If you were to ask me which sport I gave the least of a fuck about that gets significant funding to prosper and grow, I'd probably say women's basketball; it just feels like such an exercise in futility to me. Yes I said it, but that said, when someone gives a damn about their job and what they do does more good than harm, and when the harm is essentially harmless because it manifests from skewed perspectives like my own, they deserve recognition.
In the curious case of Kay Yow, a long, impressive career came to a close as she was taken by a notably long-winded battle with breast cancer. My heart goes out to all those personally affected by this. ESPN pays people to do this so, you might want to officially read about her accomplishments before I start ranting about my own grandmother.
Bea Borenstein was a caring and loving woman who I only really know through black and white pictures inside dusty frames. I can remember the texture, but not the taste of the matzoh ball soup that she so kindly stewed for me at the age of 4. I remember her sympathetic hands and face. Her personal struggle with breast cancer was not the stuff of myth; she was just a human being living, dying, day by day with a disease that hadn't the mind to consider that there were to sides to the battle.
Mom and Dad used to tell me how much time and effort both my mother's parents had put in to help raising us. How much they must have given before I was old enough to realize what was what. I kind of feel the same way about Otis Redding; we're constantly left thinking what could have come if that flight had made it through Wisconsin.
My father told me a story once, that at his grandmother's funeral (or in the case of the Japanese a cremation) his family showed him the ashes and bones that were left and told him, "when you die, this is it, nothing more,"; besides probably scaring the bejesus out of him at the time, it served an interesting lesson. I've never met a man who had more love to give to his family and friends in such a faithful manner than the man whose balls I once resided in.
So, I've got time today to reflect on how lucky I am, even if superficial things like being broke and having no friends around are trying to drag me down. Free Condoms!
2009/01/24
LBJ
Corey Maggette has been making this face since he bounced from the comfy confines of the Cameron Crazies.
Goofballs
Hello Malaysian Mogwai fans!
I'm up at 9:30 in the morning here on a Saturday, thanks in large part to a 2 am bedtime coupled with a freezing apartment that does not allow me to sleep for long.
We're almost 2 months in to the no shave game on my face and the results are somewhat horrifying.
That makes two Michael J. Fox references in one month!
I hope everyone is getting as excited as I am about "Pro-Fi-Lactix Gratuite".
Bad Credit? No Credit? Come on down to Big Al Sugiero's used car lot!
The cryptic link titles on the blog should not stop any of you from clicking through! So, check this, this andthis man.
I've been reading up on the band Faith No More and their two different lead singers, Chuck Moseley/Mike Patton so you don't have to. Kind of interesting stuff for a kid who bought Limp Bizkit CD's from Sam Goody with a gift certificate at the brilliant decision making age of 13; I would literally go straight to the best seller aisle and grab what was in the top ten that didn't totally suck (haha! I got jokes too...).
Ok, everybody have a great day!
I'm up at 9:30 in the morning here on a Saturday, thanks in large part to a 2 am bedtime coupled with a freezing apartment that does not allow me to sleep for long.
We're almost 2 months in to the no shave game on my face and the results are somewhat horrifying.
That makes two Michael J. Fox references in one month!
I hope everyone is getting as excited as I am about "Pro-Fi-Lactix Gratuite".
Bad Credit? No Credit? Come on down to Big Al Sugiero's used car lot!
The cryptic link titles on the blog should not stop any of you from clicking through! So, check this, this andthis man.
I've been reading up on the band Faith No More and their two different lead singers, Chuck Moseley/Mike Patton so you don't have to. Kind of interesting stuff for a kid who bought Limp Bizkit CD's from Sam Goody with a gift certificate at the brilliant decision making age of 13; I would literally go straight to the best seller aisle and grab what was in the top ten that didn't totally suck (haha! I got jokes too...).
Ok, everybody have a great day!
2009/01/23
Pendulum Swings
Super Clásico of 2006: River Plate upsets first place Boca Juniors on a myriad of unimpressive goals 3-2.
Cantankerous old men jostle for position in the limited accommodations of the local watering hole. Younger, more virile, locals know that their place is in the street; that as long as there is a view, they can drink, standing, in peace. Then there's the table with the beaming bright faces of four drunk Americans ordering pasta that may or may not have been microwaved minutes before it was brought to them with their liter bottle beers.
Malouva was a stones throw from the dormitory's door, so I knew it wouldn't matter when I rose from my chambers. The clamoring was feverish; almost every passing torso was painted in white with a red strpe or a blueish yellow, quickly it began blurring together and coalesced in to a tornado of Camel blue cigarette smoke and incessant chanting. No, I don't recall the songs they sang, there was no clear way to be prepared for this event.
Each time the ball crossed the goal-line, an eruption on each adjacent corner flowed up to the sky. When one looks at the flags of Uruguay and Argentina, you get to know sky blue; same goes for city living in Buenos Aires, when the dull, greyness of the July wintertime fades, the sky somehow feels closer to the ground. With that blue comes so many other beautiful colors; the jacaranda flowers in Plaza de Mayo, the brilliant ebullience of rose bushes, the savory insides of a fresh empanada, even the projectile vomit of an oversized half-Asian American student has a certain freshness to it.
