burning Down the House” this is the one that has more of a lasting image.) @ &
56. Sheryl Crow, “All I Wanna Do” (YES. Fun, folky, wry lyrics. Represents the best of ‘90s pop.) * @
57. Eric Clapton, “Tears in Heaven” (YES. Beautiful, heartfelt, a real touchstone of the time. The reason behind it makes it that much more heartbreaking.) * @
58. The Notorious B.I.G. feat. Puff Daddy & Mase, “Mo Money Mo Problems” (NO. It’s essentially a remake of “I’m Coming Out” with some very suspect lyrics. Any song where the video made more of an impact than the song is sad. I mean, jesus, Ma$e?!) $
59. Meat Loaf “Paradise By the Dashboard Light” (MAYBE. I really don’t like Meat Loaf as a rule, but this song is very popular and has made a bit of a comeback. It’s certainly better than the schlock Loaf put out in the ‘90s.)
60. Santana feat. Rob Thomas, “Smooth” (NO. Endless radio play does not make it a good song. This was an especially weak time for music, considering it was the only thing they played for about a year.) ! $
61. Backstreet Boys, “I Want It That Way” (MAYBE. I can see where they’re coming from, but it’s not as good as “As Long as You Love Me,” but at least it made the list and nothing from fucking N*SYNC did.) & $
62. Pretenders, “Brass in Pocket” (MAYBE. This song is somewhat Special [Spe-cial!], but it’s also a little bland [bla-nd!].)
63. Beck, “Loser” (MAYBE. Not Beck’s best, but sure captures the spirit of it’s time.) & @
64. The Knack, “My Sharona” (YES. Timeless, blasts out of the speakers. Fun and pulsating.) @
65. Nelly, “Hot in Herre” (NO. Great club song, but so worthless. Let’s be serious.) !
66. Squeeze, “Tempted” (YES. This white R&B is better than the fruit of another… or something)
67. John Cougar Mellencamp, “Jack and Diane” (NO. Overrated song, simplistic and pretentious. John Cougar doing more of his “I’m a common person just like you” stuff.)
68. Chic, “Good Times” (YES. Fantastic, extremely influential.) @
69. Mary J. Blige, “Real Love” (YES. This was a darkhorse, but a beautiful song; the best R&B had to offer in the ‘90s.) * @
70. Culture Club, “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” (NO. Blasé as it gets.) &
71. Dave Matthews Band, “Crash Into Me” (MAYBE. It’s well-written, it’s unique, but I like “What Would You Say” better.) &
72. John Lennon, “(Just Like) Starting Over” (NO. This song just sucks. Pseudo-‘50s garbage. Just because it was after a long absence doesn’t make it good. If it weren’t Lennon, it would never have made the top 5,000 list.) & !
73. LL Cool J, “Mama Said Knock You Out” (YES. It’s the last great rap song of the pre-’92 era. Rugged, pulsating, driving. Take that Moe Dee!) @
74. Hall & Oates, “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do)” (MAYBE. Yeah, I can go for this. I like “Private Eyes” better, though.)
75. The Ramones, “I Wanna Be Sedated” (MAYBE. It’s not their greatest showcase.) &
76. Eurythmics, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” (YES. A proto-techno landmark.) @
77. Missy Elliott, “Work It” (NO. I hope to god you’re kidding… we’re talking about 25 years here. What an insult.) !
78. Green Day, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” (NO. Simple-minded, not well-written. This was written to be a graduation song, and I know because it came out when I graduated – and it still failed to capture any emotion of the event. You’re telling me this is better than ANYTHING Billy Joel has done since 1978?!???) !
79. Destiny’s Child, “Say My Name” (NO. The epitome of shitty lock-step mid-‘90s R&B.)
80. Duran Duran, “Hungry Like the Wolf” (YES. Well-written and melodic, with a killer chorus.) @
81. OutKast, “Ms. Jackson” (MAYBE. If this poll took place 5 years from now, it wouldn’t get a sniff. But the craft is there, it’s a good song.)
82. Soft Cell, “Tainted Love” (YES. Unique, and it was a massive hit.) @
83. Band Aid, “Do They Know It’s Christmas” (YES. But where is “We Are the World”? Encapsulates the Rockers Care 1980s.) @
84. Radiohead, “Creep” (MAYBE. “Karma Police” is a better song, but this one is the on they’re known for.) @ &
85. Eminem, “My Name Is” (MAYBE. Time will tell; this is a very catchy, fun rap song. Great beat. I think there are better rap songs they could have used.)
