Ok, christ. You wanted it - well when it's all over, remember that you asked for this. You looked in my eyes as it happened.
I need to expound on a theory of sports, which will violently degenerate into a theory about my life, which will then bring us to failure, and that's where it always ends anyway, right?
Right, so get on with it. Roll it tight so when it lights, there's no fight. The money runs everything. We don't go to Canterbury park to watch the pretty horses run in circles. And we don't watch the Panthers play the Bears on a Sunday afternoon unless there is a Reason. And that reason is 33.5 points, of which you'd be smart to bet on the low side. So isn't that a good starting point? The money? It always follows the money anyway. You can discuss sports, but unless you're a Dallas commentator, you can't have a meaningful discussion without eventually touching upon money. This should be the basis of most of the conversation regarding modern sports. Everything else is so fucking played out.
You think Lou Brock gave a shit about the game? You think Barry Bonds is an arrogant asshole who cares only about himself and that Mickey Mantle is a hero to millions of big-nosed drunks in the Bronx? That's a load of shit. The only difference between then and now is the coverage. That's it. There is more coverage of the little things, and media giants like ESPN blow these out of proportion. Terrell Owens would have been a "crazy cat" in the 70s. He would have been known for the touchdown dances, sure, but his contract shit would have been back page news.
So, is it racism? Has the press become more racist? I wouldn't go that far. But I think it's a fundamental fact that needs to be addressed when examining the relationship between media and sports: most athletes are black (or foreign born) and most reporters, broadcasters and columnists are white. It's a fact, so let's deal with it. Now, that doesn't mean that because white people say bad things about black people that it's racist. Or vice versa. It just means... be careful. Be very careful when reading these reports, because there's often something there... something just beyond the print, something buried in the ambition. Personally, I doubt there is a big racist machine driving sports reporting in this country, but I'm not stupid enough to pretend that a good portion of NFL fans look at Randy Moss without a touch of racism. Especially in Minnesota, for fuck's sake.
(bring it back, don't lose it) It comes back to the coverage. The media giants are just fucking lost. I am constantly encouraged by blogs. The Twins community here is wonderful, and other communities are thriving as well. Basketball blogs are blowing up too. When NFL fans finally get down to Circuit City to get them that new Packard Bell computator, there'll be some of those too. It's growing, it's getting better. I don't even read MLB.com articles anymore. I don't read ESPN articles about baseball unless they are written by Rob Neyer or God Gammons. I go to my local bloggers to read their take on the game, and I read the box score from Sportsline. And I think the revolution is happening. And I also think that's WHY ESPN is looking so stupid these days. Because they are flailing their arms trying to gain attention, trying to out-do the blogs, trying to make their name in a changing market. Hell, it's admirable. But I don't like it. They used to be the worldwide leader in sports, now it's just a joke. This fake press conference thing? Sportscenter? It's just sad. Not to mention the dispropotionate time they give to "sagas" as opposed to real highlights. They are trying to gain an edge, to get a foothold while the sports reporting world changes. But they're going to lose. These big companies are going to lose. The power of the people will triumph. There are enough people like me out there - people who are pissed off at the way sports is covered and want it to change. There are enough idiots who carry iPods on the bus who can turn on their laptop and blog about slugging percentages of minor league players. They are out there, they have a following, and their energy will prevail. The old system will die.
But then, it all comes back to money, doesn't it? The money drives it, makes it real. And I guess the big sports reporting agencies have the money. The TV contracts, the endorsements, it's something that the bloggers will never have. I don't think any pud with an understanding of sabrmetrics and a worn copy of Ball Four is going to have much of a chance against fucking Disney. I mean, it's run by Jews, so you know....
Shout out to Gregg Easterbrook. Stay up, player! Don't let the Conspiracy get to you!
So will it ever change? The money stays localized, it hardly ever moves. Look at that fucking deal EA got with the NFL. That's just sad. And it's like that. Monday night football is going to be on ESPN? Strange. Is Stu Scott going to announce? Maybe Joe Morgan? And after the game, you can scoot over to ESPN U to watch... rowing. Anyway, it's an uphill climb, but hopefully, the discussion about sports will eventually return to the simplicity of the old times:
Drunk fan: Hey Aaron, you're a bum!
Aaron: Yeah yeah, shut your trap, drunk.
Drunk fan: (pause) Hey Aaron, you're a FUCKIN bum! (laughs, gives high five to his overweight friend)
I can smell the Miller from here.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Whip me, Beat me, Make me write bad checks
This is a rare moment for me, with work briefly subsiding as the sun sets on the end of November. Turning the speaker on its side, I gotta think about Devo. The start of all of their songs is eerily similar. Sometimes it just keeps that same thing up for three minutes. You ask for that small figure of life back. But then...sometimes, about a minute in, the lever is pushed up. They have something. It's unique. A voice. Something to admire in times of pap.
I still have Thanksgiving food in my fridge.
In my cupboards, all over the fucking place. I love the wild turkey (drink and meal) but I'm done doing the cooking for a while. Spending time in the kitchen to make the meal that you could get at a diner (aside from the processed Turkey loaf, which tastes like tires soaking in the ocean) any damn time. I guess that Tupperware of Stove Top is going to get some cheese on top and be washed down with some Jimmy Beam.
Don't be fooled: San Diego is not a "mini-LA"
It's cool to say this. It would sum up the feelings of people who want to live/stay in LA but just don't have the ka-jones to do so. But it's not. There's more homeless people than ATMs in San Diego. It's colder (on the water, sucka). It has a train that goes places. It has a lot of one-way streets. You can walk to a lot of things. But the best of all? It has a lot of high priced restaurants that will do ANYTHING to get people in. They're all over the place. So do your fucking homework. If the place is actually called Mr. Tiki Mai Tai Lounge, you'd better go there...and flirt with the waitress and give her a tip smaller than she expects. She had an attitude anyway. You will also down a giant Mai Tai that makes you so hungry you can barely eat. Then, as you watch the Hawaii/Wisconsin game on a big TV (out of place in a restaurant of this style, but the programming fit right in) have another drink. Pace yourself, dummy, you just put away a lot of bird.