Like all great man-made inventions, the first division of Argentine professional football was ingrained in to the Sunday of seemingly every citizen. While standing and staring at the screen through the window, I found myself losing ground to the booze hounds who were sniffing around for a better view. Frankly, my disinterest grew as it became revealed to me that there couldn't be less at stake for me other than the overdue work that I had neglected like a tamagochi pet in the corner of the den of filth that I farted and fucked around in a little too much.
There was no time for dialogue amongst these men, women and children; songs were sang, glasses were chimed, but minds eyes' were fixed on one thing alone. Maybe that's why I was happy to walk away with plenty of time for some late game heroics and contemplate how to best enjoy the weather, knowing damn well that Ohio was not going to change it's ways come January's wintry term. As the throng of fanatics again crescendoed their discontentment, a failed opportunity in football is a passing thing it seems, the now growing distance brought a certain warmth back.
Cantankerous old men jostle for position in the limited accommodations of the local watering hole. Younger, more virile, locals know that their place is in the street; that as long as there is a view, they can drink, standing, in peace. Then there's the table with the beaming bright faces of four drunk Americans ordering pasta that may or may not have been microwaved minutes before it was brought to them with their liter bottle beers.
Malouva was a stones throw from the dormitory's door, so I knew it wouldn't matter when I rose from my chambers. The clamoring was feverish; almost every passing torso was painted in white with a red strpe or a blueish yellow, quickly it began blurring together and coalesced in to a tornado of Camel blue cigarette smoke and incessant chanting. No, I don't recall the songs they sang, there was no clear way to be prepared for this event.
Each time the ball crossed the goal-line, an eruption on each adjacent corner flowed up to the sky. When one looks at the flags of Uruguay and Argentina, you get to know sky blue; same goes for city living in Buenos Aires, when the dull, greyness of the July wintertime fades, the sky somehow feels closer to the ground. With that blue comes so many other beautiful colors; the jacaranda flowers in Plaza de Mayo, the brilliant ebullience of rose bushes, the savory insides of a fresh empanada, even the projectile vomit of an oversized half-Asian American student has a certain freshness to it.
Like all great man-made inventions, the first division of Argentine professional football was ingrained in to the Sunday of seemingly every citizen. While standing and staring at the screen through the window, I found myself losing ground to the booze hounds who were sniffing around for a better view. Frankly, my disinterest grew as it became revealed to me that there couldn't be less at stake for me other than the overdue work that I had neglected like a tamagochi pet in the corner of the den of filth that I farted and fucked around in a little too much.
There was no time for dialogue amongst these men, women and children; songs were sang, glasses were chimed, but minds eyes' were fixed on one thing alone. Maybe that's why I was happy to walk away with plenty of time for some late game heroics and contemplate how to best enjoy the weather, knowing damn well that Ohio was not going to change it's ways come January's wintry term. As the throng of fanatics again crescendoed their discontentment, a failed opportunity in football is a passing thing it seems, the now growing distance brought a certain warmth back.
I can't get to you, from your garden gate, 'cause it's always locked by the magistrate
Everyone is either in Granada or Portugal. My poor friend in London got a stomach virus and had to bail on our plans to frolic through the streets of Sevilla this fair weekend. I've got nothing but my thoughts, 1 functioning maraca, my midi controller, a tortilla de patata (con cebolla), a loaf of bread, some fizzy-bubbly, and this macbook pro for the next 72 hours; let's see what happens...
Personally, I'm not a big advocate of the ballyhoo we fans create around NBA all-star weekend. The dunk contest, despite never really losing relevance, gets declared dead every couple of years or so until someone with transcendent athleticism and control comes along to cheer us up. Jason Richardson's explosiveness during his two-year reign as dunk contest champ was so ridiculous, but nobody really cared because nothing he did came close to VC in 2000. There is so much history with the dunk; it's social importance starting at the earliest possible age (teenage boys, and the occasional teenage girl, get a boner just from grabbing the rim without any help from props) coupled with the crushing shame from being tall and unable to perform this task, usually manifesting in the form of, "Man, if I had your length I would be playing D-1 ball."
Other items on the itinerary in Phoenix this February:
-Skills Competition: I don't see why they can't incorporate more absurd elements in to this to, bare minimum add a little zest to this event. It is so unfair that anyone has to compete against Chris Paul in an on court challenge of speed and coordination (dude is on another fucking level altogether).
-Rookie vs. Sophomore Game: I've been seeing some people pointing and waving their finger at this event as a silly way of making the youngin's feel some sense of entitlement. They, like all sentient beings it seems, take their cue from the older heads running the big show on Sunday and throw concepts like defense completely out the window. Here's my question; if we're gonna get incensed over this, why not the eight bajillion showcase events for high school athletes that are blatantly sponsored by the biggest companies in the country? Why did I know about O.J. Mayo when he was in 8th grade? Why do I know that Mouth-of-Wilson, Virginia is a real place?(Former stomping grounds of Carmelo Anthony, Josh Smith, Michael Beasley, Ron Mercer, Desagna Diop, among many others) Also, when is Ibrahim Jabber gonna get his shine in the NBA? I'm starting the campaign to have the Nets drop Keyon Dooling in favor of the greatest Ivy League guard I've ever had the pleasure of playing against.