86. Tracy Chapman, “Fast Car” (MAYBE. Very well-written, but do people still revere it 15 years later?) *
87. The Who, “Who Are You” (YES. Love the synth and the harmony. A radio staple.) @
88. Metallica, “Enter Sandman” (NO. Shame on Metallica, pandering to MTV, with stupid Freddy Kreuger lyrics. Where is “One”?) $ ! &
89. Pat Benatar, “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” (MAYBE. This is one of those songs that is a good movie-trailer song, but doesn’t really hold up that well on its own.)
90. The Police, “Roxanne” (YES. Well-written, rockin’, harmonic.) @
91. Melissa Etheridge, “Come to My Window” (MAYBE. A very good pop song; I can think of 100 better ones.) @
92. Salt-N-Pepa, “Push It” (MAYBE. This is the best they had to offer, but it’s still a dumb song) @
93. Nine Inch Nails, “Closer” (MAYBE. Seminal, ubiquitous, somewhat irritating.) @
94. Cheap Trick, “Surrender” (NO. “Mama’s alright/Daddy’s alright.” This song is just alright, not top 100.)
95. Oasis, “Wonderwall” (MAYBE. Nicely written; I’m probably taking points away because I hate the video/Gallaghers so much.) *
96. Beastie Boys, “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party!)” (NO. It’s simplistic, no one really likes it except white rock media. So many better songs from them. A novelty at best.) ! &
97. Devo, “Whip It” (YES. This song has stood the test of time for its absurdity and distinctive 1980s sound) @
98. Hanson, “MMMBop” (MAYBE. Catchy and fun, but top 100…?) @
99. Norah Jones, “Don’t Know Why” (YES. A beautiful song that will become a standard someday. The top of its genre, whatever that genre is.) *
100. Madonna, “Ray of Light” (NO. This is an insult. There are about 10 other Madonna songs that could be here. This was Madonna unsuccessfully trying to reinvent herself; it was a blip.) $ &
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Throwing Jared Under the Train
I'm watching the pregame for the Packers and Vikings this afternoon, enjoying the amusing banter between Howie and Terry. I'm even enjoying some of the funny commercials for fine companies like Staples and Burger King and FedEx. Just when I'm thinking, "We really are in golden age of commercials," onto my screen comes my arch nemesis.
Fucking Jared.
You know Jared. He's that guy who used to be really really fat, but then he ate 2 Subway sandwiches per day and walked a mile to the Subway restaurant and lost something like 280 lbs or something. I think they started the marketing campaign in like 2001.
At first, I found his story inspiring. A really fat bloated tub of cellulite who started eating more healthily and changed his life. He lost enough that he was even able to find a woman to marry him.
It's as if they were marketing directly toward me. All the appeal was there: I already love Subway sandwiches, I hate fat people and I'm inspired by people who change their lives by dropping pounds. Happy Gilmore himself wouldn't have been a better spokesperson at first.
But the Subway people never took into account the possibility that maybe they should have ditched this marketing campaign long ago. Jared's tale was all well and good when they would just show a picture of his previously fat ass and then flash forward to his new thinner, but still collossally dorky frame, eating a delicious sub from Subway. Very nice, I'll have a Veggie Delite with low-fat mayo because of you, Jared.
But then the Subway people made a fatal mistake: they allowed the prick to speak. At first, it was no big deal. Jared seemed like a dorky guy who just wanted others to eat better and get in shape like him. He would hold his enormous pants up to his newer body and say, something like, "I can thank Subway for the fact that I'm not a fat fucking bastard anymore," or whatever. But since then, Jared's aw-shucks charm has given way to a very unlikable Jared.
Have you noticed it? First of all, he has that problem with speaking. His pronunciation and diction are fine, but the way he speaks is irritating beyond belief. He has that incedibly annoying sibilant "S" that makes sentences like "So stop into Subway for a small soda and a tasty sweet chicken teriaki sub" unbearable to listen to. Neighorhood dogs agree.