The Texas football coach is starting to piss me off
If you were the coach, you'd be wearing at least a cowboy hat and an elliptical belt buckle. If natives would let you, you'd go farther. Why? Why the fuck not? Look, June Jones wears a lei around his neck. Jerry Glanville would have his players wearing black in a night game at a grocery store parking lot. What does this tell you? The school doesn't give a shit. So make it happen.
Notre Dame isn't that good, which is a phrase you've heard before
My job is not limited to the day-to-day volleys of question/answer. Coming soon, I will see if, in fact, Notre Dame IS a bigger draw to a bowl game. Let's see...the combined winning percentage of the teams they defeated is .450. Only 3 have winning records. Blah blah blah playoff blah blah.
Come on, Clippers!
Do it for the south side. Do it for Kobe and his tights. Do it to show the fans you've overcome a moron owner and GM. Do it because Hulk Hogan is on your team. Do it before Sam gets injured. Do it so I can see LA people figure out when to get excited about them, and what to do if they win.
Find me the cheesy chips...it's drinky time. I've said enough.
I still have Thanksgiving food in my fridge.
In my cupboards, all over the fucking place. I love the wild turkey (drink and meal) but I'm done doing the cooking for a while. Spending time in the kitchen to make the meal that you could get at a diner (aside from the processed Turkey loaf, which tastes like tires soaking in the ocean) any damn time. I guess that Tupperware of Stove Top is going to get some cheese on top and be washed down with some Jimmy Beam.
Don't be fooled: San Diego is not a "mini-LA"
It's cool to say this. It would sum up the feelings of people who want to live/stay in LA but just don't have the ka-jones to do so. But it's not. There's more homeless people than ATMs in San Diego. It's colder (on the water, sucka). It has a train that goes places. It has a lot of one-way streets. You can walk to a lot of things. But the best of all? It has a lot of high priced restaurants that will do ANYTHING to get people in. They're all over the place. So do your fucking homework. If the place is actually called Mr. Tiki Mai Tai Lounge, you'd better go there...and flirt with the waitress and give her a tip smaller than she expects. She had an attitude anyway. You will also down a giant Mai Tai that makes you so hungry you can barely eat. Then, as you watch the Hawaii/Wisconsin game on a big TV (out of place in a restaurant of this style, but the programming fit right in) have another drink. Pace yourself, dummy, you just put away a lot of bird.
The Texas football coach is starting to piss me off
If you were the coach, you'd be wearing at least a cowboy hat and an elliptical belt buckle. If natives would let you, you'd go farther. Why? Why the fuck not? Look, June Jones wears a lei around his neck. Jerry Glanville would have his players wearing black in a night game at a grocery store parking lot. What does this tell you? The school doesn't give a shit. So make it happen.
Notre Dame isn't that good, which is a phrase you've heard before
My job is not limited to the day-to-day volleys of question/answer. Coming soon, I will see if, in fact, Notre Dame IS a bigger draw to a bowl game. Let's see...the combined winning percentage of the teams they defeated is .450. Only 3 have winning records. Blah blah blah playoff blah blah.
Come on, Clippers!
Do it for the south side. Do it for Kobe and his tights. Do it to show the fans you've overcome a moron owner and GM. Do it because Hulk Hogan is on your team. Do it before Sam gets injured. Do it so I can see LA people figure out when to get excited about them, and what to do if they win.
Find me the cheesy chips...it's drinky time. I've said enough.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Truckin' Continues
It seems Steve Simpson couldn't find this page if it was taped to the inside of his pants. So, here's a swingin expose into his mind that I thought would fit here. Further writings to follow.
------------
I could never get into the posthumous releases from Biggie. I think it really all came together on Ready To Die. Life After Death has some rock solid hits, but Born Again doesn't have the same quality that RTD had. I think basically, Juicy is like the story of Notorious B.I.G. It's damn near a perfect rap song. "Blowin up like you thought I would, color "crip", same number same hood, it's all good..." All that said though, Dead Wrong knocks you the fuck out. Relax and take notes...Anyway, thanks to that panhandled segway, I guess we can get into the purpose of this post.
Sometimes, I need to just admit that I'm wrong about sports.
I am rarely one to really jump out there and give bold predictions. I content myself to make comments on the current condition of the sporting world, make snide observations about local athletes and sports celebrities, and generally just say shit that everyone else knows anyway. To the tune of rap lyrics. But there are occasions where I will go out on a limb and profess to know something about sports that few others do. It is in these times that I feel a sense of power, like I'm telling people something they don't know, and above all, I'm RIGHT, and they know I'm right, and there's no way to disprove it because it hasn't happened yet.
The problem, Jack, is that usually, I end up wrong about things. I'm only forgiven from being wrong by the fact that the people I give my predictions to have very bad memories. But I remember. And it tears me up.I'll give you a brief example. In October 2004, after game 3 of the ALCS, I wrote this to my friend:
"I'll say this about the Yankees and Red Sox, and you and I have different perspectives: The Yankees are all about winning. For the purity of the game, they represent the closest thing to perfection there is. They are built to win, always. They are the alpha and the omega. Now, most other teams in baseball have figured this out, and have gone about their business in their own way. It's like the Yankees are the Romans, and most of the other teams are content to just carve out their piece of land, try to prosper, have a good time, and occaisionally make an effort to take down Rome. But they don't obsess over it. Then there's the Red Sox. This is a team, an entire CULTURE built SOLELY for the purpose of defeating the Evil Yankees. They have the inferiority complex to end all inferiority complexes. Their entire existence is defined by the Yankees. Yankees get A-Rod, they have to go get Schilling. Yankees get Olerud, they have to get Doug from the Twins. Everything they do, every action they take is viewed through the lens of defeating the Yankees. But here's the thing: They're not as good at running an organization as the Yankees. Nobody is. Their culture breeds incompetence. Why is their manager so stupid? Why do their players act like idiots? Why are their fans so completely insane? Because their culture is so atomistic, so intensely focused on the Yankees, they don't ever stop to think about, oh, I don't know, PLAYING BASEBALL LIKE ITS SUPPOSED TO BE PLAYED. Now you've got the long hair, the beards, the goofy handshakes and the general clown-ness of the team. And that's all good and everything, but I think they're selling their fans out. The fans in that city expect them to eventually, some day, best the Yankees. But the players are playing the role of the stoner going in for a job interview. Yeah, to the stoner, even if he doesn't get the job, he's still living his life and having fun, and that's great. But he's being selfish. It would be great to win a world series with a team full of clowns and long-haired hippy types, but it's not going to happen. So just cut the fucking mop and stop whining, Damon. Derek Jeter is better than your whole team because he's more of a professional than anyone you have. Now, this isn't a ringing endorsement of the Yankees, it's more of "What are you doing?!?!?" to the Red Sox. Nobody on the Yankees gives a shit about a curse or the past or being superior. They just care about winning. Isn't that the purity of sports? I understand there is a lot to be said about the way you play the game and if you have fun, but at the end of the season, there's only one team left. That's why you play. Or, at least, that's a big reason why you play. To paraphrase Notorious B.I.G.: The Yankees tell it how it is, the Red Sox tell it how it might be."