-Celebrity Game: Ok, now I will openly admit that my greatest desire in life is to become famous only so I can milk that fame to get to play in celebrity basketball games. This is the only thing that keeps me going everyday when I think about how little I have going for myself.
-There are other events, like that one where they have an NBA player, a WNBA player and a retired great from a team shoot from a bunch of spots on the floor...zzzzzzzz...what huh? oh man what a fucking stupid weekend...
Personally, I'm not a big advocate of the ballyhoo we fans create around NBA all-star weekend. The dunk contest, despite never really losing relevance, gets declared dead every couple of years or so until someone with transcendent athleticism and control comes along to cheer us up. Jason Richardson's explosiveness during his two-year reign as dunk contest champ was so ridiculous, but nobody really cared because nothing he did came close to VC in 2000. There is so much history with the dunk; it's social importance starting at the earliest possible age (teenage boys, and the occasional teenage girl, get a boner just from grabbing the rim without any help from props) coupled with the crushing shame from being tall and unable to perform this task, usually manifesting in the form of, "Man, if I had your length I would be playing D-1 ball."
Other items on the itinerary in Phoenix this February:
-Skills Competition: I don't see why they can't incorporate more absurd elements in to this to, bare minimum add a little zest to this event. It is so unfair that anyone has to compete against Chris Paul in an on court challenge of speed and coordination (dude is on another fucking level altogether).
-Rookie vs. Sophomore Game: I've been seeing some people pointing and waving their finger at this event as a silly way of making the youngin's feel some sense of entitlement. They, like all sentient beings it seems, take their cue from the older heads running the big show on Sunday and throw concepts like defense completely out the window. Here's my question; if we're gonna get incensed over this, why not the eight bajillion showcase events for high school athletes that are blatantly sponsored by the biggest companies in the country? Why did I know about O.J. Mayo when he was in 8th grade? Why do I know that Mouth-of-Wilson, Virginia is a real place?(Former stomping grounds of Carmelo Anthony, Josh Smith, Michael Beasley, Ron Mercer, Desagna Diop, among many others) Also, when is Ibrahim Jabber gonna get his shine in the NBA? I'm starting the campaign to have the Nets drop Keyon Dooling in favor of the greatest Ivy League guard I've ever had the pleasure of playing against.
-Celebrity Game: Ok, now I will openly admit that my greatest desire in life is to become famous only so I can milk that fame to get to play in celebrity basketball games. This is the only thing that keeps me going everyday when I think about how little I have going for myself.
-There are other events, like that one where they have an NBA player, a WNBA player and a retired great from a team shoot from a bunch of spots on the floor...zzzzzzzz...what huh? oh man what a fucking stupid weekend...
Blarg
After much discussion with my older brother, I've finally settled on a title for a new release that should be dropping next week; Pro-Fil-Lactix Gratuite. Basically the idea is that I will be fucking you 6 (or more) ways to Sunday but there's a roughly 83% chance you won't get pregnant (all at no cost to you, the listener, other than sparing a few passing moments of your computer time). So please, stay tuned and entertain yourselves with the following videos:
Fuck Joe Budden's lazy production team on "Pump it Up"
Goonie Goo Goo
Fuck Joe Budden's lazy production team on "Pump it Up"
Goonie Goo Goo
Oh shit there's a bear!
"Worms like Conficker not only ricochet around the Internet at lightning speed, they harness infected computers into unified systems called botnets, which can then accept programming instructions from their clandestine masters. “If you’re looking for a digital Pearl Harbor, we now have the Japanese ships steaming toward us on the horizon,” said Rick Wesson, chief executive of Support Intelligence, a computer security consulting firm based in San Francisco."
Article; here.
This doesn't even make any fucking sense. The world is crazy, go read a book you beautiful babies. If not, at least read this.
Article; here.
This doesn't even make any fucking sense. The world is crazy, go read a book you beautiful babies. If not, at least read this.
Calvin, where art thou?
One of the true gems of the Last Waltz; even if Rick Danko is too coked out to remember the words to this, or any other song; if you have a copy of the deluxe 4 disc rerelease, check out the version "This Wheel's On Fire", Danko totally butchers the 3rd verse and it just doesn't matter.
This video is terrible in the same way Hagar is Horrible (also known as not quite as much as you thought as a child). That said, George Mcrae has got something to say, in a bad way.
2009/01/22
That's Some Shit
Pretty much everyone who writes on the interweb has commented on the absurdity of Rick Reilly's ridiculously fat paycheck from the Worldwide Leader; $17 million to do sportswriting over any period of time is pretty unfucking believable. His output since signing the deal hasn't exactly justified the price tag; I read somewhere that his per word average salary is even higher than how much Jerome James earns per minute played this season (FYI, JJ, who is playing out the final year of a $21 million dollar deal, played 10 minutes before shutting it down with season ending surgeery). I usually abhorr puff pieces or special interest stories, but this piece about the super bowl really tugged at my heart strings, read ithere, maybe, because i have a soft spot for Larry Fitzgerald in general (favorite non-Eagle/Pitt alum fittingly had to be the guy who absolutely torched the iggles in the NFC championship), maybe we can forgive the "beer pong" exposé that is only about 7 years too late; what fucking parent hasn't heard of that shit by now? Deadspin.com had a beer pong table sponsor years ago, and they've only been around since Reilly was only making $1 millie a year!
