SchmidtHaus

It Will Never Happen, But....

2007-05-22T23:32:00.001-07:00

So, maybe this post has something to do with the fact that I went out for beers and buffalo-wings to watch the Sox trounce the Yanks with a couple of buddies. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I gave my two weeks last Tuesday and am none-too-concerned with work for the next week plus. Maybe it has to do with the fact that when my wife is out of town I am far less likely to sleep like a baby than I am to lie in bed with my socks still on my feet, staring at the ceiling, and wondering about next year's New York Jets. So: here is what I have been thinking, lying there, head full of coors, belly full of chicken. I've got the offseason trade that could make the Jets Superbowl Contenders in THREE short years!

The key cog in this trade? Trent Green. Seriously. No joke.

Thus far the Dolphins are the only team in serious talks with Kansas City for Trent's services. The Chiefs, while desperate to unload Green and get younger at QB, keep balking at the offer of a 6th round pick for Green's services. The last thing the Jets need is a second highly effective QB in their division (let's face it, Tom Brady takes two next year with that WR core.) So here's a simple solution: outbid the Fins with what you offer, but ask for MORE in return.

Look, I know I have said this before. I know alot of Jets fans (like my father and my uncle) can't see the light for some reason, but look: Chad Pennington is NOT winning a Super Bowl in his lifetime. Teams have won before on the strength of their defense, and with the benefit of a smart and efficient QB, i understand. But the fact remains, the timing with this Jets team just isn't right to accomodate holding on to Pennington and his unearned salary. Our defense, while it keeps getting stronger is two years from completely jelling, our offensive line is filled with holes that need to be attended to in free agency and drafts, and we are still one Curtis Martinesque RB away from dominance. So I make my proposal with one caveat: the Jets may very well stink this year. But I was willing to take mediocrity over slightly-better-than-average last year, if it meant improvement in the near future, and I echo that sentiment this year. It boils down to this: there are VERY few things I want to see in my life more than a Jets Super Bowl championship. Like, no joke. Here's the list:

1. Healthy family

2. World peace

3. Loyal Friends

....That's it I think. So again, I don't offer this trade lightly. I offer it because I think it could very well be a step towards finalizing the team that offers me the long-sought-after joy of a Super Bowl championship. I offer it, because for the Jets right now it makes sense:

Chad Pennington and The Jets 2nd round pick for Trent Green and the Chiefs 1st and 3rd round pick.

It's a deal that makes sense for everyone. Think about it: Herm LOVES Pennington (for some inexplicable reason that probably is closely related to the fact that Herm is a crappy coach) and the Jets need a veteran QB to provide insurance should we discover our investment in Kellen Clemens was a bust. Green wants an honest competition for the QB slot and with the NYJ he can find one. Meanwhile the Jets flip a second round pick where they would normally be taking a crapshoot on a lineman, and get a first round pick (with as bad as the Chiefs might be next year this could land them Ray Rice) and a third round pick (have you seen next years LB corps?) I'm going to be bold here: I don't see a decent damn reason NOT to propose this trade and see if KC bites. The only reason it wouldn't happen is if Herm ACTUALLY believes Damon Huard is the QB of the future AND ready to start next year in KC. I have to think with Pennington dangled in front of him, Herm would admit this is not the case.

So why does it make sense for the Jets? Well, it only does if you are willing to accept the premise that the Jets are not a Super Bowl caliber team right now. Beyond that you have to be ok with that fact that, given their shortcomings, it is very possible that the Jets aren't even a playoff team for the next couple years. I know that given what happened last year it is hard to resign the Jets to being a non-playoffs team this season. But look at it this way: after watching the Jets spend the last decade of their existence jumping in and out of the playoffs only to lose in the first or second round (and once in the third....UGH!) wouldn't itbe worth it to forgo that tease for a near GUARANTEE at a Superbowl Contender in Dallas 2011?!

But, you say, But GMS, what you have failed to explain here--the crucial details you have failed to provide--who says that we are a contender in 2011 if we make this trade, and why?! Well, believe it or not I don't have the answer to that question. Or not the definitive one at least. But here's what I know about the NFL--everything I know--is it takes three things to win a Super Bowl: a good if not GREAT QB; a solid defense; a running game. Right now the Jets are on their way to ONE of those things. This simple trade gives them 16 games to find out if they have any semblance of a second; it also gives them the opportunites to work on the two areas that still need improvement.

It all boils down to this Jets fans: if you look into the deepest most guttaral part of being a fan, and you can tell yourself that sutained mediocrity is fine, then this trade will make no sense in your eyes. But if it's 2:15 AM and you've been up twirling the Jets future around your unoccupied noggin for a few hours, I think you know what's proper: give me Trent Green, or give me death.

The Jets Annual Draft Blunder

2007-04-30T09:11:00.000-07:00

I love the whole "Grading the Draft" bit you will find on sites like ESPN and Sports Illustrated this morning. Nothing like deciding whether the picks were good or not before these dudes have even played a game. In that light, here's the two grades that matter, calculated by yours truly:

Pats: A++++ With the Pats you have to bear in mind that they saw way ahead of time how weak this draft was, traded for a TON of picks in next years draft, honed in on one player whose talent should have made him a top 10 pick, knew they could get him at their low first round spot, and waited for him. Then they flipped a meaningless fourth-rounder for one of the three most talented wide-outs in the game. Oh yeah, plus they had the best free-agent signing period of any team since the salary cap era began. Add onto this that they were one of the 4 best teams in the NFL last year, and you can draw your own conclusions. Your 2008 Superbowl champs: The New England Patriots. MVP: Randy Moss.

New York Jets: F------------------------- The Jets ostensibly made the exact opposite decisions from the ones guided by last years philosophy of quantity plus underrated quality = good. If they didnt think this years draft was deep they should have done what the Pats did and trade for picks next year. Instead they gave away the farm to move uo 15 spots. What?! This year the guiding philosophy was, apparently: lets only use four picks, and lets trade up to put ourselves in perfect position to draft a franchise quarterback only to pass him up for a corner who was slightly above average on a slightly above average team, but who had a really good combine. Oh yes, and then lets pass up a future pro-bowl back with all kinds of different skill-sets who happens to come from right in our back yard, be an AWESOME human being, and a fan favorite...then take the second best linebacker on an overrated defensive team. Awesome plan Tannenbaum. Next year when Quinn wins RotY and whats-his-face, Darell Revis, from Pitt is getting booed every time he gets burned by Randy Moss, I will be the guy saying "told you so." Also, you didn't think Randy Moss was maybe worth a 3rd round pick? Really?!

All that matters: Jets will win 5 games next year, max (while Clemens goes through growing pains and Pennington sits with a sore pinky-toe.) The Pats will barely beat Quinn and the Browns in the AFC championship game. Pats: SB Champs '08. Browns: SB champs '09. Jets: Perennial Cellar-Dwellers for the rest of my life.

This is Mel Kiper's World, People...We're Just Livin' In It

2007-04-27T10:43:00.001-07:00

A quickie this rainy Friday afternoon. Before I subject myself to two-straight days of sitting on a couch watching baseball and a perpetaully-counting-down-clock with Roger Goodell in my face, let me go on the record with these three things. I know the Jets don't theoretically need a RB/FB, and I know that this guy's a second-rounder, most likely, but I would be THRILLED if the Jets reach down and grab Brian Leonard. I love the guy. It's a man-crush. And I would hate, hate, hate to have to root for him in an Eagles or Giants uni. Secondly, I dont like the pitching match-ups for the Sox this weekend, but I am not as petrified as everyone else is. Other than Petitte who is due to come back down to earth, the Yanks are relying on a career minor-leaguer and a fresh-off the DL, not as sharp as last year, Wang. I think the dull wang pulls one out though, and the yankees avoid the sweep narrowly on Sunday. I won't be watching though, because I will be running a marathon. Followed by consumption of steak. And one or two beers.

I'm Gettin' Back into Gettin' Back into you

2007-04-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

Welp. That didn't last long. Call it a binge, call it a full-blown remission. Whatever you want to call it, it was damn fun.

I watched all three Sox-Yanks games this weekend. Every damn pitch. I couldn't unpeel my ass from the couch. I'm sorry. I know, I know. I'm weak-willed, my addiction owns me. I am pathetic. Listen, I've beaten myself up over this all weekend. And then I decided it was all worth it. It's just not happening: I can't shake it. This feeling I get when Josh Beckett burns one past Derek Jeter's chin, when Papi hustles out a double, when Manny strolls to first like a dog that's just marked his territory after hitting his first HR in a thus-far abysmal spring. I love this feeling. I love the pure organic vitriol I feel for Alex Rodriguez every time he gets a hit. I get weak-kneed watching Mariano Rivera scrunch up his face like a fruitbat on the hunt after blowing a save. Some one check--I think I left my fingers drumming my coffee table while Papelbon mowed down Damon and Jeter in the ninth, and forced April-and-May-Rod into a weakly nubber to third. My heart didn't stop racing from Friday at 7 until this morning sometime. I could barely eat, I didn't sleep much. I could drink. But man, was I on a roll. And why? Because there is no high--NOT ONE--like the high of watching your favorite team slay its rival.

Did I wake up with the hungover lament of a regressed addict? A bit, sure. But consider me one-hundred percent hopeless. Thus far, I have compiled a list of things I love about this Red Sox team, and things I hate about them, and it comes down to this: unless I weigh ideology and principal significantly heavier than gratification and personal-joy, I have no argument not to get sucked back in. This is going to be a damn fun team to watch. Principally hard to root for, perhaps. But damn fun. I don't care that it's only April. The Sox win the AL East, take my word for it. And I will be watching.