Also, every time he speaks, his mouth opens up to twice the normal size of a regular human being. Have you noticed this? When you speak to a friend or co-worker, your mouth probably only opens up as much as it has to. But when Jared speaks, his lips contort as if he were attempting to stretch them out. You know when you have a bag of balloons, and you pull one out, and before you blow it up, you stretch it out a few times to improve its elasticity? Well, Jared does this with his mouth every time he talks on television. It looks like Drew Barrymore and Mary Jo Buttafuoco have joint custody demonic possession of his mouth and are trying to pull it in opposite directions. Seriously, how this douchebag found a wife is beyond me.
Oh, and don't even get me started on his recent condescending attitude. Okay, I get it, you lost a shitload of weight from eating healthy sandwiches and whatnot. It doesn't mean you have the right to talk down to me or any other person watching television at that particular time. There's one where he starts talking about McDonald's, I think it might be their Chicken Selects. Jared starts talking to me as if I'm a stupid fat idiot for eating them. He's like, "You know, you shouldn't eat them. They've got a lot of fat in them, and if you eat them you'll look like I used to. So you're stupid if you eat them. Are we clear? Have I made my point? You get the picture? You laughing now? Yeah, I thought so, fatty." I mean, can you ever get into a conversation with this guy about something where he doesn't mention how much weight he dropped by eating Subway? I doubt it.
I'm sure what Jared is thinking is, "I used to be a fat nerd. But now you can't say that! I'm not fat anymore! You are! You're fat because you eat that delicious... I mean, that unhealthy swine! You're an idiot if you don't eat Subway sandwiches every day of your life! Look at me, every commercial I'm walking with a tray carrying a healthy Subway sub and a diet drink, and I'm a somebody! I'm a somebody!!!![begins weeping]" It's all becoming very uncomfortable to watch.
Even if Subway's revenue has jumped 300% (which I'm sure it has) due to Jared's story, when are they going to realize that no matter how much thinner this guy is because of eating their subs, he is a terrible salesman. He's actually making me want to eat Big Macs and gain weight just to spite him. That way I could say to him, "I may be a fat bastard, but I'm still cooler than you. And I'm not even cool!" I'm hoping it would cause him to gain it all back. That would be hilarious. That dude's a dick.
Fucking Jared.
You know Jared. He's that guy who used to be really really fat, but then he ate 2 Subway sandwiches per day and walked a mile to the Subway restaurant and lost something like 280 lbs or something. I think they started the marketing campaign in like 2001.
At first, I found his story inspiring. A really fat bloated tub of cellulite who started eating more healthily and changed his life. He lost enough that he was even able to find a woman to marry him.
It's as if they were marketing directly toward me. All the appeal was there: I already love Subway sandwiches, I hate fat people and I'm inspired by people who change their lives by dropping pounds. Happy Gilmore himself wouldn't have been a better spokesperson at first.
But the Subway people never took into account the possibility that maybe they should have ditched this marketing campaign long ago. Jared's tale was all well and good when they would just show a picture of his previously fat ass and then flash forward to his new thinner, but still collossally dorky frame, eating a delicious sub from Subway. Very nice, I'll have a Veggie Delite with low-fat mayo because of you, Jared.
But then the Subway people made a fatal mistake: they allowed the prick to speak. At first, it was no big deal. Jared seemed like a dorky guy who just wanted others to eat better and get in shape like him. He would hold his enormous pants up to his newer body and say, something like, "I can thank Subway for the fact that I'm not a fat fucking bastard anymore," or whatever. But since then, Jared's aw-shucks charm has given way to a very unlikable Jared.
Have you noticed it? First of all, he has that problem with speaking. His pronunciation and diction are fine, but the way he speaks is irritating beyond belief. He has that incedibly annoying sibilant "S" that makes sentences like "So stop into Subway for a small soda and a tasty sweet chicken teriaki sub" unbearable to listen to. Neighorhood dogs agree.
Also, every time he speaks, his mouth opens up to twice the normal size of a regular human being. Have you noticed this? When you speak to a friend or co-worker, your mouth probably only opens up as much as it has to. But when Jared speaks, his lips contort as if he were attempting to stretch them out. You know when you have a bag of balloons, and you pull one out, and before you blow it up, you stretch it out a few times to improve its elasticity? Well, Jared does this with his mouth every time he talks on television. It looks like Drew Barrymore and Mary Jo Buttafuoco have joint custody demonic possession of his mouth and are trying to pull it in opposite directions. Seriously, how this douchebag found a wife is beyond me.