Ok, that's just wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, and I feel like a moron for ever thinking it. Yeah, in retrospect, nobody predicted The Comeback. But still, it was stupid stuff to say, and had no logical bearing. I learned from that incident to never form an opinion about something until there has been resolution, one way or another. Here is a short list of things I have to admit that I was wrong about.
1. The Chicago White Sox
2. The Minnesota Twins in 2005
3. Larry Brown
4. Dirk Nowitzki
5. Pau Gasol
6. Grant Hill
7. Eli Manning
8. Brad Johnson
9. Tony Dungy
10. David Ortiz (oh god, it still hurts...)
11. Chauncey Billups
12. Dan Monson
And, I know there will be more. These tend to be in the "Thought that person/team was going to suck royally, and later had to accept that they were decent" category, but I've been wrong the other ways too. I was sending emails like a nuthouse mumbler when I found out Jordan was returning to play with the Wizards and I kept pimping him, even though it was obvious that he sucked. It wasn't until after he retired again, for the first time for the last time, that I realized how stupid that was, and how I should've just looked at his stats and examined his game, instead of cheering for him like some child. I guess the point is that I wish I could learn to not judge players/teams until a rational opinion about them can at least be formed. For example, the reason I thought the White Sox sucked this year is because "The White Sox always suck". The reason they were going to choke in the playoffs? "They always choke in the playoffs". But there is no evidence for this. There is no logic behind it. It's time to view things more objectively, and stop attacking players that I don't like.
What spurred all this? Mostly Brad Johnson. I watched the game last night and fondly remembered when my cousin and I would mercilessly tease and berate Johnson to one another, when he was a backup quarterback for the Vikes. I can remember dropping back, throwing a pass, and having my cousin tell me it "looked like a Brad Johnson pass". That hurt the most. He was nothing, he was a nobody, he never played, so we thought - naturally - that he would never be a starter, and certainly never be any good. 14 years later, he's a super bowl champ and a solid quarterback. Meanwhile, I type this in between phone calls with batshit loonballs. So, Brad Johnson, you won. Drop it.
------------
I could never get into the posthumous releases from Biggie. I think it really all came together on Ready To Die. Life After Death has some rock solid hits, but Born Again doesn't have the same quality that RTD had. I think basically, Juicy is like the story of Notorious B.I.G. It's damn near a perfect rap song. "Blowin up like you thought I would, color "crip", same number same hood, it's all good..." All that said though, Dead Wrong knocks you the fuck out. Relax and take notes...Anyway, thanks to that panhandled segway, I guess we can get into the purpose of this post.
Sometimes, I need to just admit that I'm wrong about sports.
I am rarely one to really jump out there and give bold predictions. I content myself to make comments on the current condition of the sporting world, make snide observations about local athletes and sports celebrities, and generally just say shit that everyone else knows anyway. To the tune of rap lyrics. But there are occasions where I will go out on a limb and profess to know something about sports that few others do. It is in these times that I feel a sense of power, like I'm telling people something they don't know, and above all, I'm RIGHT, and they know I'm right, and there's no way to disprove it because it hasn't happened yet.
The problem, Jack, is that usually, I end up wrong about things. I'm only forgiven from being wrong by the fact that the people I give my predictions to have very bad memories. But I remember. And it tears me up.I'll give you a brief example. In October 2004, after game 3 of the ALCS, I wrote this to my friend:
"I'll say this about the Yankees and Red Sox, and you and I have different perspectives: The Yankees are all about winning. For the purity of the game, they represent the closest thing to perfection there is. They are built to win, always. They are the alpha and the omega. Now, most other teams in baseball have figured this out, and have gone about their business in their own way. It's like the Yankees are the Romans, and most of the other teams are content to just carve out their piece of land, try to prosper, have a good time, and occaisionally make an effort to take down Rome. But they don't obsess over it. Then there's the Red Sox. This is a team, an entire CULTURE built SOLELY for the purpose of defeating the Evil Yankees. They have the inferiority complex to end all inferiority complexes. Their entire existence is defined by the Yankees. Yankees get A-Rod, they have to go get Schilling. Yankees get Olerud, they have to get Doug from the Twins. Everything they do, every action they take is viewed through the lens of defeating the Yankees. But here's the thing: They're not as good at running an organization as the Yankees. Nobody is. Their culture breeds incompetence. Why is their manager so stupid? Why do their players act like idiots? Why are their fans so completely insane? Because their culture is so atomistic, so intensely focused on the Yankees, they don't ever stop to think about, oh, I don't know, PLAYING BASEBALL LIKE ITS SUPPOSED TO BE PLAYED. Now you've got the long hair, the beards, the goofy handshakes and the general clown-ness of the team. And that's all good and everything, but I think they're selling their fans out. The fans in that city expect them to eventually, some day, best the Yankees. But the players are playing the role of the stoner going in for a job interview. Yeah, to the stoner, even if he doesn't get the job, he's still living his life and having fun, and that's great. But he's being selfish. It would be great to win a world series with a team full of clowns and long-haired hippy types, but it's not going to happen. So just cut the fucking mop and stop whining, Damon. Derek Jeter is better than your whole team because he's more of a professional than anyone you have. Now, this isn't a ringing endorsement of the Yankees, it's more of "What are you doing?!?!?" to the Red Sox. Nobody on the Yankees gives a shit about a curse or the past or being superior. They just care about winning. Isn't that the purity of sports? I understand there is a lot to be said about the way you play the game and if you have fun, but at the end of the season, there's only one team left. That's why you play. Or, at least, that's a big reason why you play. To paraphrase Notorious B.I.G.: The Yankees tell it how it is, the Red Sox tell it how it might be."