In case you're wondering...in lieu of a preview, the lists I compiled in favor of the Sox, and against the Sox.

The Good
Dice-K Even though his game yesterday was sub-par, at best. But even against the best line-up in baseball he had strokes of brilliance. He's not going to be the Ace this year. But some of his sequences are as fun to watch as any pitcher I have ever seen. 15 wins and a sub-4 ERA, alone, will make him worth his salary. The festive-nature of his starts is just a bonus.

Josh Beckett has been phenomenal. That sequence against A-Rod on Friday (curve, slider, change-up, fastball) was ridiculous.

Curt Schilling's Blog Hate the guy, like the player, love the blog.

JD Drew from what I've seen of this guy, you can color me impressed. Maybe he just needed t play for a team where he wasn't the key cog. His patience at the plate is Abreu-esque. Nice fielder, too.

Okajima in the eighth is just fun to say. Papelbon to close the door is even more fun. He's done it enough in big situations now, I can say this confidently: there's no other closer in baseball I would rather have.

Papi and Manny

Is there a better looking park than Fenway?

There are few places that are more fun to be than an NYC bar while the Yankees are struggling...especially against the Sox. It is good to know that Joey Bag-o-Donuts from Staten Island is gonna' kick Joe Torre's ass next time he sees him.

The Bad
Julio Lugo just don't like the guy.

Wily Mo Pena needs to get some more damn at-bats...because right now he looks awful rusty, and at some point the Red Sox need to know whether or not he is going to have a future here.

Roger Clemens please just go back to Houston. I dont want you in the AL East. Period.

The Ugly
I'm addicted to a team that has more-or-less been built in the vain of the Yankees teams I always hated. GREAT.

I Don't Write Satire...I Just Write About People

2007-04-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

Tackling the Imus Issue when the Horse has been Dead, Stewed and Swallowed; God Bless You Mr. Vonnegut, and Moving on.

A few years back, on a thanksgiving weekend trip from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to Providence, Rhode Island, I sat shotgun while a friend of mine drove. We were still coming down of a 24-hour whirlwind of margaritas, Irish Coffee's, bloodymary's and Keystone Light (I hadn't seen this friend in quite some time, we'd a bit of catching up to do.) The whole trip we kept ourselves awake with the grating tunes of pop-radio stations (those beloved but endangered venues where a guy named Jimmy McCartney is "spinning the top 40 for ya, all night, and giving away tickets to next month's big Winter Ball with the Gin Blossoms and 50-cent!" At least 5 times during that 6 hour drive we came across what would later be referred to as our theme song for that trip, "Hoes in different Area-codes," a rap anthem of sorts that in 1999 was on the tongues of just about every white-person age 13-21 from Atlanta, Georgia to Augusta, Maine. Each time it came on, in a sort of ironic homage to the absurdity of the lyrics, my friend and I belted out the chorus line, verbatim, "I've got hoes in different area codes...area codes (x4)" followed by the two of us doing our best to imitate the rest of the lyrics--shouting out random three digit area codes, that sorta-kinda rhymed. It's not a stretch of the imagination to suggest that teeny-boppers and frat boys everywhere were doing this same exact thing all winter that year (to differing extents of irony, to be sure.)

The point is, it never seemed inappropriate or odd for two twenty-something white boys to be singing along to a song which is accompanied by a video of predominantly African-American women shaking their rumps and being ostensibly referred to as hoes (and ones that could easily be cast aside at any moment for hoes in a different locale, disposable if you will.) The reasons for this are many, but the most important factor, I think, is that we were fully aware of the absurdity inherent in what we were doing. We could not only laugh at the posturing of the songs author (my Jersey City neighbor, Ludacris) but also at the effect of two kids who clearly didn't have "hoes" in any area code gleefully mocking the lyrics of the song. It was more a comment on the lack of intelligence of those who would create such songs, and those who would vault it to the top of the charts, than it was a deprivation of the song's targets. Indeed, we were singing satire. That's a double-edged sword of course: when Dave Chapelle plays a blind KKK member, he runs the risk of people "not getting it" or else getting it all too well, sensitivity trumping humor; when whiteboys refer to one another as "my nigga" it sure gives a hell of alot more pause then when two black men do the same thing; when Don Imus mocks the (inexplicably widely accepted) vernacular of hip-hop culture, he runs the risk of people "not getting it" or else getting it all too well. I can't say why in certain circumstances sensitivity trumps humor, but it often and somewhat randomly does.

This doesn't excuse the deplorable nature of Imus' comments. The "botched joke" excuse can work as a defense, when the Bush administration tries to twist one of it's foes comments about the War in Iraq into a criticism of our troops' intelligence. It doesn't fly when an old white man refers to young black women as nappy-headed hoes, calling to recollection a history of old white men abusing black women, profiting off of black labor, and institutionalizing the social divide of white male supremacy. Botched joke or not, that history just isn't funny. But just as shameful as what Imus said, is the trend that's emerging in which one person's folly becomes an excuse for society to reflect its weaknesses out on individuals, and think we can merely sacrifice that individual and the issue will go away. Let's be clear: what Imus said was stupid. But let's also be clear about this: what nobody wants to discuss is that what Imus said was clearly (for those of us who have bothered to listen to the entire exchange) meant to be a tongue-in-cheek mockery of a culture that (to varying degrees of disgust or apathy) "the kids" are worshipping, these days. Don Imus didn't refer to the RU players as "nappy-headed hoes" to call to our minds the tradition of white males sexually exploiting black women. He made the remark to call to mind the equally disturbing (but far less ridiculed) tradition of multi-millionaire "thugs" in baggy jeans. Here's where Imus made two mistakes, and where expressing a sentiment that (like it or not) he has expressed for decades on his show, got him into inescapable hot water: first, he didn't say something foolish and ignorant, but blame-absolving like "these girls are, as Fitty Cent would say, 'Nappy-Headed hoes,'" this still would have made the joke, and also made his intent clear for the mouth-breathing public who typically hears the replay of things like this in spliced audio-cuts, with predetermined reactions; secondly, he made the remark about athletes, and nobody loves to make societal mountains out of molehills the way the sports media does.

This leads directly to my two biggest concerns about this situation: first, the double standard that nobody wants to address, whereby our ipods are happily filled with rap lyrics expressing the very sentiment that Imus was trying to satire. Listening to Stuart Scot trying to excuse this double-standard was a total riot. Secondly, and I really wish I didn't have to say this, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton's role in all of this has been really dispicable. I always used to think of these two guys as intriguing individuals and strong leaders at best; and mildly amusing side-needlers at worst. I can't help but be bothered by their hypocrisy in all of this, though. They have been the spokesmen for demanding Imus' head. They have taken to the streets in protest, and to the talkshow circuit in defiance of an obviously inexcusable folly. They have made the sacrifice of Imus' career the news item dujour. And they have done it so that the other news item du jour (their last cause celebre, the appalling false accusation of the Duke lax players) has fallen by the wayside. Why is it a fireable offense--according to Jackson and Sharpton--for Imus to disparage these women (something they will certainly get over in their lifetimes, and something which, I regret to say, will likely not be the worst they encounter) but nobody is calling for Shaprton and Jackson to at least publicly apologize for their role in villifying and arguably ruining the lives of three innocent young men. (By the way, not that it matters much, but I was dead wrong about the Duke Lax case. I admit that 100%) But this all relates to the real issue here: the way we jump on stories and draw conclusions and demand a sacrifice when none of us want to talk about the real larger issues. Firing Don Imus doesn't change the racial tension in this country, it doesn't undo the double standards, and it certainly doesn't lead to dialogue. But dialogue is less and less the point. It's about finding our pulpit and yelling from it. It's about demanding people pay for their mistakes, and their prejudices. It's about being "right" on the issues. It's less and less about looking at people, and wondering, how the hell does all of this work again?

Poo-Tee-Weet

Cause here's the thing: there was a time when the social critics of the day wanted to look at the big picture, examine why we, as a humanity behave and interact the way we do. Nobody did that better than writer, social critic, crumudgeon and keynote-speaker at my graduation Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut died Wednesday, and as some of my friends joked, we were shocked it didn't happen right on the stage at graduation. He fought through the twenty minute speech, though at times it seemed he might not make it. I wonder, if Vonnegut wasn't busy fighting for his life, if he would have been interested in the Imus scandal, or if he would have shrugged it off as another example of people making satire: that is putting on the farce of being socially progressive, all while treading in a wading pool, afraid to jump into the big, scary ocean. Vonnegut, like yours truly, was a liberal, the kind who was proud to wear that label, but wasn't blind to the faults manifest therein: Liberals do some dumb things. We often mean better for the world than conservatives, but we oftener have a hard time seeing the forest for the trees. We want to rage against people who say dumb things, or who advocate pushing their agendas and beliefs upon us, but we really do value our freedom of speech, our right as citizens to believe in what we want to believe (and of course, to try to make you believe it too.) We also are a guilt-ridden people. We are sensitive to history, we are embarassed by the way this nation was founded, and continues to expand into the world at-large, and make its name in the books of history. But we aren't looking to take any of the blame for that, of course.