Oh, and don't even get me started on his recent condescending attitude. Okay, I get it, you lost a shitload of weight from eating healthy sandwiches and whatnot. It doesn't mean you have the right to talk down to me or any other person watching television at that particular time. There's one where he starts talking about McDonald's, I think it might be their Chicken Selects. Jared starts talking to me as if I'm a stupid fat idiot for eating them. He's like, "You know, you shouldn't eat them. They've got a lot of fat in them, and if you eat them you'll look like I used to. So you're stupid if you eat them. Are we clear? Have I made my point? You get the picture? You laughing now? Yeah, I thought so, fatty." I mean, can you ever get into a conversation with this guy about something where he doesn't mention how much weight he dropped by eating Subway? I doubt it.
I'm sure what Jared is thinking is, "I used to be a fat nerd. But now you can't say that! I'm not fat anymore! You are! You're fat because you eat that delicious... I mean, that unhealthy swine! You're an idiot if you don't eat Subway sandwiches every day of your life! Look at me, every commercial I'm walking with a tray carrying a healthy Subway sub and a diet drink, and I'm a somebody! I'm a somebody!!!![begins weeping]" It's all becoming very uncomfortable to watch.
Even if Subway's revenue has jumped 300% (which I'm sure it has) due to Jared's story, when are they going to realize that no matter how much thinner this guy is because of eating their subs, he is a terrible salesman. He's actually making me want to eat Big Macs and gain weight just to spite him. That way I could say to him, "I may be a fat bastard, but I'm still cooler than you. And I'm not even cool!" I'm hoping it would cause him to gain it all back. That would be hilarious. That dude's a dick.
Friday, December 31, 2004
I Got To Be On the TeeVee!
People always say that before Christmas is a busy time, and I suppose that's true, although when it comes to shopping I tend to confine all my purchasing to one or two days. Most people like to spread the shopping out over several weeks, or even months. To this I say, "F*ck you!" It is for this reason that credit card companies and large producers of goods are able to push the start of the "Christmas Season" back to got-damn Hallowe'en. And yes, I will use the olde english spelling of Hallowe'en, thank you very much. Just be glad I didn't use the term "All Hallow's Eve" because I do it, I swear I will.
Anyway, I could get into the benefits of compressing Christmas shopping into 2 trips, lasting a total of about 16 hours, but I'd rather quickly run through the events of the last 7 days or so. Now for you this laundry list of activities may seem humdrum, but for someone like me whose nights usually consist of doing Tai Chi in front of a mirror like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, this week was positively humming with activity. Here goes:
Friday (Christmas Eve): Had the day off. Spent the afternoon at KJ's moms's place. Beat KJ and her sister Donna at the Saturday Night Live Trivial Pursuit game (naturally, I rarely lose, except when playing Dan Banazek). That selfsame day, drove to Rochester to see my family. My brother and I blocked everyone else out of a crab-dip breadbowl. I explained to my aunt (who is sort of a nun, but not really) about rap music. We ate and played the Trivial Pursuit, '90s edition, which my sister Eileen and I dominated (naturally, since that sonofabitch Dan Banazek wasn't there this time either).
Saturday (Christmas Day): Got an iPod. The rest of the day is a blur set to a soundtrack of nearly 900 songs.
Sunday: Bills beat the crap out of the 49ers. Jitter, Javen and TT come to town from Buffalo, where they had gone on a wing tour. Very nice time at the Change of Pace. Everyone got a little tipsy, and I got to talk to my boy Dave for a couple hours. We talked about college and Transformers and all sorts of stuff. Didn't get as wild as I had expected, but it was fun.
Monday: After work was another blur as I explored the true depth of the iPod's value. This topic should be a blog by itself. I now have over 1,000 songs on the damn thing and haven't even scraped the surface of it's capacity. Good lord what a technological leap forward this thing is.
Tuesday: V-Day. We had an early basketball game after work, and we came to play. Our team, the Change of Pacers, went up against our arch-nemesis, Chadwick's, or as we have dubbed them, Chumpwick's. We have a history with this team/bar, both on and off the court....
But that's not all...