Ok, that's just wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, and I feel like a moron for ever thinking it. Yeah, in retrospect, nobody predicted The Comeback. But still, it was stupid stuff to say, and had no logical bearing. I learned from that incident to never form an opinion about something until there has been resolution, one way or another. Here is a short list of things I have to admit that I was wrong about.
1. The Chicago White Sox
2. The Minnesota Twins in 2005
3. Larry Brown
4. Dirk Nowitzki
5. Pau Gasol
6. Grant Hill
7. Eli Manning
8. Brad Johnson
9. Tony Dungy
10. David Ortiz (oh god, it still hurts...)
11. Chauncey Billups
12. Dan Monson
And, I know there will be more. These tend to be in the "Thought that person/team was going to suck royally, and later had to accept that they were decent" category, but I've been wrong the other ways too. I was sending emails like a nuthouse mumbler when I found out Jordan was returning to play with the Wizards and I kept pimping him, even though it was obvious that he sucked. It wasn't until after he retired again, for the first time for the last time, that I realized how stupid that was, and how I should've just looked at his stats and examined his game, instead of cheering for him like some child. I guess the point is that I wish I could learn to not judge players/teams until a rational opinion about them can at least be formed. For example, the reason I thought the White Sox sucked this year is because "The White Sox always suck". The reason they were going to choke in the playoffs? "They always choke in the playoffs". But there is no evidence for this. There is no logic behind it. It's time to view things more objectively, and stop attacking players that I don't like.
What spurred all this? Mostly Brad Johnson. I watched the game last night and fondly remembered when my cousin and I would mercilessly tease and berate Johnson to one another, when he was a backup quarterback for the Vikes. I can remember dropping back, throwing a pass, and having my cousin tell me it "looked like a Brad Johnson pass". That hurt the most. He was nothing, he was a nobody, he never played, so we thought - naturally - that he would never be a starter, and certainly never be any good. 14 years later, he's a super bowl champ and a solid quarterback. Meanwhile, I type this in between phone calls with batshit loonballs. So, Brad Johnson, you won. Drop it.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Give that man a sun dial
It was a rare occasion in one respect, but a dubious one at that. The Soothsayer agreed to join me for fried spaghetti during mid-day, and it was my responsibility to bring the moonshine. It was surprisingly easy to smuggle in, and there it sat next to the bottle of Heinz 57.
Soothsayer finally arrived and took an additional moment to find my table. Not only was he lacking focus, his skin tone suggested he was low on drink.
"I thought we agreed on the honor system. You know they don't believe me when I walk in with the cymbal case. The host should be looking at you."
I could see right through him; he was trying to delay from discussing the real reason for this meeting: society gambling. I wanted to get an agreement from him before any money was exchanged.
"Wait," the Soothsayer protested "who wanted to meet this way? You or me?"
I had to lay down the truth to a man who was in denial for a reason beyond me. "You dunce, we need to agree on this. No one's been able to find you, and when they do, you remind all of an Emu in heat. Your only admittance was that you stole my empty Bayer bottle and stepped on it. You're as unresponsive as Steve Simpson. And now you want me to define the rules AGAIN?"
Sheepishly he unhanded the bottle of Early Times and mumbled something while taking a rip at a slice of bread. "First," I said, "you and I will gamble evenly and constantly on everything we see in society. And this will be for large amounts of money, firewood, alcohol, or all three."
The Soothsayer then set down his fork, and looked to his left. "You are not king of the salad bar anymore. And this is a game in which I shall humiliate you." Sadly, his visor slid backwards from his head as he said this, creating a hearty laugh from all who viewed it. I saw my chance, and exclaimed. "Out the window! The Acura. $150 he turns into the parking lot." Without looking the Soothsayer held up a ticket from a Jean, Nevada casino.
"South siders, World Series. I fucking told you, and you have the brain capacity of a brillo pad."
The Acura then turned, and cut into the parking lot. I received not a glance, smile, or scowl from the Soothsayer, but a small envelope.
"This will more than make up for it. Oh, and try that Apple Crisp."
You think I'm going to follow his suggestions for food, if even in season? Hell no, society gambling is on, and there is no overtime, no halftime, and no end of deal-making-possibilities. Back to heat city...
Soothsayer finally arrived and took an additional moment to find my table. Not only was he lacking focus, his skin tone suggested he was low on drink.
"I thought we agreed on the honor system. You know they don't believe me when I walk in with the cymbal case. The host should be looking at you."
I could see right through him; he was trying to delay from discussing the real reason for this meeting: society gambling. I wanted to get an agreement from him before any money was exchanged.
"Wait," the Soothsayer protested "who wanted to meet this way? You or me?"
I had to lay down the truth to a man who was in denial for a reason beyond me. "You dunce, we need to agree on this. No one's been able to find you, and when they do, you remind all of an Emu in heat. Your only admittance was that you stole my empty Bayer bottle and stepped on it. You're as unresponsive as Steve Simpson. And now you want me to define the rules AGAIN?"
Sheepishly he unhanded the bottle of Early Times and mumbled something while taking a rip at a slice of bread. "First," I said, "you and I will gamble evenly and constantly on everything we see in society. And this will be for large amounts of money, firewood, alcohol, or all three."
The Soothsayer then set down his fork, and looked to his left. "You are not king of the salad bar anymore. And this is a game in which I shall humiliate you." Sadly, his visor slid backwards from his head as he said this, creating a hearty laugh from all who viewed it. I saw my chance, and exclaimed. "Out the window! The Acura. $150 he turns into the parking lot." Without looking the Soothsayer held up a ticket from a Jean, Nevada casino.
"South siders, World Series. I fucking told you, and you have the brain capacity of a brillo pad."