I like to think Vonnegut would have ignored the hoopla and seen it for what it has become: a manifestation of one of society's major weaknesses in a caricature of one man. Imus, like Mel Gibson, and Michael Richards before him, has come to symbolize a particularly nasty truth about American society: racial tension. It's something we are petrified of actually discussing, and so we project it onto characters everyonce in a while, and beat them to a pulp. We tell ourselves this is progress. Vonnegut once wrote: “If I’d wasted my time creating characters, I would never have gotten around to calling attention to things that really matter.” Indeed, the media, liberals, Americans have spent an awful lot of time lately focusing on a few "evil" characters. It's simpler than calling attention to things that really matter.

I didn't ever consider Vonnegut my favorite writer. I don't have one really, but he would certainly be in the mix, most likely falling short to Joyce, Faulkner and some others. He didn't write my all-time favorite book. Moby Dick is in a league of its own, but Slaughter-House Five is battling it out with Ulysses, Book of Daniel, If on a Winter's Night a Traveller... and some others for the high AAA's. But one thing will always keep Vonnegut in a special place in my memory: he was the first author who really made me want to write. After completing SH5 in 9th grade I sat down to begin a novel that was a complete rip-off of Vonnegut's work. I never finished it. Ever since then I have been not finishing novels which are complete rip-offs of other authors' work. We're predictable, us humans.

And so, three years after he told my graduating class that if we "really wanted to piss off (our) parents but didnt have the guts to tell them (we) were gay, (we) could always take up art," Vonnegut died. I bet thousands of kids began writing because of him. And now he's dead, and some of us are still writing but never finishing. So it goes.

The Golden Rule

I found out two weeks ago I have been accepted (again) into the NYC Teaching Fellows. I am going to go for it this time. There are some major implications to this that I will hash out at some point. It's not going to be easy, and I am certain that I will question everything from my decision to my motives to my desire to continue breathing on a pretty much daily basis for the next two years. Teaching in an inner-city school as I am learning via my brother is a total mind-blow, and trying to complete a MEd at the same time is only going to be more difficult. For now, it means two years of grad school, subsidized, two years of frustrating but hopefully occasionally fulfilling moments with my students, and an opportunity to do something on a daily basis that benefits someone other than myself. It will be a challenge. But I need a challenge. It's been a long time since I have faced one of any real consequence. Furthermore, I really think I was born to teach (seeing as basically everyone I am related to is an eduator) and you know, I just love everything about Literature and academics, with one caveat: I think sometimes the people who need literature and academics (young kids) don't get the advantage of seeing that those two things can actually be cool and fun. I'm not going to save the world. I am not going to be a part of some great movement whereby 5 years from now urban students will have the same opportunity as suburban kids. But I'll be damned if I have the opportunity to work with kids and possibly change the way one or two of them look at reading a book, and I pass it up because I would rather come to a job where I sit in a cube and babble on my blog all day long. Kinda hard to argue that people are having trouble seeing the forest for the trees, when I haven't gotten down of this branch in three years or so. Maybe I will still be teaching in the year 2081, when everyone is finally equal.

KV Nov. 11, 1922-Apr. 11, 2007
Don Imus, Al Sharpton, Stuart Scott still livin'. So it goes.

If You Do it in Numbers They Can't Stop All of You

2007-03-23T06:47:00.000-07:00

Decemberists @ Loew's Theatre, Journal Sqaure, JC, NJ

I think we've established on here quite a few times that I am a bit selfish. It's not that I am self-absorbed to the point that I am inconsiderate of others, or self-centered to the point that I think everything should always be about me. It's just that I know what I like/enjoy and what I think is worthy of my time, and everything else can pretty much be damned. That said, it's very possible that the following opinions are held by me and me, only. It's possible that the way I am feeling this morning--after seeing the Decemberists (one of MY favorite bands) at Loew's Theatre (in MY hometown of Jersey City) with MY wife and MY friends--is a feeling only I could have. It's quite possible many left last night's show unimpressed (I'm not sure how) or at least feeling melancholy about what they'd just seen. That's fine. They are probably people I wouldn't care to associate with anyway. So here's the requisite "blog disclaimer": this review of last night's show reflects my biased and uninformed opinion. I don't have a Pitchfork degree in what makes an awesome show. Secondly, I am going to butcher this setlist, so if someone who is in the know stumbles across this here blog and has a more correct version, feel free to post. Alas:

I'm not sure what the fascination is among music writers, fans, and DJs to try to annoint the Next Bob Dylan. Within the last year alone I have heard references to the following musicians as "the next Dylan": Connor Oberst, a bit premature, it seemed; Ben Gibbard, this DJ having presumably been on Ludes; M Ward, which I can "kinda" see; Mason Jennings, enjoyable enough, but...please. Surprisingly enough Colin Meloy's name has never come up that I have heard, which leads me to one question and one exclamation: "Wherefor?" and "Thank god!" Don't get me wrong. I love Dylan and if we insist on crowning a "next (blank)" for every great artist of our idyllic sentiments, then Meloy's as good a victim as any. He covers the basics: he's more of a troubador/poet than any of those other candidates; he's political without beating you over the head with it; he's a jewish kid from Minnesota...err, scrap that. But you get the point. Still, who wants Colin Meloy to be our generation's Bob Dylan when he can be our generation's Colin friggin' Meloy?! Plus, for as much as I loved the Band, they were merely a backup (albeit an excellent one) to Dylan for a short few years. Meloy's the front man, sure, but this is a well-rounded band. Point blank (and without a shred of hyperbole) the Decemberists are the best live band I have EVER seen. Chris Funk is a master of every stringed instrument one can imagine, including a "Herty-Gurty" whatever that is. Jenny Conlee is queen of anything with keys from accordion to keyboard to organ. Nate Query more than holds his own on bass (standup and elec.) plus he looks like he stepped straight out of a J Crew Catalog. Homeboy was dapper and quite the looker. John Moen, drummer, may look like he should be teaching Ethics at some stodgy college (Middlebury, perhaps) but he too can rock, and had quite a sense of humor (in that corny old-guy kinda way.) So, anyway, the band is friggin' good. Like the best of this generation good. I don't need to convince you. Either you agree or you don't. On to the show!

We admittedly missed the opening act, somewhat due to schedule, and somewhat by choice (we could have rushed and caught most of it, or had a beer and some pizza in my living room.) Obviously, we chose the latter. So we walked in, literally RIGHT as the bassline for "The Island/Come & See/You'll Not Feel the Drowning" began to drench the audience in a beautiful (in need of some loving care) old theatre. Finding our seats (second row!) we settled in. It was a bit odd to sit at a show (the organizers at the Loew's strictly enforce this policy, which kinda stinks but actually worked for the "theatrical elements" of the set.) Following a nearly flawless (music-wise) performance of that long opener, which really showed off the theatre's acoustics, Colin made a little banter with the audience. Why don't more bands do this? I have heard the bitching about "I come to see music, not to hear them crack cheezy jokes or shout 'Hello Jersey City!' or whatever." I wholeheartedly disagree. If the music is all you care about stay at home with the album. The playfulness between bandmembers and between band and audience is what makes it FUN!

After referring to Jersey City as the real NJ and Hoboken (where they'd previously played at Maxwells) as, well, Hoboken, they broke into "Yankee Bayonet" with the Shara from My Brightest Diamond (opener) singing Laura Viers' part serviceably. It's not my favorite song, but it played well. I didnt have a pen so the middle of the set is murky in terms of order, but I particularly recall "Crane Wife 1&2" (excellent) "We Both Go Down together" (one of my favs) and Summersong (beautiful.) Giving us a glimmer into what inspired the Crane Wife, and what seemingly inspired the set, itself, Colin introduced "We Both Go Down Together," by saying, "And here's another song about senseless violence." On a more playful note, after referencing our beloved PATH train they blasted through "The Perfect Crime No. 2" (danceable even prone in a chair) "O! Valencia" (a real crowd pleaser) then told, what Colin called, "a story to take home and put under your pillows and give you really weird dreams" ("Shankill Butchers.") Colin wasn't the only one in a playful mood, introducing "Military Wives" (another personal fave) Jenny teased, "here comes the rock!" It was in fact enough rock to "rock (colin's) shoelaces untied" for the second time of the night.

You know when you are absolutely LOVING a show, and at a certain point you get that "shit man, this has to end kind of soon" feeling? Well, that followed "Military Wives," for me especially since Colin extended the song a good 3-4 minutes to engage the audience in sing alongs for the "La de da de da" part (see, audience participation: dorky, sure, but friggin' fun! As, too, were the handclaps.) Fortunately, my fears were a bit premature. After that we were treated to (I think it was after)Grace Cathedral Hill (beautiful and slow) and The Infanta (effin' rocked to the point where I was very tempted to break that "no dance" rule.) For the last song of the set they pulled out oldie but goodie "Mariner's Revenge Song" and inspired some massive audience participation, calling for us to scream at the top of our lungs as the heroes in the song are swallowed once again by a whale. The audience screamed loudly like kids on a playground while a huge puppet whale (think Chinese New Year gone wrong) circled the stage, and the band belted out their last notes. Perfect ending for the set.