Anyway, this game we had 6 people: Me, Will, Toastie, Toastie's Dad, Dino and Jaime. We were ready for these fat fucks this time. They tried to muscle us inside, we muscled 'em right back. They had no other game. Now that we have learned to play physical defense, they had no answer. Willie and Dino shot the lights out from 3-point range, and since they can't shoot from outside layup range (and even that is only about 50%), they got frustrated, yelling at the refs and trying to hold and hook and cheat. But this time, we beat them. This was our first legit win in the league, and frankly I don't care if it's our last. It was so satisfying to take our 5 core guys who have been there for every single game this year (plus Jaime, a newcomer who played great) and beat these pricks with solid, clean basketball.
Wednesday: We weren't able to retain our victorious mojo for trivia at Clark's on Wednesday, but Toastie did have a very nice young lady notice his Red Sox hat and strike up a conversation with him, which was nice. Everyone mocked her after we left the bar, but I thought it was nice. He should have said, "See you next Wednesday" but he wasn't thinking clearly. Apparently none of us were, judging by our score.
Anyway, Jaime got hungry for "buffalo chicken anything," so we went to Tully's on Erie Blvd to order up ridiculous amounts of fatty foods. While there, a reporter from the local Channel 9 news must have noticed my Syracuse University hat and came to our table to ask us if we had any opinion on the recent firing of SU football coach Paul Pasqualoni being fired. We threw in a few comments, and she said, great, we're going live in about 5 minutes. I went to the restroom to primp a bit, but I looked like shit. Unshaven and bloated. But I got to be on TV. And while I haven't seen the tape, I think I did pretty well. Most of the people they interview for things like this seem like they have not much to say on the topic or can't speak in the English language. So all I wanted to do was not freeze up on camera (put your hands out of your field of vision, that's the first rule) and speak as if I had any idea what I was talking about. I didn't freeze, so that was good, and I think I did alright in the speaking department. Whether I had a clue what I was talking about is up for debate, but at the end I got to give a little wink to the camera and that's all I ever wanted to do.
I was wondering if anyone would have seen me on the news, since it was the 11:00 broadcast and many people are asleep, but a bunch of people from work told me the next day that they saw me, so I was able to walk around with an arrogance about me that said, "I was on local television for nearly 3 minutes!" I think people respect that.
Anyway, I could get into the benefits of compressing Christmas shopping into 2 trips, lasting a total of about 16 hours, but I'd rather quickly run through the events of the last 7 days or so. Now for you this laundry list of activities may seem humdrum, but for someone like me whose nights usually consist of doing Tai Chi in front of a mirror like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now, this week was positively humming with activity. Here goes:
Friday (Christmas Eve): Had the day off. Spent the afternoon at KJ's moms's place. Beat KJ and her sister Donna at the Saturday Night Live Trivial Pursuit game (naturally, I rarely lose, except when playing Dan Banazek). That selfsame day, drove to Rochester to see my family. My brother and I blocked everyone else out of a crab-dip breadbowl. I explained to my aunt (who is sort of a nun, but not really) about rap music. We ate and played the Trivial Pursuit, '90s edition, which my sister Eileen and I dominated (naturally, since that sonofabitch Dan Banazek wasn't there this time either).
Saturday (Christmas Day): Got an iPod. The rest of the day is a blur set to a soundtrack of nearly 900 songs.
Sunday: Bills beat the crap out of the 49ers. Jitter, Javen and TT come to town from Buffalo, where they had gone on a wing tour. Very nice time at the Change of Pace. Everyone got a little tipsy, and I got to talk to my boy Dave for a couple hours. We talked about college and Transformers and all sorts of stuff. Didn't get as wild as I had expected, but it was fun.
Monday: After work was another blur as I explored the true depth of the iPod's value. This topic should be a blog by itself. I now have over 1,000 songs on the damn thing and haven't even scraped the surface of it's capacity. Good lord what a technological leap forward this thing is.
Tuesday: V-Day. We had an early basketball game after work, and we came to play. Our team, the Change of Pacers, went up against our arch-nemesis, Chadwick's, or as we have dubbed them, Chumpwick's. We have a history with this team/bar, both on and off the court....