The Acura then turned, and cut into the parking lot. I received not a glance, smile, or scowl from the Soothsayer, but a small envelope.
"This will more than make up for it. Oh, and try that Apple Crisp."
You think I'm going to follow his suggestions for food, if even in season? Hell no, society gambling is on, and there is no overtime, no halftime, and no end of deal-making-possibilities. Back to heat city...
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The Vikes are on the Move!
Now, if you ask a guy like me, there's nothing wrong with having...ah, a certain kind of party on a boat. I will neither confirm or deny if I've ever been involved in one. But when things go too far, and you're in the public eye, it can be big trouble. And when you're a team that's perfected fucking up, it's in your nature to drill yourself further into the ground until you hit layers of clay. Holy Mack! This Viking group sure is on a roll with this stuff. But despite the title of this entry, focusing on Denny Green's Jazz Fight Song for the team, we'll aim at the '80s.
Tommy Kramer sure liked to throw the ball. And once the Queens lost any real running back, he threw more. Now, if you've ever seen him throw you know that spirals aren't really his thing. Just get it to the receiver (or near him) as soon as possible, because you're about to get a helmet in the back. How a ball can vertically be thrown 20 yards defies time and space; don't ask me. But then again, I'm wowed by fish tanks so what do I know?
The word on the street back in '81-'82 was that Tommy was spending too much time on the 494 strip (back when you could). It sounds pretty swanky to me, and I don't see the problem. Neither did Tommy, until he went to rehab here in Orange, yet didn't tell anyone. Only a handful of the team knew, but not his wife or his agent. The apex of this includes a night in southwest Bloomington, and Tommy trying to walk a straight line for the cops...with no pants. Despite the DWIs, the team STILL hung on to him through the end of the decade before dumping him to New Orleans. I guess that's loyalty.
Is it the same loyalty that followed the team through mishandling of cocaine problems in the mid-80s? Was it the DWI's where players seemed only able to drive south, and at high speeds? Was it the player who was a registered sex offender, and the others arrested for sexual assault? When people think of rough, hellraising teams, the Raiders (any year) and the '85 Bears come to mind. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sandy, but these were not problems for said teams - especially for the Raiders: this lifestyle was a solution. You know who is the only member of the '85 Bears to get a DWI that season? DITKA. That's right.
Sure, this will blow over. Off season arrives, phony optimism installed. A few years from now (or months) something new will come up. And the fans, instead of telling this team they aren't going to buy tickets until they get it in fucking gear...well, they pass the box of donuts, fart, and wash those purple Zubaz one more time. Folks, this is a team this town deserves.
Tommy Kramer sure liked to throw the ball. And once the Queens lost any real running back, he threw more. Now, if you've ever seen him throw you know that spirals aren't really his thing. Just get it to the receiver (or near him) as soon as possible, because you're about to get a helmet in the back. How a ball can vertically be thrown 20 yards defies time and space; don't ask me. But then again, I'm wowed by fish tanks so what do I know?
The word on the street back in '81-'82 was that Tommy was spending too much time on the 494 strip (back when you could). It sounds pretty swanky to me, and I don't see the problem. Neither did Tommy, until he went to rehab here in Orange, yet didn't tell anyone. Only a handful of the team knew, but not his wife or his agent. The apex of this includes a night in southwest Bloomington, and Tommy trying to walk a straight line for the cops...with no pants. Despite the DWIs, the team STILL hung on to him through the end of the decade before dumping him to New Orleans. I guess that's loyalty.
Is it the same loyalty that followed the team through mishandling of cocaine problems in the mid-80s? Was it the DWI's where players seemed only able to drive south, and at high speeds? Was it the player who was a registered sex offender, and the others arrested for sexual assault? When people think of rough, hellraising teams, the Raiders (any year) and the '85 Bears come to mind. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sandy, but these were not problems for said teams - especially for the Raiders: this lifestyle was a solution. You know who is the only member of the '85 Bears to get a DWI that season? DITKA. That's right.
Sure, this will blow over. Off season arrives, phony optimism installed. A few years from now (or months) something new will come up. And the fans, instead of telling this team they aren't going to buy tickets until they get it in fucking gear...well, they pass the box of donuts, fart, and wash those purple Zubaz one more time. Folks, this is a team this town deserves.
Friday, October 07, 2005
The Long White Nightmare
Yeah, look at the tears. Just a runnin' down my face like some twisted Petty song. You may get your bloody noses (and, let's face it, most of them won't have a goddamned thing to do with the humidity), but I have to start wearing goddamned pants.
Pants. Did you hear me?
It creeps in slow, that understanding. It doesn't grip you at all, more just like an everlasting hum in the base of your brain. The cold numbs the rest. We pretend it doesn't exist. It does. We pretend to enjoy it. We don't. We make up all manner of colloquialisms to explain and give depth to its nature. It has no nature. A wiser man than myself once said "The dead know only one thing. It is better to be alive". Well, the cold know only one thing....
But we joke about it. We make it our own. "Hands off, Boston! This cold is much worse than yours! Na na na!" Like the first step for the Quitters, we admit we are powerless against it, but yet we internalize some bullshit machismo about our fear of it. At the end of the day, all it really means is lower resale value on cars, and less time for deals.
See, the thing is that looking at the Long White Nightmare as anything other than a huge pain in the sack is illogical. It reeks of ignorance. If you want to have a discussion about living in different areas of the world, that's fine. We can discuss the goods and the bads of each and every zipcode all across this hell-damned land. But what is it about this area that refuses to allow people to admit that this is just horseshit? Everyone wants to throw things like "It makes me appreciate the seasons more". I am going to go home tonight and root through my toolshed, and try like Jesus Christ to locate a tool by which to measure my "appreciation". I will bet you one million pesos that I do not find it. "I've got great memories of playing in snow when I was a kid on christmas" You weren't driving a shit-box with no heat then, were you? Parents gave you love and support, not like the cruel modern world, which would just as soon enlist your ass on a one-way rocket to Democracyland or charge you through the face to heat your fucking bungalow than tell you it's all going to be alright. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America.