As the crowd fiended for an encore I turned to my wife, literally wiping sweat from my brow (remember, we were sitting) and sighed, "The absolute only thing that could make this show any better than it was, is if they had played "Eli the Barrow Boy" or if they Encore with "Sons and Daughters." So what do they do? March back on and play "Eli the Barrow Boy" AND "Sons and Daughters." As the first notes of "Sons and Daughters" fell behind Meloy's voice, "When we arrive..." I had that spine-chilling feeling of bliss that concerts RARELY give me anymore. I didn't think it was possible to feel any better until, leading up to the final chorus line, Meloy urged the audience, "This next line really doesnt work unless all of us sing it, and if you take one thing home from this show, it should be this next line, and you should take it with you on the PATH, or in the car ride home, it goes 'Hear all the bombs fade away!'" And reminiscent of my family singing along to Alice's Restaurant each thanksgiving at Arlo Guthrie's urging ("you people think you're gonna end a war singing that soft?") the chant started quietly, the audience unsure of itself, growing momentum at Meloy and the bandmember's urgency, until blowing up into a standing chant, people clapping along, the entire audience on our feet (damn the rules) screaming, "Hear all the bombs fade away! Hear all the bombs fade away!" for a solid 90 seconds. Look, man, I don't know if music can change the world. But for those 90 seconds--maybe even for that entire show--it sure felt like it could. Dylan at his best always made me believe he was changing music. But this was a different feeling, entirely.

Did I have any complaints? Sure: while I am a fan of audience participation when it is encouraged, I really don't need to know that should Colin Meloy ever come down with strep, dude behind me can easily take over as front man because he knows every friggin' lyric to every friggin' song, and wanted everyone else to know that he knew them. Look man, I love the band too. I holler along to Engine Driver when I am alone in traffic. I dont do it when I am in the audience and the guy who sings the song for a living is three rows in front of me. Also I missed the first half of the UCLA game. Not that it mattered, those jerks at CBS had me programmed to watch OSU/Tennessee anyway. Oh well, guess I can't nitpick too much. I'm not that selfish.

Because Royal Blue and Yellow Just Look Nice

2007-03-14T08:09:00.000-07:00

...I admit it, that's the reason I became a UCLA basketball fan way back in the day. It's inexcusable, it's the reason every sports columnists imaginary "wife or girlfriend" pick's their bracket winners, and it belies the general front-runner fair-weather-fan nature of the pick. But when I bought an Ed O'Bannon jersey during spring break of my 12th year, and sat glued to a TV in Florida with awe as one of the most exciting sports team I have ever seen picked apart an overmatched and worn-down Razorbacks press, I fell in love with a basketball team for the first, and honestly, only time. I root for UCLA now, sure. I get bummed when they lose, I love when they win. I hate Steve Lavin with a passion, I hold a special place in my heart for Jim Harrick. When I see replays of the Princeton 43 UCLA 41 game in 1996, I still change the channel. I was in a bad mood for a good two days after the Bruins followed up their most exciting victory in 10 years (defeating Gonzaga in a nail-biter that made Adam Morrison an infamous cry-baby) by throwing out a typical lackluster, "do we really have to play again?" performance in the Championship game against the Gators last year.

That's been the thing about the Bruins, though. They don't really lose heart-breaking games, and under Ben Howland, they don't really win convincing ones, either. They are a deliberate, defensive team that goes on spurts without much pizzaz. They're either getting trounced by a team that shouldn't be waxing the court on which the Bruins play; or they are inexplicably making very, very good teams look very, very shoddy. They win 68-60, and their style of play is--frankly--quite boring. I'll root like hell for 'em, sure. And if they win it all, perhaps in ten years I will blog about them as one of the most exciting teams I've ever seen. But that's what the tournament does. The fast-paced, win-and-in, buzzer beaters, tearful losers, upset special style makes legends out of otherwise flawed teams. It's the nature of the beast, whoever wins it all becomes immortalized as being perfect: because that's what it takes, despite all your ugly regular season moments, and all of your shortcomings, if you can be perfect for 5 games, you make history, and no matter what you do for the rest of your life, certain people will sing your name like a beautiful hymn each time they recall you slashing to the basket one March many years prior. Just ask Ed O'Bannon. The Brackets:

Midwest Round 1:

Fla. d. Jackson St.
Heard a nice interview with the coah of Jackson State on NPR this morning. I'll feel bad for him when they lose by thirty.

Arizona d. Purdue
Good chicken. Mediocre basketball. Lute can pull out a win or two in this bracket.

ODU d. Butler
I know very little about either of these teams, but ODU just sounds like a 12 seed that upsets a 5 seed...and maybe even a 4 seed.

Maryland d. Davidson
DJ Strawberry wins em one game. Daryls wrists are finally unshackled enough to applaud.

Oregon d. Miami(not Florida)
Oregon may arguably be the most overlooked team (not underrated, just overlooked.)

UNLV d. Ga. Tech
I smell a fix. I think I may be the only person picking the Rebs

Wisconson d. TAMCC
I wonder how many people thought A&M just got a really, really poor seed, and picked Wisconsin to lose this one?

West Round 1:

Kansas d. Niagra

Kentucky d. Nova
Nova is the first of the overrated Big East teams to drop.

Virginia Tech d. Illinois
How did the Illini get in over Drexel again?!

So. Ill. d. Holy Cross
As much as I'd love to pick the Patriot League and go with the underdog here, So. Ill. is one of those unheard of teams that is actually damn good. They have dominant guard play, and suffocating defense. The poor man's UCLA.

Duke d. VCU
Two things: it pains me to pick Duke; and this is a particularly weak Duke team. Two other things: Duke at their best are better than VCU at their best no matter what way you slice it; If EVERYBODY is picking an upset, and you dont think either team is going far in the tourney, it always makes sense to stay safe in a bracket challenge.

Wright St. d. Pittsburgh
Second overrated Big East Team to fall.

Indiana d. Gonzaga
This was a coin-flip. Neither team is very good, and neither team is winning the next game. I went with the team I have seen more of.

UCLA d. Weber State
Weber State scores fewer than 50 in this match-up.

East Round 1:

UNC d. EKY
Eastern Kentucky keeps it close and possibly has a lead at the half. People in offices around the country are glued to ESPN.com for the first 5 minutes of the second half. UNC blows them out in the end by 15 or so.

Mich St. d. Marquette
Third overrated Big East team to fall.

USC d. Arkansas
Drexel fans watch with an emotional mix of glee, lament, and disgust. Syracuse fans do the same, although they dont deserve it.

Texas d. NMSU
Kevin Durant has 22 points, 11 boards and eighteen bajillion blocked shots.

GWU d. Vanderbilt
A vastly underrated GWU team...just kidding. I have no idea. I just dont see Vanderbilt winning an NCAA tournament game.

Wash. State d. Oral Roberts
(Insert joke about Oral here) Washington State has three viable scorers, and plays an excellent midcourt trap. They play the kind of basketball that has become very popular in the pac10 of late--namely, deliberate, and chess-like in pace.

Texas Tech d. BC
Bobby Knight is my favorite villain.

Georgetown d. Belmont
Somewhere a relative of JRFN wallows in pain...or actually...goes skiing and probably couldn't fuckin' care less.

South Round 1:

OSU d. Central Conn

Xavier d. BYU
BYU coach is consoled by his seven wives.

Long Beach St. d. Tenn.
This isn't your grandfathers LBS. But it's a good enough team to beat Tennessee.

UVA d. Albany
Could be your big brothers UVA.

Louisville d. Stanford
It pained me to do this. But Louisville is the better team.

Texas A&M d. Penn
I'm trying to think of a reason A&M doesn't win this bracket. Scorers, Good guard play, leadership, good rebounders, not bad from the line. I'm really trying...

Nevada d. Creighton
Nevada's caoch avoids any conflicts with the police for the first round.

Memphis d. No. Tex.
Memphis is quite good. Quite.

Midwest Rd. 2:

Fla. d. Zona
This will be a mop-up.

ODU d. Maryland
Let the George Mason comparisons begin

Oregon d. Winthrop

Wis. d. UNLV
Enjoy it while it lasts, Badgers.

West Rd. 2

Kansas d. Kentucky
If only Kansas had a tougher road to the elite 8, I'd feel alot better about the Bruins chances.

So. Ill. d. Va. Tech

Duke d. Wright St.
..I know....I know.

UCLA d. Ind.
In a slow and boring 68-60 type game.

East Rd. 2

UNC d. MSU

Texas d. USC

WSU d. GW

Georgetown d. Texas Tech
Aside from Texas this bracket bores me.

South Rd. 2

Ohio St. d. Xavier
Possibly the easiest road to the Sweet 16 in the tourney (guess they are a 1 seed.)

UVA d. Long Beach

Texas A&M d. Louisville
Experience over youth.

Memphis d. Nevada

MY Super Sweet 16

Florida d. ODU
Joakim Noah does what I hope is his last stupid post-victory dance of the season. It probably won't be.

Oregon d. Wisconsin
This could go either way, but should it happen, this will be a phenomenally fun game to watch next weekend.

Kansas d. So. Ill.
Crap, I hate KU.

UCLA d. Duke
Ok, maybe I set it up so UCLA can slay my biggest nemeses back to back in one weekend.

Texas d. UNC
In what will be a physical, barnburner of a game.

Gtown d. WSU
Georgetown has size, but I'm not sure they have much else. Surprisingly, I wasn't very confident in this pick.

OSU d. UVA
UVA doesn't have the front court to keep Oden out of the paint.

Texas A&M d. Memphis

Elite 8

Fla. d. Orgeon
Joakim Noah and his stupid dance advance. For now.

UCLA d. Kansas
About a potential Pitt-UCLA showdown in the previous round, our friend Jake writes: "I have a wierd preminition that this is going to be a late night game in the 70's that i'm going to be watching while drunk at a bar. Does it feel like that to you?" Since Pitt is losing early, I'll apply that statement here with Jakes compliance.

Texas d. GTown
Man alive, is Texas' road to the final four going to be a rough one.