So, in summary, the entire Fitzgerald family has my utmost respect for their true professionalism and their loyalty to themselves.
Also, does anyone who read this notice how many grammatical errors I make? It's somewhat horrifying...
So, in summary, the entire Fitzgerald family has my utmost respect for their true professionalism and their loyalty to themselves.
Also, does anyone who read this notice how many grammatical errors I make? It's somewhat horrifying...
2009/01/21
Hunting like a fox!
Chuck Klosterman did a podcast with Bill Simmons recently; of course I listened to it in its entirety. I got turned on to Klosterman somewhat recently, thanks to my good friend John Bennum; at first I thought CK’s style of prose was a tad too personal, he didn’t seem to be speaking to me as the reader as much as he was enjoying how the light bulb was going off above his head. As I’ve read more and more and more of his stuff, I’ve somewhat fallen for the same things that at first had me wincing.
As someone whose personal cultural memory is one of my few sources of entertainment, I really love it when CK sounds off on the world of sports; he had Rodney Rogers near and dear to his heart long before the recent tragedy befell my favorite former Net besides Aaron Williams.
Simmons, at the 31 minute mark (roughly), asks about a movie called Bigger, Stronger, Faster, which is not about Daft Punk/Kanye/Edwin Birdsong. He also refers to Sean Merriman as ‘Sean Marion’, that, or his Beantown accent has thrown me off, or worse, my perception of the English language is getting swallowed up as I become slightly more acclimated to the Spanish language.
They don’t discuss music very much, despite references to Nirvana’s “Nevermind”, Peter Frampton’s “Frampton…Comes Alive” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.
They DO talk about Carmelo Anthony dropping serious buckets on the Minnesota Timberwolves and how it is a Herculean feat. Then they start talking about Kobe’s 81, CK says 80 cause he’s allowed to make silly slip-ups. Simmons says, “Nobody liked Kareem:” begins reminiscing about how Wilt “The Stilt”, fan favorite if there ever was one (groupie love!), was not so thrilled that Kareem took his scoring title away from him. I don’t agree that 33 points in a quarter is the equivalent of a perfect game, but I am not sold; think about the time it takes to accomplish the perfect game, and consider the hot streak that people can go on in 12 minutes (obviously it’s still impressive and on par with some of the best basketball that has ever been played).
Then they start rambling about Obama and College Football Playoff system; borefest 2009. I can’t listen to Simmons talk about Obama, I say that, but I am listening; Obama is a great politician. CK says, “he’s in a good position, because it seems like his most rapid follower will believe anything he does,” but same went for Dubya, so try again their Chuckie, any successful politician must secure a base. Then Simmons makes an NBA analogy to the Elton Brand offseason signing; I don’t buy that, Brand completely through the Clips for a loop, and was unable to get acclimated to his new teammates successfully in the first run pre-injury. If we’re gonna do some kind of NBA analogue, I gotta give it up for Bill Bradley, perhaps too obvious a choice, but I am now happy to say that cross-racial comparisons are kosher.
The mood then shifts to great sports bust, with Webber’s love for Obama serving as a segue in to Webber’s ‘failed’ career. They talk about Kenny Anderson and say he is a serious bust; they don’t start talking about a certain other Georgia Tech alum. Then CK hits up the Ron Dayne reference; more yards than anyone, Heisman winner, but a huge NFL bust with those unreal expectations. Simmons starts to shred C Webb, then CK comes along and kind of shits all over Simmons. Then, while backtracking, he maintains his disgust of the distance between C Webb’s announcer persona and his style of play. CK makes a great point; not all analysis has to be based on personal experience, in fact some level of objectivity is required. That said, C Webb is the all time worst rapping finesse forwards ever. If anyone can unearth the Kurupt/C Webb track “Gangsta Gangsta” you will have free tapas for life.
Finally the music reference comes out; Motley Crue’s “Dr. Feelgood” vis-à-vis GnR’s “Appetite for Destruction” compared with Patrick Ewing vs. Hakeem Olajuwon. Simmons, who is a basketball genius and hopefully will release his NBA book soon, makes a great point about Pitino’s full-court press affecting the career arc of a guy with knees as sensitive as Ewing’s. Then they start talking about Jordan and Drexler; basically, a well-worn point, that Jordan being the ultimate competitor to a fault, is always revered. Simmons refers to him as “Almost homicidal” and “Pathologically competitive”; then he says he doesn’t know if, “Lebron has that gene”. I don’t think it’s genetic; I think Jordan was the right guy at the right time. Also, consider how ridiculous the supposedly self-imposed retirement for 2 years led to him coming back and absolutely destroying the league for three more titles. CK thinks Lebron can be better than Jordan because he’s bigger and a better passer; I think Adande put this shit to bed when he wrote his Lebron vs. Kobe piece and said there is a lot more Magic/Bird going on than heir to his airness. They have a quick caveat about the “incestuous” nature of the NBA fraternity and the lack of “hate” among professional athletes, as in there will never be another Bill Laimbeer beating the fuck out of anyone else on the other team. They say that hate can only manifest in this day and age from unpaid debts and adulterous actions; they must not watch the way Matt Barnes carries himself, or Darko Milicic who could start a metal band and I would officially be a fan.