And it's great to live here, and it's great to live other places, and things make sense and sometimes you go back in to a Hardee's to scream at the 16 year old behind the register because that Dr. Pepper was diet. But let's just be realistic about this thing... there is no escape. We can hide (don't worry, it's natural), we can do our best to combat the feeling of helplessness, but eventually, we all have to walk every one of the 12 steps.
And it's going to be ok. Let's just start by fucking admitting it.
If you need help, remember this simple equation:
Chief + Pants = Not Good
Pants. Did you hear me?
It creeps in slow, that understanding. It doesn't grip you at all, more just like an everlasting hum in the base of your brain. The cold numbs the rest. We pretend it doesn't exist. It does. We pretend to enjoy it. We don't. We make up all manner of colloquialisms to explain and give depth to its nature. It has no nature. A wiser man than myself once said "The dead know only one thing. It is better to be alive". Well, the cold know only one thing....
But we joke about it. We make it our own. "Hands off, Boston! This cold is much worse than yours! Na na na!" Like the first step for the Quitters, we admit we are powerless against it, but yet we internalize some bullshit machismo about our fear of it. At the end of the day, all it really means is lower resale value on cars, and less time for deals.
See, the thing is that looking at the Long White Nightmare as anything other than a huge pain in the sack is illogical. It reeks of ignorance. If you want to have a discussion about living in different areas of the world, that's fine. We can discuss the goods and the bads of each and every zipcode all across this hell-damned land. But what is it about this area that refuses to allow people to admit that this is just horseshit? Everyone wants to throw things like "It makes me appreciate the seasons more". I am going to go home tonight and root through my toolshed, and try like Jesus Christ to locate a tool by which to measure my "appreciation". I will bet you one million pesos that I do not find it. "I've got great memories of playing in snow when I was a kid on christmas" You weren't driving a shit-box with no heat then, were you? Parents gave you love and support, not like the cruel modern world, which would just as soon enlist your ass on a one-way rocket to Democracyland or charge you through the face to heat your fucking bungalow than tell you it's all going to be alright. Welcome to Dick Cheney's America.
And it's great to live here, and it's great to live other places, and things make sense and sometimes you go back in to a Hardee's to scream at the 16 year old behind the register because that Dr. Pepper was diet. But let's just be realistic about this thing... there is no escape. We can hide (don't worry, it's natural), we can do our best to combat the feeling of helplessness, but eventually, we all have to walk every one of the 12 steps.
And it's going to be ok. Let's just start by fucking admitting it.
If you need help, remember this simple equation:
Chief + Pants = Not Good
Here come those Santa Ana winds again
Steely Dan sang it. For the past week I have lived it. To say it hasn't hit even the most casual freak is ignoring the fierce breath of Mama Earth. 5-10% humidity be damned. Physical activity was considered futile due to the cotton-mouth daze I was subjected to tolerate. Knowing this (after becoming a victim of it), I needed an evening to take stock of where we stand.
Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.
You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."
Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.
Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.
Did I break my nose again? Is that's what has happened? Am I going to look like someone from the "B" line of the St. Louis Blues? Or is it these winds? It's so dry up there, powder turns to paste. Some people get upset when those things happen. When someone coughs and things go elsewhere...you're driving, and you have to put out a fire with a bottle of Heineken. We're going to have to stick to Jimmy Beam. He'll make it work. But it'll be a duo, swimming buddy - there's no fiesta this weekend. Nature is having none of it.
You can call me Howard Beale. We're a week away from a network, and the skeptics to well wishers all have their own feelings on Walt's empire. Look, I had people telling me they were buying a certain Japanese brand because I worked here. I'm never going to see Monsters, Inc. Ever. So, with that understood, let's try to change things. In the words of Zappa, "I can fix it, but I need to get inside."
Ay, the cargo just arrived. The pasta exploded in this box...its authenticity is already in question. I've got this stuff all over; it's ruined the T shit. I'm not even touching the cap or golf balls.
Let's toss that ball around, get some air before we turn to sand.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Anticipation
The "Santana" winds were the gustiest of gusty as I ran down 3rd street. Time was of the essence...I could no longer sit on the telephone rehashing previous Midwestern events of which I was not involved. How can one get a "study aid" in time to not miss guests and programming? I was on the run.
Upon arrival, I immediately located the aisle where freaks, bozos, and those with too much gas look for a fix for the warm night. The directions said "safe as coffee." What was my reasoning for this? I saw an ad for it from a 1980 TV Guide. 25 years later, it'll do. The fine print included this nugget of information:
contains the caffeine of eight cups of coffee
My god, man. I don't think I've seen anyone this wired since the Blind Owl concert. I picked it up, and a package of those cookies with the M&Ms that are so good. Something to chase these down. Returning home, I wanted to make sure this went through the proper way: Steak, potatoes, salad. I shall eat like a king. Tiny Dancer came over, and it altered my night plan. Truth be told, there's something to be said for someone who doesn't have to be told the rules of football. Especially a girl. I don't care if they actually don't know...just don't ask me questions.
Well, it makes me wonder...how do I know everything? (Everything being stuff from rules to penalties, formations, fight songs, and the All-SEC cheerleading squad) I have no idea. I just do. You do too. Who knows from when or where.
Sports was to be the focus but she had other plans. My brainwaves were altered, and the pills never made it down. The end was nigh, and I laid, tired, having not achieved any of the ambitious madness I allotted myself for the evening. The depth charts hadn't been reviewed before the bet was placed. The Mariachi band was not ordered for the Padres celebration that was cancelled due to lack of interest. The Red Sox fans were not asked why they chant down 5 runs. My choice to degrade myself in every manner possible was thwarted by man's most important wish. There will be other games. There will be other dates. There will be other pills. As night turned to day, and the door shut...a terse note was nailed to the door.
"See you in court, swineface."
A man's achievement is never finished until the hammer comes down. It could be hardware given, change gate closed. Last bite of Sloppy Joe, last ounce of gin. Final flush, one more stoplight to home. We have games and they're increasing by the day. I shall seize them in the name of ribald tales and fortune.
Ay yingo, this tea goes through me like shit through a goose. Speaking of...