A&M d. Ohio St.
Couldn't find a reason not to advance them.

Final Four

UCLA d. Florida
Avenge last years loss, make Joakim cry. These are two of the things this years team must do to park themselves in my Sports Pantheon with th 2004 Sox, the '94 Bruins, Oil Can Boyd, and Curtis Martin. Oil's in there for personal reasons. Back off.

Texas A&M d. Texas
Or the other way around. Either way a team from Texas wins. And then loses to UCLA in the Championship game.

Hey, what can I say? I told you I was a fan, didn't I?

A Letter to "Deej"

2007-02-28T16:00:00.000-08:00

To "Deej," One of the greasy-haired, emebellished-accent, baggy-sweatpantsed, foul-mouthed, meatheads who felt the need to mock me on my run today-

Deej, buddy. Sorry to adress this letter to you, alone. It is, after all, meant for all three of you gentlement whose sheltered little corner of Jersey City I happened to interrupt as I passed the campus of St. Peter's College on my run today. It just so happens that yours was the only name I caught as you and your "bros" cajoled eachother whilst dropping racial epithets and homophobic slurs while mocking me for my running attire, my shamefulness in daring to exercise. Most of your conversation sounded as if it was being spoken with marbles in your mouths, but I am pretty sure I caught a few "N-bombs" (despite all of your painfully apparent whiteness) at least three "fags" and of course, you pointing at my underarmour shirt, and mocking the fact that I was trying to keep tempo while stuck at a red light. Look, man, I appreciate the fact that you came to Jersey City hoping to urbanize your otherwise insignificant and boring suburban Maplewood existence. I can empathize. But some of us move to urban areas to avoid ignorant cliche sons of bitches like you. We embrace the diversity, and respect the fact that on any given time, we might be standing next to someone who would dare to be black, or gay, or GOD FORBID, a person who exercises. I understand this may not be your thing (it's pretty obvious, even with those baggy pants that you haven't hit the treadmill since high school gym class.) I respect the fact that it's tough for you and your bros to "score with the bitches" in Uggs and Juicy Couture at parties on Friday nights when you don't have that prototypical chubby-faced, cap-popped-sideways, absurd bling-rocking swagger. It's an identity (just like every other suburban white kid who attends your college, and aims to look hip.) But here's a tip. Chicks might dig it if you actually stopped dicking around with your friends playing PS3 and got off your ass and shed the baby fat. Seriously, bro, put down the Whopper.

Back to tonight, though. I'm awfully sorry shit had to get confrontational. It's just I take it personally when people mock me for minding my own business. And I take particular offense, too, when people are inconsiderate to others for no fucking reason what-so-ever. People were rolling their eyes at you, Dee, I was embarassed for you. So I know it wasn't clever of me to tell you to "get a fucking life." I wish I had it in me to come up with something a little more witty, but, alas, as I mentioned, I was in the middle of a six mile run. I was tired. Your response however, to "eat shit, faggot," was not only unclever, it was down right comical (in a way that you hadn't intended it to be...even if your friends were all giggly.) See I actually eat pretty round meals (maybe a little more carbs than your average Joe, but mostly because I need them to run, y'know, exercise, without breaking down.) Furthermore, that finger that I flashed in your direction? Right next to it was a wedding ring. I probably shouldn't get in to the tendency for men with latent gay tendencies to repress their emotions for so long that they eventually become the most agressive type of homophobe their is: the self-loathing gay. I'm sure you know about all that already.

So, Deej, my main bro, my advice to you is to get your shit together. Fortunately for you, your childish antics only caused a small uncomfortable run-in this time around. Next time you might be dropping the n-bomb or a homophobic slur around the wrong crowd. After all, we aren't in Maplewood anymore. Also, word to the wise: the whole baggy pants thing is done. Both the white people you inexplicably mock, and the black culture icons whom you desperately try to emulate have realized that pants that actually fit are not only more common-sensical, they are also more comfortable, and fashionable. Be careful out there, Deej. I know the corridors of the St. Peter's Dorms can be a tough place. But just think about this next time you are out and about with your bros: people like you are the reason people "from away" give NJ such a bad rap. They think we are all macho-meathead-assclowns like you, even if most of us are far from it. In fact, I'd venture a guess that outside of your two lackeys, everybody you came into contact with today really wishes you would move to Texas or Mississippi, where crap like that is tolerated.

What I'm Going to Do Without Ya, Girl?

2007-02-12T19:19:00.000-08:00

No more Red Sox. Here's what I'll be doing with my spring and summer. For those of you who read this blog for the sports, that will be the site that's going to interest you most for the next few months. For those who like to listen to my brainfarts about other random stuff, keep coming back here. If you are just addicted, and can't get enough of me, you can visit both. I permit thee.

Reviewing Books I've Never Read

2007-02-08T07:10:00.000-08:00

Last night I attended the monthly Varsity Letters reading series at a bar/club in Chinatown called Happy Ending Lounge. I found the event at once tremendously full of potential, and slightly disappointing. It's one of the great things about living in a major metropolitan area that any time someone has a good idea, they can almost always find the ingredients necessary to bring that idea to fruition, and always find a constituency that will be equally as excited about this idea. In this case, Carl Bialik (a writer at Gelf Magazine) has found the place (oddly enough, a club in Chinatown) the writers and the audience necessary to put together a monthly reading by Sports Writers. The set-up is less than ideal: it is a dark club where one expects to find dancing metrosexual males leering at under-dressed oversexualized young females, and perhaps the occasional slam-poetry reading in the dark lounge (so dark, in fact, one of the readers had trouble seeing his own book.) Alas, it is difficult to complain about atmosphere. Where else can you find a group of intellectual sports fans gathering to hear readings by well-know writers in an intimate setting where they are free to interact with the authors, both during a question and answer period and on a more personal basis, while milling around the lounge? Outside of a large city, the answer is "nowhere else." In a large city, if the answer has to be the inside of a dimly-lit lounge, then so be it. The three readers last night were: Jack Cavanaugh, an older journalist type with credentials coming out of his rumpled suit pockets, reading from his new book about the life of Jack Tunney; Katie Hnida, author of a memoir detailing her experiences as the first Div. I female football player; and S.L. Price, who writes for SI (including this year's Sportsman of the year article about D. Wade) and has written a book about Cuban baseball called Pitching Around Fidel. As you can guess, I attended the reading to see the last author. All three of them were intriguing for various reasons, though, so we'll break them down one-by-one followed by a "would I buy this book?" segment.

Jack Cavanaugh

I can't say enough about Cavanaugh's resume. The man is a professional journalist, through and through: NY Times, SI, Reader's Digest, Golf Mag., etc... He is an old-school sports writer, a species, which--for better or worse--is becoming extinct in today's internet-based world. He is a man of research, investigative hands on reporting, who personally invests himself in his subjects and it shows: he knows of which he speaks. He spoke about Jack Tunney as knowlegeably as you'd expect from a man who researched and wrote a 300-page tome on the little known boxer who defeated Jack Dempsey in the 20's. He is, without a doubt, an expert on the subject. What he is not is much of a public speaker. This happens all the time with writers. I for one can write my thoughts about 100 times more clearly than I could ever speak them because I can draw the connections without wandering (too far) afield, whereas, when speaking I tend to forget the subject from whence I deviated. Cavanaugh had this same affliction but to a severe degree (even when reading his own work he constantly interjected random thoughts, and even complete stories, into the middle of his reading. In a cute, grandfatherly way, he was laughable in his innocence (he said things like, "I can't tell you what happens at the end of the book because my publicist says I need to tease the audience so they will buy it!") And though his reading was a bit slipshod (thanks to his personality, and to some extent the poor lighting) he did the best job of the three in really explaining and illuminating the subject of his book. He discussed Tunney as a unique persona (for an athlete)who liked to read Shakespeare, and married an heiress, despite his modest Brooklyn upbringing. He made you want to get to know more about a topic that, without reading the book, you could not appreciate; and he made you feel that without doing so, you'd be missing out on something significant.

Would you buy this book? Absolutely. If it wasn't hardcover I would have bought it on site. This was a classic case of a reading where you have no interest in the topic before the author speaks about it, yet you come out of it wondering how you'd never heard about, or read about this before.

SL Price

As I mentioned, Price was the reason I attended the event. As far as speaking goes, he was the best among the three, by far. He knew his audience, and he catered his speech to that audience. He discussed the importance of a good subject, but more importantly a great "Get," the storyline that makes a story sell (our next author seems to have heeded this advice.) He talked about D. Wade, and his relationship with his mother, an alcoholic, drug-abusing criminal, who has now cleaned up and is the proud mother of the sportsman of the year (the kind of human interest story SI does better than most.) What Price didn't talk enough about, for my money, was what I went there to see: he didn't discuss much the methods he used in researching his stories (particularly the story of Pitching Around Fidel, his book about Cuban Baseball.) In fact, he hardly mentioned the Cuban baseball book, other than to mention he had tried to avoid the political undertones of the story, which seemed unfortunate to me, as I think those undertones are the heart of that particular story. I enjoyed his speech, I only wish he had been more aggressive in pitching his book, instead of his trade.

Would you buy the book? Yes, but not because of the reading. Simply because it is a topic that interests me. I don't think Price did much to attract any new readers last night. One of the highlights though was blogger Captain Caveman of With Leather asking the Sports Illustrated writer how he feels about the down-fall of Time, and the magazine industry as a whole, in the shadow of the internet age.