CK asks all the tough questions to Simmons and I fucking love it; how much do you bet on. Gambling on sports is always going to be controversial; Klosterman says that, according to “The Last Boyscout”, that the purpose of injury reports is for the purposes of gambling.
Some self-deprecating humor, and a quick plug for Klosterman’s most recent book “Downtown Owl”. Then Klosterman plugs a new book of essays coming out next year; pure pop culture writing, and it’s all new. Also, CK is getting married, and Simmons almost sounds condescending in his congratulations. Klosterman and Simmons talk about solitary confinement, writing and the nature of people who spend their time writing; they both claim to enjoy being alone for extended periods of time. Then, right at the end, Klosterman talks about how he has some kind of amnesia about his novel; something that he obsessed over for such a long period of time, he now has moved past it in a way that somewhat disturbs him.
I guess you didn’t need me to write a synopsis, but I don’t know how many of you have the time like I do to listen to a 79 minute podcast featuring two extremely regional accents that slowly turn to nails on a chalkboard played backwards on a feedback loop. So, sorry if reading this was a huge waste of your time, but I know only those who actually cared would have read this all the way through.
As someone whose personal cultural memory is one of my few sources of entertainment, I really love it when CK sounds off on the world of sports; he had Rodney Rogers near and dear to his heart long before the recent tragedy befell my favorite former Net besides Aaron Williams.
Simmons, at the 31 minute mark (roughly), asks about a movie called Bigger, Stronger, Faster, which is not about Daft Punk/Kanye/Edwin Birdsong. He also refers to Sean Merriman as ‘Sean Marion’, that, or his Beantown accent has thrown me off, or worse, my perception of the English language is getting swallowed up as I become slightly more acclimated to the Spanish language.
They don’t discuss music very much, despite references to Nirvana’s “Nevermind”, Peter Frampton’s “Frampton…Comes Alive” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.
They DO talk about Carmelo Anthony dropping serious buckets on the Minnesota Timberwolves and how it is a Herculean feat. Then they start talking about Kobe’s 81, CK says 80 cause he’s allowed to make silly slip-ups. Simmons says, “Nobody liked Kareem:” begins reminiscing about how Wilt “The Stilt”, fan favorite if there ever was one (groupie love!), was not so thrilled that Kareem took his scoring title away from him. I don’t agree that 33 points in a quarter is the equivalent of a perfect game, but I am not sold; think about the time it takes to accomplish the perfect game, and consider the hot streak that people can go on in 12 minutes (obviously it’s still impressive and on par with some of the best basketball that has ever been played).
Then they start rambling about Obama and College Football Playoff system; borefest 2009. I can’t listen to Simmons talk about Obama, I say that, but I am listening; Obama is a great politician. CK says, “he’s in a good position, because it seems like his most rapid follower will believe anything he does,” but same went for Dubya, so try again their Chuckie, any successful politician must secure a base. Then Simmons makes an NBA analogy to the Elton Brand offseason signing; I don’t buy that, Brand completely through the Clips for a loop, and was unable to get acclimated to his new teammates successfully in the first run pre-injury. If we’re gonna do some kind of NBA analogue, I gotta give it up for Bill Bradley, perhaps too obvious a choice, but I am now happy to say that cross-racial comparisons are kosher.
The mood then shifts to great sports bust, with Webber’s love for Obama serving as a segue in to Webber’s ‘failed’ career. They talk about Kenny Anderson and say he is a serious bust; they don’t start talking about a certain other Georgia Tech alum. Then CK hits up the Ron Dayne reference; more yards than anyone, Heisman winner, but a huge NFL bust with those unreal expectations. Simmons starts to shred C Webb, then CK comes along and kind of shits all over Simmons. Then, while backtracking, he maintains his disgust of the distance between C Webb’s announcer persona and his style of play. CK makes a great point; not all analysis has to be based on personal experience, in fact some level of objectivity is required. That said, C Webb is the all time worst rapping finesse forwards ever. If anyone can unearth the Kurupt/C Webb track “Gangsta Gangsta” you will have free tapas for life.