Upon arrival, I immediately located the aisle where freaks, bozos, and those with too much gas look for a fix for the warm night. The directions said "safe as coffee." What was my reasoning for this? I saw an ad for it from a 1980 TV Guide. 25 years later, it'll do. The fine print included this nugget of information:
contains the caffeine of eight cups of coffee
My god, man. I don't think I've seen anyone this wired since the Blind Owl concert. I picked it up, and a package of those cookies with the M&Ms that are so good. Something to chase these down. Returning home, I wanted to make sure this went through the proper way: Steak, potatoes, salad. I shall eat like a king. Tiny Dancer came over, and it altered my night plan. Truth be told, there's something to be said for someone who doesn't have to be told the rules of football. Especially a girl. I don't care if they actually don't know...just don't ask me questions.
Well, it makes me wonder...how do I know everything? (Everything being stuff from rules to penalties, formations, fight songs, and the All-SEC cheerleading squad) I have no idea. I just do. You do too. Who knows from when or where.
Sports was to be the focus but she had other plans. My brainwaves were altered, and the pills never made it down. The end was nigh, and I laid, tired, having not achieved any of the ambitious madness I allotted myself for the evening. The depth charts hadn't been reviewed before the bet was placed. The Mariachi band was not ordered for the Padres celebration that was cancelled due to lack of interest. The Red Sox fans were not asked why they chant down 5 runs. My choice to degrade myself in every manner possible was thwarted by man's most important wish. There will be other games. There will be other dates. There will be other pills. As night turned to day, and the door shut...a terse note was nailed to the door.
"See you in court, swineface."
A man's achievement is never finished until the hammer comes down. It could be hardware given, change gate closed. Last bite of Sloppy Joe, last ounce of gin. Final flush, one more stoplight to home. We have games and they're increasing by the day. I shall seize them in the name of ribald tales and fortune.
Ay yingo, this tea goes through me like shit through a goose. Speaking of...
Monday, September 26, 2005
Incorrect Life Choices
Sure, hell, it doesn't matter. A bulleted list of things wrong with my life:
That's it, I have to eat something Italian.
- Louisville Football
- I spend 90 dollars on a nice dinner then have to hit my mom up for gas money
- Noise noise noise
- Online poker is for goddamned losers
- It costs 36 dollars to go to Timberwolves games, and Mark Madsen can't even hear me yelling
That's it, I have to eat something Italian.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
A hope for tomorrow during maddening frustration
Stuck inside a monitoring cell, I was surprised to find myself thinking. Not so much observing...Reflecting. There she is.
1. This chips don't taste as good as they used to.
Folks, we're not talking about the same bag, so save the material. It's when lullaby companies that claim to be natural and good for you alter something that just worked. Life's greatest triumphs and good times have come from moments where no one knew what was going to happen or, better yet, that THIS would happen. Cheese doesn't taste different from one coast of this country to the next, but said company added salt (the great flavor of the east) and we were on to something. The Flavor was smeared on, not sprayed. These potatoes were cut with a knife by a group of prisoners who nervously eyed the warden as they sat, knife in hand. Then this company just plain fucked it up. They altered it (but didn't tell anyone, New Coke lesson learned) and now it sucks. And because they are on the "high end" of the junk realm and no one sells classic small amounts, I'm out $1.75 in a day and age where I am out of laundry soap.
2. I'm not liking what I see in the AL East.
No one should. Now is not the time to let this team peak, even if they are playing a rusty watertown from Maryland, one who gave up hope weeks ago. I'd like the competition to step it up and realize that no hope is lost when you defeat a ruthless empire that exhales all the warmth of a siren. Wake the fuck up, Beacon Hill, and do your job. I don't care if you don't win in the playoffs, just keep the businessmen out of there.
3. We can't get forceful when he's all we have.
Tell this to the overfed scribes who think that Mason has to make it happen this week against Purdue. It's a must-win, no doubt, but if you can him, you're back at square zero. If this school wants their own pit to play, build with some success. How about you cut the sucker's pay? .500 in the Big Ten or it's slice time. And where's that money going? The new stadia. And improved face masks (always a problem, looking for a solution).
4. It feels like inside outside.
It doesn't get any better than this. Cool breeze by night. Trees turning. Temp is the same. It brings with it a lot of hope in a season of death. Man has turned this ritual of nature into its own beginning. Television. Football. Public School. Three true rights and character building charms of this land get it going when the leaves go to gold. And all this, as I walk inside/outside. Curious about lunch, and if I should eat it. Can you take a nap in the grass in front of the federal building? I will figure out. How much green tea does it take to make your head feel behind your body? 3 cups or so.
These are all things that face me here in the Golden State. We press on like Farmer John ham.
1. This chips don't taste as good as they used to.
Folks, we're not talking about the same bag, so save the material. It's when lullaby companies that claim to be natural and good for you alter something that just worked. Life's greatest triumphs and good times have come from moments where no one knew what was going to happen or, better yet, that THIS would happen. Cheese doesn't taste different from one coast of this country to the next, but said company added salt (the great flavor of the east) and we were on to something. The Flavor was smeared on, not sprayed. These potatoes were cut with a knife by a group of prisoners who nervously eyed the warden as they sat, knife in hand. Then this company just plain fucked it up. They altered it (but didn't tell anyone, New Coke lesson learned) and now it sucks. And because they are on the "high end" of the junk realm and no one sells classic small amounts, I'm out $1.75 in a day and age where I am out of laundry soap.
2. I'm not liking what I see in the AL East.
No one should. Now is not the time to let this team peak, even if they are playing a rusty watertown from Maryland, one who gave up hope weeks ago. I'd like the competition to step it up and realize that no hope is lost when you defeat a ruthless empire that exhales all the warmth of a siren. Wake the fuck up, Beacon Hill, and do your job. I don't care if you don't win in the playoffs, just keep the businessmen out of there.
3. We can't get forceful when he's all we have.
Tell this to the overfed scribes who think that Mason has to make it happen this week against Purdue. It's a must-win, no doubt, but if you can him, you're back at square zero. If this school wants their own pit to play, build with some success. How about you cut the sucker's pay? .500 in the Big Ten or it's slice time. And where's that money going? The new stadia. And improved face masks (always a problem, looking for a solution).