Katie Hnida

I'm not going to make any friends with the Dave Zirin's of the world with this one, I fear. I've tried my damnedest to argue my point with friends and no matter how logical my conclusions, no matter how relevant my points, I always come down on the side of this issue that makes me a bad person, a sexist, or a cynic. Because, here's the thing, I don't know that I trust Hnida. That doesn't mean I think Hnida is a false accuser, it just means that despite my desire to believe her, and despite my liberal politics, even despite my tendency to always fall for the victim of an alleged crime; no matter how hard I try, I keep coming to the same conclusion about the Katie Hnida story--something just doesn't seem right. Unfortunately, Katie's reading only reaffirmed by doubts. In my defense, and because I am terribly sensitive to the fact that my opinion is an unpopular one, I want to reitirate that in my heart I want to believe Hnida. I want to believe we live in a world where nobody would embellish or flasify such a private violation as rape. We don't. I defended the victim of the Duke Rape case, even as the prosecutions case fell apart. I still believe something more than stripping happened in that house, and the woman was a victim of some sort of harassment (Hnida, for her part, has called the Duke incident "frustrating," adding that, "any false accusations that are out there make it harder for those of us who have been raped or attacked to press charges."

The Hnida rape case perplexes me for a number of reasons, not the least of which is my constant battle with the moral question of how fair it is to doubt someone in a situation like this. But to see Hnida reading last night was to realize that the sanctity of the situation has been unloosed, at Hnida's own doing. Stating her fear of having her sexual and personal history dragged through the mud, as the reason she has avoided pressing charges and naming the man she accuses of raping her, Hnida has, nevertheless been willing to make herself a public figure in the name of selling her story. She says one of the biggest reasons for writing the book is "for me to spread to other victims to not just keep quiet. So many women don't say anything to anyone. They just hold it inside by themselves." And yet, ostensibly, Hnida is still keeping quiet, isn't she? She has still not named her rapist, thereby implicating an entire team as the possible rapist, and she has still not sought justice for the man she claims sent her into a spiraling depression, and ended her career at Colorado.

The unfortunate thing for Hnida is, she did not speak up immediately after she was raped, but rather waited until other females had come forward claiming rape by the CU football team. Hnida's detractors, perhaps unfairly, wonder how seriously a claim can be taken when it is only brought forward after other accusations (the proverbial kicking of a dog that's already down.) It didn't help that Katie's accusations against a team atmosphere of sexual derision, fostered by Coach Gary Barnett came a few years after a meeting in which Barnett told Hnida she would not be making the team her sophomore year (she then transferred to University of New Mexico.) Which brings us to last night's reading, in which a question about Barnett brought visible anger to Hnida's face. It was the kind of reaction you'd expect when discussing Hnida's rapist. Nobody had the audacity to ask Hnida about that, however.

What got Gary Barnett into so much trouble at Colorado, and what became "the last straw" in his tenure there, was a quote in which Barnett said "Not only was Katie a girl, she was a terrible kicker." (in the context of the press conference, this seems a less inflamatory, but still unnecessary, response.) Hnida claims this quote bothered her less than a supposed email Barnett wrote following her accusation in which he asked how aggresively to approach the subject of her sexual conquests. Katie sees this as Barnett responding to a rape allegation by trying to shoot the messenger. Some former co-workers disagree: "When the story about Katie came out, there were many offers from people who wanted to come forward to discredit her," said the source. "Gary didn’t let them do that, out of sensitivity to Katie’s situation." Katie claims this email from Barnett offended her far more than his "terrible kicker comment." So I hope it won't offend Katie, if I also add on that she is a terrible writer.

The title of Hnida's book (Still Kicking: My Dramatic Journey as the First Woman to Play College Football) speaks volumes about the way Hnida preceives herself. First of all "dramatic" is an understatement. Secondly, there is no doubt that Hnida (rightfully so, perhaps) sees herself as a pioneer well before she sees herself a victim. Hnida's reading was about 10-12 minutes long, a full reading of her prologue, and it breaks down (crudely) like this: 9-10 minutes of Katie describing her the first point a woman ever scored in D-I (her PAT attempt in a blow-out bowl game) followed by about 1-2 minutes of "as great as I felt then, I couldn't forget the struggles I had been through" type-stuff. Actual lines from the reading include "it was a bone chilling, shivering cold rain." and "I had so many layers on I looked like Frosty the Snowman." All of this was read slowly, in an affected tone, with dramatic pauses. She may have been reading Invisible man. The thing is, not many people care about that extra point, and nobody cares about it more than they care about the scandal of the rape allegations. Hnida has to know that, and it's hard to tell just how much it bothers her. It's hard to know if Hnida is aware that the story sells because it is a scandalous story about a sexy female, and that is the vehicle through which she was able to get the attention necesary to tell what she thinks is the truly important story of her life: that meaningless extra point. It's hard to imagine she isn't at least aware of that. The cover of her book features Hnida's perfect smile, gorgeous eyes and long blond hair, framed over a still shot of her kicking a field goal (helmetless) with that long ponytail flying wild. She spoke last night in a black dress with high-heeled leather boots. Sex sells, even the tabboo variety. Just ask the gentlemen she playfully flirted with in the bathroom line, or Captain Caveman, who nearly fell out of his barstool trying to fumble through his pockets to give her his card.

During the question and answer session I didn't raise my hand, and I am glad I didn't. It would have taken at least as many words as I've written here to relate the complexity of how I feel about this situation (and maybe I still haven't done so.) But there is one question I wish I had asked, as she cozied into a corner table with four other women (friends, I suppose) and poured them all a bottle of bubbly (an odd choice, I thought, for someone who'd just finished talking about the nightmares she endured.) I wanted to ask her if it wouldn't set a better example for all of those rape victims for whom she says she wrote the book, if she were to stop being quiet and name, and perhaps bring to justice, the man who raped her. If, perhaps, it wouldn't be of more solace to her than any amount of money she might make off of this book? I didn't ask her, and I wish I had. But again, if I had done so, I would have been the one who came off bad. I left her to her champagne celebration.

Would I buy the book? The moral answer here is "no," right? Or is it "yes." Regardless. I don't think I will buy the book. But I am sure at some point I will take it out of the library or borrow it...or something.

(insert long winters music with montage of clips of brooding hipster dude and his fair skinned, waifish ex-girlfriend, here)

2007-02-07T13:48:00.001-08:00

Wow. Brooklyn: You have hit the big-time! They are making a Laguna-Beach Inspired MTV reality show about Brooklyn High schoolers. In the premier episode, Sophia (who wears oversized sweaters with leggings and ballet slippers in the winter-time) is stressing because her boyfriend Huck (named ironically because his parents thought it had an Americana twist to it) might be cheating with Sara (a hassidic Jew whose parents wish all these hipsters would leave them the fugg alone!!!!) I can't wait.

A myth is a process of telling stories. Most of which Ain't True

2007-02-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

In September of 1969, Eight men were placed on trial for violating the anti-riot act of 1968, a debatably unconstitutional law passed to prevent the gathering of protestors, specifically protests that were believed to be anti-war protests, in which the perpetrators crossed state lines with "the intent to riot." This phrase of course was left vague, so it could be applied in any circumstance which the law deemed applicable. I won't go too heavily into the history of the 1968 Democratic National Convention, or the protests led by the Yippies, MOBE, The Black Panthers, and the SCLC (you can find an excellent summary here.) But what took place in the trial that ensued for the eight defendents (Abbie Hoffman, David Dellinger, Jerry Rubin, Bobby Seale, Rennie Davis, Tom Hayden, John Froines and Lee Weiner) happens to be one of my favorite moments of American history. It certainly wasn't a shining moment in the Nation's brief past, but it is a moment which symbolized the pinnacle of the youth movement of the 1960's. It was part of the course of events that led to the diminished movement, sure, but it was also the moment where the absurdity of the old-guard American ways were most clearly illuminated. American hysteria, and self-seriousness was put on trial by the very defendants it had put on trial. The tables were turned by a smart collection of individuals who saw the fallacy of the American war in Vietnam, the hypocrisy of the Democratic party, and the inanity with which older Americans were placing their faith in the hands of abusive powers.

What we are seeing right now in Boston with the "LiteBrite" terrorists, reminds me, somewhat of what happened with the trial of the Chicago Eight, and so I thought I'd recall the circumstances of those trials, again. I understand, of course, the very different nature of these two conflicts. In his closing summation, Defense Attorney William Kunstler (the man for whom The Dude pines, upon his arrest in Malibu) had this to say about the trial of the Chicago Seven (Bobby Seale was removed from the trial after being ordered bound and gagged by the judge):

"We are living in extremely troubled times, as Mr. Weinglass pointed out. An intolerable war abroad has divided and dismayed us all. Racism at home and poverty at home are both causes of despair and discouragement. In a so-called affluent society, we have people starving, and people who can't even begin to approximate the decent life.
These are rough problems, terrible problems, and as has been said by everybody in this country, they are so enormous that they stagger the imagination. But they don't go away by destroying their critics. They don't vanish by sending men to jail. They never did and they never will."

The difference between that trial and the seemingly inevitable--if absurd--trial of the two Boston Artists who installed the LightBrites causing Bostonians to panic is, of course, the impetus. In 1968 the act was one of protest, brought on by outrage against an injust war, a woefully complacent and out-of-touch elder generation, and an abusive government. Today's matter is an act of "guerilla advertising" by two artists, brought on by the incentive of marketing for a multi-billion dollar corporation. The two are incomparable, of course. What makes the cases similar is the absurdity of the reaction by the aforementioned out-of-touch older generation, and a frightening abuse of power by an embarassed legal authority, desperate to find an enemy, even where one doesn't exist.