Finally the music reference comes out; Motley Crue’s “Dr. Feelgood” vis-à-vis GnR’s “Appetite for Destruction” compared with Patrick Ewing vs. Hakeem Olajuwon. Simmons, who is a basketball genius and hopefully will release his NBA book soon, makes a great point about Pitino’s full-court press affecting the career arc of a guy with knees as sensitive as Ewing’s. Then they start talking about Jordan and Drexler; basically, a well-worn point, that Jordan being the ultimate competitor to a fault, is always revered. Simmons refers to him as “Almost homicidal” and “Pathologically competitive”; then he says he doesn’t know if, “Lebron has that gene”. I don’t think it’s genetic; I think Jordan was the right guy at the right time. Also, consider how ridiculous the supposedly self-imposed retirement for 2 years led to him coming back and absolutely destroying the league for three more titles. CK thinks Lebron can be better than Jordan because he’s bigger and a better passer; I think Adande put this shit to bed when he wrote his Lebron vs. Kobe piece and said there is a lot more Magic/Bird going on than heir to his airness. They have a quick caveat about the “incestuous” nature of the NBA fraternity and the lack of “hate” among professional athletes, as in there will never be another Bill Laimbeer beating the fuck out of anyone else on the other team. They say that hate can only manifest in this day and age from unpaid debts and adulterous actions; they must not watch the way Matt Barnes carries himself, or Darko Milicic who could start a metal band and I would officially be a fan.
CK asks all the tough questions to Simmons and I fucking love it; how much do you bet on. Gambling on sports is always going to be controversial; Klosterman says that, according to “The Last Boyscout”, that the purpose of injury reports is for the purposes of gambling.
Some self-deprecating humor, and a quick plug for Klosterman’s most recent book “Downtown Owl”. Then Klosterman plugs a new book of essays coming out next year; pure pop culture writing, and it’s all new. Also, CK is getting married, and Simmons almost sounds condescending in his congratulations. Klosterman and Simmons talk about solitary confinement, writing and the nature of people who spend their time writing; they both claim to enjoy being alone for extended periods of time. Then, right at the end, Klosterman talks about how he has some kind of amnesia about his novel; something that he obsessed over for such a long period of time, he now has moved past it in a way that somewhat disturbs him.
I guess you didn’t need me to write a synopsis, but I don’t know how many of you have the time like I do to listen to a 79 minute podcast featuring two extremely regional accents that slowly turn to nails on a chalkboard played backwards on a feedback loop. So, sorry if reading this was a huge waste of your time, but I know only those who actually cared would have read this all the way through.
Bebop (DA smokes pop)
(Photo Courtesy of Google Image Search/Realityrant.blogspot.com)
I can't pinpoint the exact moment top 40 radio's spell faded for me. Maybe it was when Martin started giving me mix cd's, maybe it was freshman year before basketball practice when Phil would enlighten me with Elephant 6 recordings, perhaps Sophomore year of college when one couldn't help but be knee deep in WOBC's at first overwhelming vaults (I wasn't an official member till way late in the game anyways). In contrast, I can't seem to pinpoint what makes top 40 stuff so popular these days; when your musical preferences are the social equivalent of living in a van down by the river, it should come as no surprise.
As far as casting music in to genres there are several other categories that confuse me to no end:
-Jazz: I've always been taught, whether from a musical or historical standpoint, that the essential element of Jazz is improvisation. What springs forth from "standards" is the virtuosic capacity to approach the same sheet music in an idiosyncratic manner that allows the listener to say, "Oh, this is a Wes Montgomery take on Green Dolphin Street," without sounding as clownish as I JUST DID! As an occasional bass player whose minimal musical literacy/Jew rhythmic skills has faded faster than David Arquette as a leading man, who was cast to utter perfection in Hamlet II, I have never felt a particular inclination towards playing Jazz, mainly because those who do tend to be rather passionate about it. There is an essence to Jazz that once obeyed the old color line of American race relations; there's a reason the old white lady, who plays Happy Gilmore's grandma, says in the O'Dweeds commerical, "I used to smoke this while listening to the Negro Jazz Music." That said, Benny Goodman was making the big band swing just as hard as any of his contemporaries; the clarinet is such a Jewish instrument it ought to come with a coupon for a free bottle of Gefilte fish.
-Folk: Most kids I know, who grew up in the US of A, learned to sing songs like "Oh Susannah" and "She'll be Coming 'round the Mountain" in school as youngin's. I am not exactly sure what the point was, other than being simple melodies and progressions by which to slowly develop the voices of disinterested, snot-nose brats who generally yelp them out with no regard for technique or form. I suppose that's exactly the point of folk music; it's all about the simplicity in delivering the message. That said, the Acoustic guitar does not connote folk music, yet time and time again I am seeing people call themselves some derivative of the folk genre; folk-rocker, indie-folk (huh?), etc. It's not like it really matters, but you can't be an American in the age of access and legitimately claim to play folk music (unless you're Bob Dylan, and no you are not Bob Dylan, yes I'm talking to you Cate Blanchett!).
-Tribute: The ABSOLUTE worst thing that happened to Darfur is the reckless carnage that has ensued, somewhat uninterrupted, for what feels like an eternity. In a close second place is that compilation of John Lennon covers that they tried to hawk to "raise money for Darfur"; first of all, what the fuck does that even mean? No apologies to anyone here, fuck Green Day, fuck U2, fuck everybody who claims to care, but doesn't do anything. Also, band-specific cover bands are such a travesty that I have to stop typing in fear that I will destroy my lovely computer.