Change of Pace is about 2 or 3 miles away from Chadwick's, but Chadwick's is within walking distance of my house. So back in August Toastie and I went there, and Willie met us there. Willie came in and ordered a drink. The bitch bartender looked at his ID and said, "I can't read this, you have to leave." Will has a Massachussets ID, and he doesn't drive, so his ID is a little worn out, and the date of birth is feint, but readable. Regardless, the one thing on the ID that is absolutely readable is the year of birth. And that year of birth is in the 1970s. Now, I don't profess to be a master of mathematics, but in the year 2004, if someone was born on, say, December 31, 1979, the last possible day of the 1970s, that person would be ... right, 24 years old, well over the legal alcohol consumption age. The bartender would not let Will drink, to which Will replied, "How come I've been in hear a hundred times and they've served me before?" The barkeep only said, "You haven't been here when I've been working." So she made Will stand outside while Toastie and I finished our beer. We vowed never to return to this Yankees-Steelers (???) bar.
But that's not all...
In our first basketball game with Chumpwick's in Novemeber, they acted like a bunch of assholes. First of all, we only had 6 people, and one of them, Cliff, went down with a knee injury in the first half, which meant we played the entire second half with only 5 players, and I am out of shape. They are not a more talented team than us, but they were showboating the entire second half because they opened up a big lead on us. They have mostly a couple of fat white guys, one tall black dude, and a couple of gold chain-wearing, chinstrap-brandishing, lanky wiggers who try to zig in and out of the lane for layups. None of these fuckers can shoot, they hook the arm every chance they can, and they were talking shit. But the last straw? At the end of the game, with less than 5 seconds left, they had a fast break. Toastie ran down to try to stop the ballhandler. Another team member jumped in front of Toastie and blocked him from getting to the defender, as the ballhandler slam-dunked it. This was with a 30-some point lead with 2 seconds left. Total bushleague move. The ref waived it off so it didn't count, but it just shows the kind of bullshit character that squad has.
Anyway, this game we had 6 people: Me, Will, Toastie, Toastie's Dad, Dino and Jaime. We were ready for these fat fucks this time. They tried to muscle us inside, we muscled 'em right back. They had no other game. Now that we have learned to play physical defense, they had no answer. Willie and Dino shot the lights out from 3-point range, and since they can't shoot from outside layup range (and even that is only about 50%), they got frustrated, yelling at the refs and trying to hold and hook and cheat. But this time, we beat them. This was our first legit win in the league, and frankly I don't care if it's our last. It was so satisfying to take our 5 core guys who have been there for every single game this year (plus Jaime, a newcomer who played great) and beat these pricks with solid, clean basketball.
Wednesday: We weren't able to retain our victorious mojo for trivia at Clark's on Wednesday, but Toastie did have a very nice young lady notice his Red Sox hat and strike up a conversation with him, which was nice. Everyone mocked her after we left the bar, but I thought it was nice. He should have said, "See you next Wednesday" but he wasn't thinking clearly. Apparently none of us were, judging by our score.
Anyway, Jaime got hungry for "buffalo chicken anything," so we went to Tully's on Erie Blvd to order up ridiculous amounts of fatty foods. While there, a reporter from the local Channel 9 news must have noticed my Syracuse University hat and came to our table to ask us if we had any opinion on the recent firing of SU football coach Paul Pasqualoni being fired. We threw in a few comments, and she said, great, we're going live in about 5 minutes. I went to the restroom to primp a bit, but I looked like shit. Unshaven and bloated. But I got to be on TV. And while I haven't seen the tape, I think I did pretty well. Most of the people they interview for things like this seem like they have not much to say on the topic or can't speak in the English language. So all I wanted to do was not freeze up on camera (put your hands out of your field of vision, that's the first rule) and speak as if I had any idea what I was talking about. I didn't freeze, so that was good, and I think I did alright in the speaking department. Whether I had a clue what I was talking about is up for debate, but at the end I got to give a little wink to the camera and that's all I ever wanted to do.
I was wondering if anyone would have seen me on the news, since it was the 11:00 broadcast and many people are asleep, but a bunch of people from work told me the next day that they saw me, so I was able to walk around with an arrogance about me that said, "I was on local television for nearly 3 minutes!" I think people respect that.
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![PINBACK - Tour EP 2008 [Ascii E.P.]](http://static.rateyourmusic.com/album_images/63ec90926c6dfa6b71b7f76871fde530/1854204.jpg)