Indeed, what this whole charade is about is a few clueless individuals panicking in a time of fear, overreacting due to the instilled paranoia of the day, and an excessive response by the law enforcers, which lead, inevitably to their own embarassment. So what is the response? Naturally to find a scapegoat. And not just a scapegoat for the boneheadedness of one city's police department, but rather for the entire state of paranoia of America's oversensitive citizens. It was not enough for the Chief of Boston's Police Department to stop at the absurd half-truth of blaming the two artists for massive traffic delays and hundreds of thousands of wasted tax dollars (where is the blame for the overreactive response?) but he had to go a step further, ostensibly connecting the two artists to terrorists by admonishing their failure to take seriously a few hyper-alert individuals' paranoia: "Just a little over a mile away from the placement of the first device, a group of terrorists boarded airplanes and launched an attack on New York City." The idea, of course, is that the artists should be held accountable for not being predictive of other people's ignorance and paranoia. While the Chicago trial was about destroying the critics of a problem, this public trial is about destroying the innocent bystanders to a problem. The problem is right in front of our faces: the problem is a nation embellished with fear, and teetering so close to insanity with their paranoia that they could mistake a litebrite for a bomb. The problem is an excessive response by a police department, and government officials desperate to foil the next major terrorist disaster, and then too stubborn to admit they were wrong and excessive (I wonder where they get that trait from?) And the problem is that even now, as we see the humor in the absurdity of what happened in Boston, an out-of-touch generation of media-members continue to miss the real perpetrators of this folly: the people who overreacted in the first place. Instead they buy the company line that the installation artists should have forseen this, with lines like this: " It’s mind-boggling that a large corporation could be dumb enough not to realize that placing battery-operated objects in public places might be a bit problematic in the post-9/11 world." I wonder what the Boston Herald Columnist who wrote that would think about the Boombox Parade held in December just a few miles from Ground Zero! (By the way, for the most amusing overreaction to this drama, stay glued to Boston Herald, which, embarassed over their own excessive coverage of the 'bomb scare' has villified these two "criminals" more than anyone...read that article and wonder why people call Boston a racist town.)

The thing is, I am a fan of the absurd. Absurdity is as relevant to American history as is George Washington, baseball, and gunpowder. And what makes this debacle so interesting to me--like what makes the Chicago 7 so interesting--is the absurdity of it all, and the fact that the ones placed on trial by the absurd, try to illuminate the absurd, but--absurdly--are misunderstood as malicious. Some people really just don't get it: illustrated by the media saying time and time again that the "pranksters" were nonsensically babbling on about hair in their post-release press-conference...apparently, they don't feel like researching Cartoon Network much. The baby boomer generation, which invented guerilla theatre, seems to have forgotten it just as quickly. Describing the guerilla theatre that took place in Chicago at the trial, witness Phil Ochs put it this way: "theatrically dealing with what seemed to be an increasingly absurd world and trying to deal with it in ways other than just on a straight moral level." If the people, media, and law officials in Boston can't see the absurdity of all of this, it must be because they are too busy wiping their chins of the embarassment they caused themselves. Anyway, it sure seems history repeats itself, and there is no shortage of absuridity in the arch of American history. Now if you'll excuse me, my computer is blinking funnily. I think I need to call the police.

YouTube of the "terrorists" press conference here.

Transcript of the Chicago 7 Trail here. At least Read Abbie Hoffman's testimony.

Intentionally Walking Nap Lajoie ("You'll Freeze Ya' Man Parts Off" Edition)

2007-01-26T08:41:00.000-08:00

Ball One: Talkin' Baseball

Today's word is "short-sighted," my fellow baseball fans. "Short-sighted," as in: the steroids policy Major League Baseball put in place 8 years ago, the steroid policy Major League Baseball put into place 2 years ago, and even the steroid policy MLB put into place prior to last season; or the recent expansions, adding two teams in Florida, which are now desperately trying to escape Florida, and spending the least amount of money possible to do so, bringing down the level of competition; or the quick fix of making the All-Star game "meaningful" again by giving World Series homefield advantage to the winning league; or, worst of all, this. That's right folks: "short-sighted," as in MLB brokering a deal to make the extra-innings package available EXCLUSIVELY throught DirecTV, while actively seeking to limit the amount of households that can get exposure to their own product. All in the name of 30 million dollars a year, or 1 million dollars per team, per year, after revenue sharing does its thing. So what does a million dollars buy a Major League Baseball team? Try one of these. That's right, Rudy Seanez just signed a contract for a million dollars, meaning, his 1million ERA is more valuable to a baseball owner, than is his fans' ability to watch his team play out of market. Millions of households across America, of course, are incapable of being equipped with a satellite dish. Some don't have adequate Southern exposure, some can't afford the Dish, others (like me) have annoying condo associations or landlords, who simply won't allow it. Of course, they expect the die-hards who would have paid 170 to get the package, to simply get mlb.tv instead. And they probably will get 75% of them. So those who argue that this is a smart business move by MLB are correct. For now. But for how long? You see, like me, many fans became more involved in baseball because of the package. They saw stadiums on TV they wouldn't typically see, and they made trips to those stadiums, or they fell in love with a second team they wouldn't normally root for, and went out and bought some of their gear. I would have raised my kids to be Red Sox fans, MLB fans, if I could just have access to the games. But I can't. And so now my kids probably won't be MLB fans. Because there's no way in hell they are going to be Yankees fans (obviously) or Mets fans (too cruel to an innocent young man.) I have a feeling there are lots more like me out there, who are tired of being kicked like a loyal dog by MLB. I am not following the Sox on a computer and in box scores. I refuse to do it. Call it a protest or call it being smart: I am takin the 170 I would have spent on the package, and the (approximately) 400-500 bucks I would have spent on two trips to Fenway, and buying season tickets to an unaffiliated minor league team. No joke. The Red Sox, along with the Cubs and Yankees have the most spread-out fanbase in the league. They could have made a plea to prevent this, and they didn't. They sold their die-hards for a Rudy Seanez (or 10 games worth of JD Drew (if he plays 140 games, which is awfully unlikely.) So screw them. If they don't care about me, I am done caring about them. Go Bears.

Ball Two: My Pedestrian Friend

Training for the marathon is in full swing. Running 10-11 miles tomorrow, so it is going to be a quiet Friday night for me. Here's a fun story, though: yesterday I was running in my neighborhood, which, for those of you who don't know, is a nice neighborhood, surrounded by not so nice neighborhoods, and a park. Well, I had to run through the not-so-nice neighborhood to get to the park, which is fine. Sometimes it gets me an odd glare, or the occasional mumble from a passer-by (my favorite was when one gentleman saw Brian and I running quite early on a Sunday, and told us "you better run yo' ass out the 'hood") Hooray, gentrification! So yesterday it was about 17 degrees here at dinner time (when I was running.) And as I was approaching the park this elderly pedestrian walks past me, and simply says, "You're gonna freeze ya' man parts, Son." I was comforted to know that this old man was concerned for my man parts, and alas, when I got home and undressed, I wondered if perhaps my pedestrian friend was on to something.

Ball Three: Trying Out The Wire

I have started watching The Wire on Netflix, since pretty much everybody says it is the most amazing show on Television. I will say this: the drama, and action are pretty intense. The acting (so far, and it is the first season) is pretty bad. The directing seems pretty appropriate for the cop-style drama show. It is impossible to make a judgment based on three shows, but so far the hype is overrated. I am keeping an open mind.

Ball Four: Whatever

This is pretty much the most disturbing thing I have come across all week.

Which Side Are You On Boys, Tell Me Which Side Are You On?

2007-01-12T07:45:00.000-08:00

In the most recent edition of New York Magazine, there is an article about the 'edgy' art contingency on the L.E.S. known as Irak NY. These dudes are a bunch of graf artists, apparently, but from the article you get the idea that most of their art is super-gritty stuff, such as collages of newspaper articles with man-juice smeared over the top. Now, I am, admittedly, not that savvy when it comes to what's new in the art world, and what qualifies as certifiably good art. Apparently people pay tens of thousands of dollars for this stuff, which speaks to the value that some place on it as not only certifiable, but sustainable. That's neither here nor there really, as I don't wish to judge the artistic merits of Dash Snow and the other members of that community. What interests me most, however, is why this stuff is considered 'edgy' or new. Back in the day I went to school with the Grandson of a big-time newspaper industry magnate. He told us stories about how his parents who lived in a SoHo loft in the '70s used to take loads of acid and poop on canvasses, smear it around and sell this stuff for thousands of dollars. The moral of the story? Rich, white, kids have been taking drugs and rubbing fecal matter on paper and calling it art since the '70s. So why is this now considered edgy? I am interested in why people are reacting to this art as the 'next Warhol' or 'next Pollack' and more importantly, why we feel the need to annoint a 'next (pick the icon).' It happens in the sports world (LeBron is the next 'Jordan') in the music world (Clap Your Hands is the next Talking Heads, or Modest Mouse, or...) and even in the writing world (Marisha Pessl is the next Nabakov.) I just don't get this on a number of levels: the most obvious being, that the people we are always comparing the newcomers to were so successful and so earth-shatteringly awesome, precisely because they were totally incomparable to anything we had seen prior to their existence. Before Jordan we didn't know a Guard could simply snap his fingers and take over an entire game. Before Talking Heads music wasn't supposed to be that 'weird'. Before Nabakov, writing was supposed to be formulaic, and on, and on...