It's really too bad they couldn't get the clearance to blatantly rip-off stairway, but as the old saying on Wayne's World went:
Why is Tia Carrere going gaga over three single coil pickups and a whammy bar; she's the frontwoman/bassist for an up and coming joan jett/asia carrera throwback band and she's excited about features that come standard on basically every strat ever? At least Mike makes a nice showing with the Pre-CBS banter...
2009/01/20
Oh Damn!
Wikipedia has this brilliant new concept where it tells you as many of the samples used in famous hip-hop tracks as the users can figure out. Here's a great track that got used for 2Pac's "I Ain't Mad Atcha" and maybe also the track "American Dream" which I posted earlier this month when I, as Kate Mooney said (somewhat auto-referentially somehow), in "parody" of myself.
Well, I'm tickled pink that someone took the time to remix Johnny Cash songs, and the asshole's name isn't even Rick Rubin!
Best January of the aughts so far, by far.
Ranting, Raving Histrionics!
The pretentiousness in this article is spellbinding; for one, if you're gonna shit on Jack Johnson for even attempting to catapult himself in to the same league of musicianship as the late, great Nick Drake, then you gotta do it with some substance! Heath Ledger's agent is laughing all the way to the grave; same goes for the assholes who profited of Drake's untimely demise. That said, it's equally disappointing that Dave Grohl will be making an appearance, as he has yet to provide me with an inkling of justification for writing/performing quiet, introspective music. Eddie Vedder is toeing a thin line here...
Rudy Fernandez was somehow voted in by fans ahead of Russel Westbrook and Joe Alexander to the 2009 dunk contest; Bullshit!
After watching this video, and doing some serious soul searching, I'm proud of Rudy for speaking English in such a remedial manner. Until I found this clip:
Embarrassing in new and original ways; Chris Andersen redux?
Well, I suppose he's got a long way to go til he does this:
The NBA where Reggie Miller dawns a wig and calls himself Cheryl...
Rudy Fernandez was somehow voted in by fans ahead of Russel Westbrook and Joe Alexander to the 2009 dunk contest; Bullshit!
After watching this video, and doing some serious soul searching, I'm proud of Rudy for speaking English in such a remedial manner. Until I found this clip:
Embarrassing in new and original ways; Chris Andersen redux?
Well, I suppose he's got a long way to go til he does this:
The NBA where Reggie Miller dawns a wig and calls himself Cheryl...
Soccer Update...Psych!
Illest fashion news to come out of Milan since Beckham's transfer went through officially.
Today, a short essay on hazing with intermittent Tenacious D songs.
I never played on a girl's varsity sport team, so there was never any utilization of the pysch on game day; sure sometimes we used to wear ties and nice shirts, but that was mainly so we could look slightly respectable. I can recall every level of interscholastic sports, from the earliest middle school soccer clubs to Oberlin College Women's Lacrosse, finding some sort of inspiration through like-minded gift giving/banner making. In reality, I find this act of kindness from teammate to teammate rather endearing and, in general, good form.
Men's sports teams often engage in what is known as "hazing"; though generally harmless in nature, these rites of passage foment a culture of shame. Websites such as bad jocks, have been a source of entertainment and occasional outrage for many web denizens. To put it plainly, men of approximately the same age molest and harass each other to create a hierarchy and, often times, to amuse those with that inkling of power. There is an glint of cultural transmission, the recent unveiling of some particularly bad hazing incidents is not all that shocking in its historical context, that leads me to believe that Obama being in the white house doesn't do shit for youth sports; even if everyone with an outlet is writing lists and essays as to just what BH "Overdrive" Obama will do about how fucking fat a nation we are. Let me also say, that women's sports teams are often culpable of ridiculous initiation rituals; this isn't a gender issue per se.
In Fyodor Dostoevesky's last great novel, The Brothers Karamazov, the, perhaps, bastard child of noted buffoon Fyodor Pavlovich, Smyerdakov enumerates reasons why god as his opposers see it, cannot exist. Smyerdakov is the product of both a society and, concordantly, a family that has no use for him; his awareness of his seemingly expendable nature seeps over in to his ideas on theology, among other things. He is weak and powerless, but he is given a context by which to express great power; the power to hurt others, something that all human beings have. I believe many athletes have a certain "Smyerdakov" take on the nature of hazing; that it is an outlet for frustrations, both personal and professional(in the case of the student-athlete, often times their profession is more the latter than the former).
If we take a Hobbesian standpoint towards the act of hazing, that it is our nature to be horrible, selfish beasts, then perhaps it's better for us horrified moralist observers to let it be. Is it natural to coerce another human being in to drinking till he/she vomits while a group of individuals exercise some bizarre bukkake variant? I'm gonna say, unless you're Japanese, or had to put up with a Freshmen class as annoying as the Oberlin College Men's Baseball team of 2004-2005, the answer is most definitely no. I don't know where the pictures went of a much fatter me d-boing a tiki torch, but let me just say that our hazing was actually hilarious and so well deserved that I am a better man for it. So tell Thomas Hobbes we got another failed attempt, and remember that if you're gonna abuse somebody for no apparent reason, you might as well get paid to do it (Hello US Marine Corps!).