4. It feels like inside outside.
It doesn't get any better than this. Cool breeze by night. Trees turning. Temp is the same. It brings with it a lot of hope in a season of death. Man has turned this ritual of nature into its own beginning. Television. Football. Public School. Three true rights and character building charms of this land get it going when the leaves go to gold. And all this, as I walk inside/outside. Curious about lunch, and if I should eat it. Can you take a nap in the grass in front of the federal building? I will figure out. How much green tea does it take to make your head feel behind your body? 3 cups or so.
These are all things that face me here in the Golden State. We press on like Farmer John ham.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Christ the Hell
The sun may rise in the east, but it always sets where the gold turns to sand.
Good lord, though, with enough practice, anybody could take Joe Greene. Or George Blanda for that matter. In fantasy football, you'd want to start him at both quarterback and kicker. He'll hit you for 7 all by his lonesome. It's all just a matter of technique.
The thoroughbreads that burst from the college Machine every season have no direction and no empathy. The play-makers respond to the play-callers, and who the hell cares what else happens? Without coaching, this whole damn thing would be a waste of time. Pickup games for a dollar a point are fine and dandy when you find yourself in sweatpants and a Polk High tank-top out front of the Y with only 4 dollars in the sole of your New Balance kicks and 14 deals to make in the next fiscal cycle, but you wouldn't pay money to see that game. The coaches bring order, discipline. And more than that, they matter in Professional football.
Flip smokes cigarettes when he's pissed off, and jesus god, why shouldn't he? There are 10 million reasons Phil came back to coach the raper.
But hell, that's not what this is about. It's about the NFL. And these coaches, and how much they matter to the game. Can dumb idiots have success? Sure! Why not? Dumb Idiots have success everywhere in life. Why, just as I type this, there are some dumb idiots cavorting in a physical language unknown to the mouth-breathing steerage on this floor that would make the Pope weep, so to speak. And they get paid double and triple what I do, so who cares? The point isn't in the financial gap, it's the basic human condition, the fundamental principle by the name of Peter. Fuck all that, let's get back to the point.
The point is that success has to be sustained, and Mike Martz can't last. Dennis Green is a good coach, and if you don't think so, then you are wrong, and you'll have to sort of deal with that at some point. Mike Sherman? Sweet christ. Joe Gibbs, as Trip once said, is swindling money from The District, but why not? He's getting the job done with an inferior team. And he's not even a very good coach. It's just that when it comes down, and the last drive of the last game of the last season of your life is happening right in front of your eyes, you want Bill Parcells there. Even if he yells at the young kids. Because he Delivers.
The game has changed, and the heroes are dead. Brady? You must be kidding. Sure, he's great, but not in Minnesota, and if Gibbs had his way, Dillon's going straight up the middle every time because Joe still can't figure out why they took Happy Days off the air (thanks Denis). So when your coach is a bumbling idiot, when he can't even comprehend the fundamental nature of the game of Foot-balling, when he challenges the OPENING FUCKING KICKOFF - AND LOSES, you really don't have a chance at long-term success. Sorry Green Bay. Sorry Minnesota. Sorry St. Louis. Sorry Seattle. Sorry Houston. Sorry New York. Sorry New York (they city so nice they named two idiot-coached teams twice!).
But then again, Pete Carroll is a fucking genius now, so that about does it for this post. Welcome to the world, spuzzy!
Good lord, though, with enough practice, anybody could take Joe Greene. Or George Blanda for that matter. In fantasy football, you'd want to start him at both quarterback and kicker. He'll hit you for 7 all by his lonesome. It's all just a matter of technique.
The thoroughbreads that burst from the college Machine every season have no direction and no empathy. The play-makers respond to the play-callers, and who the hell cares what else happens? Without coaching, this whole damn thing would be a waste of time. Pickup games for a dollar a point are fine and dandy when you find yourself in sweatpants and a Polk High tank-top out front of the Y with only 4 dollars in the sole of your New Balance kicks and 14 deals to make in the next fiscal cycle, but you wouldn't pay money to see that game. The coaches bring order, discipline. And more than that, they matter in Professional football.
Flip smokes cigarettes when he's pissed off, and jesus god, why shouldn't he? There are 10 million reasons Phil came back to coach the raper.
But hell, that's not what this is about. It's about the NFL. And these coaches, and how much they matter to the game. Can dumb idiots have success? Sure! Why not? Dumb Idiots have success everywhere in life. Why, just as I type this, there are some dumb idiots cavorting in a physical language unknown to the mouth-breathing steerage on this floor that would make the Pope weep, so to speak. And they get paid double and triple what I do, so who cares? The point isn't in the financial gap, it's the basic human condition, the fundamental principle by the name of Peter. Fuck all that, let's get back to the point.
The point is that success has to be sustained, and Mike Martz can't last. Dennis Green is a good coach, and if you don't think so, then you are wrong, and you'll have to sort of deal with that at some point. Mike Sherman? Sweet christ. Joe Gibbs, as Trip once said, is swindling money from The District, but why not? He's getting the job done with an inferior team. And he's not even a very good coach. It's just that when it comes down, and the last drive of the last game of the last season of your life is happening right in front of your eyes, you want Bill Parcells there. Even if he yells at the young kids. Because he Delivers.
The game has changed, and the heroes are dead. Brady? You must be kidding. Sure, he's great, but not in Minnesota, and if Gibbs had his way, Dillon's going straight up the middle every time because Joe still can't figure out why they took Happy Days off the air (thanks Denis). So when your coach is a bumbling idiot, when he can't even comprehend the fundamental nature of the game of Foot-balling, when he challenges the OPENING FUCKING KICKOFF - AND LOSES, you really don't have a chance at long-term success. Sorry Green Bay. Sorry Minnesota. Sorry St. Louis. Sorry Seattle. Sorry Houston. Sorry New York. Sorry New York (they city so nice they named two idiot-coached teams twice!).
But then again, Pete Carroll is a fucking genius now, so that about does it for this post. Welcome to the world, spuzzy!
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Look, it's going to take some time to get this going, cleaned up, styled, you know, the whole thing. But in time, this rocket is going straight to Brazil.
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