Now, time to casually masturbate to this.
Today, a short essay on hazing with intermittent Tenacious D songs.
I never played on a girl's varsity sport team, so there was never any utilization of the pysch on game day; sure sometimes we used to wear ties and nice shirts, but that was mainly so we could look slightly respectable. I can recall every level of interscholastic sports, from the earliest middle school soccer clubs to Oberlin College Women's Lacrosse, finding some sort of inspiration through like-minded gift giving/banner making. In reality, I find this act of kindness from teammate to teammate rather endearing and, in general, good form.
Men's sports teams often engage in what is known as "hazing"; though generally harmless in nature, these rites of passage foment a culture of shame. Websites such as bad jocks, have been a source of entertainment and occasional outrage for many web denizens. To put it plainly, men of approximately the same age molest and harass each other to create a hierarchy and, often times, to amuse those with that inkling of power. There is an glint of cultural transmission, the recent unveiling of some particularly bad hazing incidents is not all that shocking in its historical context, that leads me to believe that Obama being in the white house doesn't do shit for youth sports; even if everyone with an outlet is writing lists and essays as to just what BH "Overdrive" Obama will do about how fucking fat a nation we are. Let me also say, that women's sports teams are often culpable of ridiculous initiation rituals; this isn't a gender issue per se.
In Fyodor Dostoevesky's last great novel, The Brothers Karamazov, the, perhaps, bastard child of noted buffoon Fyodor Pavlovich, Smyerdakov enumerates reasons why god as his opposers see it, cannot exist. Smyerdakov is the product of both a society and, concordantly, a family that has no use for him; his awareness of his seemingly expendable nature seeps over in to his ideas on theology, among other things. He is weak and powerless, but he is given a context by which to express great power; the power to hurt others, something that all human beings have. I believe many athletes have a certain "Smyerdakov" take on the nature of hazing; that it is an outlet for frustrations, both personal and professional(in the case of the student-athlete, often times their profession is more the latter than the former).
If we take a Hobbesian standpoint towards the act of hazing, that it is our nature to be horrible, selfish beasts, then perhaps it's better for us horrified moralist observers to let it be. Is it natural to coerce another human being in to drinking till he/she vomits while a group of individuals exercise some bizarre bukkake variant? I'm gonna say, unless you're Japanese, or had to put up with a Freshmen class as annoying as the Oberlin College Men's Baseball team of 2004-2005, the answer is most definitely no. I don't know where the pictures went of a much fatter me d-boing a tiki torch, but let me just say that our hazing was actually hilarious and so well deserved that I am a better man for it. So tell Thomas Hobbes we got another failed attempt, and remember that if you're gonna abuse somebody for no apparent reason, you might as well get paid to do it (Hello US Marine Corps!).
Now, time to casually masturbate to this.
i'm writing a paper
And not even for school, just for me motherfuckers...
The pillow situation in Spain has reached it's boiling point for yours truly. I'm not quite sure why Spanish beds are categorized only by width (ridiculous) or why pillows are designed to spread across that entire width (as opposed to offering a pillow half that size that would serve an individual's head as proper cushioning and support only can), but I cannot take it anymore! My drunk-misanthropic landlord can also go fuck himself for never fixing half the fuckups in the apartment; our shutters don't work, there's several broken tables and chairs, the water pressure is abysmal, but fuckin eh' this experience is too fun to let someone who "prospered under Franco"(his words) to fuck shit up.
Tortilla de Patata (Tortilla Española) is cheaper than flour tortillas; this runs so counterintuitive in logic that I have been deprived of a true burrito for 4 straight months. I suppose the mistake is mine for having visited Ana's Taquería in Brookline, Massachusetes during an August road trip; pressed cheese, my god pressed cheese in the tortilla...Speaking of which, Dave Sokoll created an elaborate high stakes bet to eat 7 super burritos in one day, he ate one and I forgive him; although 7 super burritos would make for superb drug mule training, something that i might consider to save up some money (hello DEA/Guardia Civil!)
The pillow situation in Spain has reached it's boiling point for yours truly. I'm not quite sure why Spanish beds are categorized only by width (ridiculous) or why pillows are designed to spread across that entire width (as opposed to offering a pillow half that size that would serve an individual's head as proper cushioning and support only can), but I cannot take it anymore! My drunk-misanthropic landlord can also go fuck himself for never fixing half the fuckups in the apartment; our shutters don't work, there's several broken tables and chairs, the water pressure is abysmal, but fuckin eh' this experience is too fun to let someone who "prospered under Franco"(his words) to fuck shit up.
Tortilla de Patata (Tortilla Española) is cheaper than flour tortillas; this runs so counterintuitive in logic that I have been deprived of a true burrito for 4 straight months. I suppose the mistake is mine for having visited Ana's Taquería in Brookline, Massachusetes during an August road trip; pressed cheese, my god pressed cheese in the tortilla...Speaking of which, Dave Sokoll created an elaborate high stakes bet to eat 7 super burritos in one day, he ate one and I forgive him; although 7 super burritos would make for superb drug mule training, something that i might consider to save up some money (hello DEA/Guardia Civil!)
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