So why are we in such a rush to find the next huge thing by identifying it so closely with something that has already been. By nature this is asking art to be repetitive and emulative. Don't get me wrong, all good art has its inspirations. Pollack was clearly influenced by the Cubists, Talking Heads by prog rock, etc...And the art is often a reaction to what comes before it. But for art to AIM for comaparisons to or against its predeccesors seems, to me, to take away from the artistic liberty necessary to make something unique and inspiring. What is apparent both from the article, and from the little I know about Snow and the Irak folks, is that they have a deep-seated ambition to be compared to--and thought of as the torch-bearers of--the NY art scene of the '70's. Everything from the inherent wealth--who else can afford to be full time artists?--to the excessive use of drugs, participation in sort-of-illegal activity, to blurred boundaries of sexuality, family, spirituality and ethical responsibilities. The problem with this copy-cat behavior is that, while it is obviously a function of Youth, its also bound to lead to certain interpretations that are going to be dubious at best, and unabashedly mocking at worst.

While I think the author of the NYMag article, Ariel Levy, meant well, and tried to be honest with her portrait of Dash and the other Irakies, there are certainly moments where her coverage floats between the aforementioned interpretations. Towards the end of the article she admits it is easy to hate Dash and the rest, particularly for the hypocrisy of their lifestyle balanced against Dash's wealthy family background (see Dubious.) At other points in the article there certainly does seem to be the feel that Levy is standing behind the Irak Crew as they speak, and giving you the wink and nod (see mocking.) Of course, the fact is, this is the actual subjects killing themselves with their own words. For instance, one artist involved with Dash (McGinley, who is actually a pretty respected artist, but comes off sounding moronic) had this to say about Dash: "These kids that would go up on a rooftop, 40 stories up, and go out on a ledge to write their name—it’s just, like, the insanity of it all!" Insane? Hardly. Kids in Newark (who aren't getting commissioned thousands of dollars) do this crap on a nightly basis. He goes on to compare his art to Dash this way: "I’m into freedom and a celebration of life, and Dash is more about the fall of humanity." Knowing what we know about the absurdity of Dash's wealth (his brother dates one of the Olsen twins, by the way) it is hard not to smirk at the notion of him being a prophet of the fall of humanity. Dash who refers to himself as a derel (derelict, obvs!)gives the author this insight upon meeting her: "I was just down for it! I’m down with anyone, even if they’re bad people, if they’re just, like, anti-American, you know what I mean?" The idea obviously is that he's bad-ass, edgy, dangerous: he does drugs, tags billboards, lies naked in bed with men, empathizes with terrorists. I guess the idea is this gives him credibility. Unfortunately for him, it comes off as "resumé-padding," trying to establish his place, and prove he has earned it.

The thing is, Snow seems to (I cringe to say this) believe in the life-style he lives. That is to say, I think he does see himself as a derel and a total outsider to society. But no matter how hard he tries he will always be known to have come from society at its gaudiest: NYC old money. So when Snow talks about how 'down' he is, it is only natural for the reader to roll his eyes. Hypocrisy, even the unintended variety, is hard to sneak past the dubious public. Snow seemed aware of this following the release of Ariel Levy's piece. In the immediate aftermath the Irak NY blog ran an article calling it 'A Big Wack Story.' The comments, moderated by a member of Irak go on to make some seriously derogatory remarks about the sex and religion of the articles author. Referring to Levy, a very out lesbian, the commenters sling anti-semitic slurs, and discuss their desire to probe her orifices (very edgy stuff.) The moderator didn't seem to mind any of this obviously derogatory, and chauvenistic behavior: what did I say about hypocrisy? Of course, other recent blogs on the Irak board range from a drooling 'How long until June' headline (referring to the release date for the new iPhone, a $350 excessive-consumer's wet dream) to an article berating the US for sending more troops to Iraq (the one with a Q) and 'simply throwing money at a problem.' "So American" the blogger writes. Yes, American, like growing a hard-on over a hand-held communication device that costs more than the GNP of some third-world nations. Hypocrisy, it seems, is as much a part of being 'down!' with the Irak crew, as sleeping naked in bed with other dudes.

Dear Dash and the rest of the Irakis: The seventies are dead. If we continue to rehash the ghosts of Pollack and Warhol until we are blue in the face, the art scene in NY is going to be dead right along with it. Furthermore, if you want the world (the part of it that can't afford 90 Grand for your splooge-stained artwork) to take you seriously, you might want to reconsider how valuable it is to attack your critics at the cost of making yourselves seem like hypocritical angry boys. Surely Pollack and Warhol brushed off much harsher critiques than the piece from NY Mag. Maybe that's a piece of those guys--the last piece, I'd suggest--that you boys should learn to emulate.

39 Days Until Pitchers and Catchers Report

2007-01-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday I will have something more intelligent to say about the drubbing the Jets took. For now: there are no moral victories in my book. Sure I am happy that the Jets season wasn't like the Raiders season, but losing to the FUGGIN Patriots in the playoffs sucks any damn way you cut it. Chad Pennington is NEVER going to be better than he was this year: which means he is never going to be good enough to make you a legitimate contender: Three goals for the offseason:

1. Add a possession back to compliment Washington Who Should be the every down back to start next season: maybe pick up Brian Leonard with the second round pick?

2. Decide what we have in Clemens. We used a second round pick on the kid. We need to find out soon if he is worth it, or if we should go after say...Troy Smith at the end of round 1.

2b. If Clemens is a legitimate enough QB to take a flyer as a starter, trade Chad to Cleveland or Detorit for a second round pick. Use it to shore up a Tight End or Outside Linebacker, which will effect what you do with suggestion number 3...

3. The Jets are targeted to have upwards of 26 million dollars in capspace this offseason: get a legitimate Tight End or Outside Linebacker out of free-agency...If Herm doesn't franchise Tony Gonzalez, he'd look GREAT in green.

If they had lost that game to any other goddamn team in the NFL I would rest easy tonight knowing that just getting here was a celebratory cause. But for the next nine months I will re-hear Tom Brady's smug punk-ass press-conference ringing in my ears:

"To beat a team that beat us at home a few weeks ago...and to beat 'em by 21 points feels really, really good." Like that game was really a breeze, and the final score was at all indicative of the quality of competition. F U Tom. And I am going to say it now, without a shred of regret: if Teddy Bruschi could go and have himself another stroke, that would be fuckin fantastic in my book.

Never Drove a Carmengia OR Do You Believe in Anything?

2007-01-05T08:27:00.000-08:00

Can we talk about God? Specifically, I want to talk about the people who make these outrageous claims that God has spoken to them. I don't want to mock them so much as just try to understand some things. I have always wondered two things about these people: first of all, when these people say things along the lines of, "I was lying face down in the gutter, in a pool of my own vomit and that's when God spoke to me and said I was headed down an evil path but I could save myself..." are these people saying, "I had this feeling--like an epiphany--that I had to get my shit together, and the only way I can describe it is by saying some greater outside force was giving me clear thoughts in a time when I was incapable of thinking clearly" or do they mean, "some little dude with a beard came down and I physically had a conversation with him." I'm not trying to be curt here, I am seriously interested because if it is the former, then I can empathize. I think we have all had moments of "epiphany," but if it is the latter, these people should seek help, right? And, going back to the former scenario, if it is just an epiphany, why do these people insist it was a god-figure, let alone the Christian God, who "spoke" to them? I just don't get it. Somewhere in the world I guess there must be born-again Jews and born-again Muslims. Just seems odd that the vast majority imagine this sensation to be the Christian God.

And why am I talking about this? Well, I think I talked to God. Not really, of course. Certainly not in the way that I think these people mean it. I just mean that I had a mystical (god I wish there was a better word) experience last night. How hippy of me, right? Here is what I mean: last night I was running in Liberty State Park right around dusk (6ish?) and ran deeper into the park than I ever have before. I was on a trail coming around a marsh, which had tall brush I couldn't really see over, and suddenly I make a turn and am turning onto a boardwalk that runs along the hudson with perfect views: of a shadowy and ominous Statue of liberty; of a dimly lit, but empty Ellis Island; and beyond that, the blazing lights of lower Manhattan. I was all alone in a cold, dark part of the park, caught somewhere between an eerie fear, and a comforting connective feeling with the large world in front of me. It was odd, right, to feel the loneliness that is inherent, first of all, in running, and secondly, in doing so in a dark and foreign place. Then, at the same time, to look past historical and cultural iconagraphy like the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, into a microcosm of society like New York, where, beneath all of those lights, a million vignettes were playing themselves out. So many of them: vignettes of loneliness; love; heartbreak; joy; celebration; anger; violence; addiction; prosperit;, deceipt; betrayal; vindication. All of this is going on in front of my eyes, somewhere in New York, right? Somewhere in the world, right? And yet, there I am, observing it, acting as a voyeur to it, when in actuality, I can not see it, I can not but imagine it.

These things always recast themselves in our minds--these moments--to make them more perfect, more surreal, perhaps, then they were at the time of their being. So, I recall now, that I was thinking--before turning that corner--about work, what else? And how little satisfaction I get from it; how if I had done something else in school--i don't know, pre-law, maybe--I could at least make ends meet, and perhaps more. I was thinking about--well, I was wallowing in self-pity, quite frankly. And then I turn a corner and all of that splendor exploded into my field of vision like a blossom. That's not a reach for an image: it really felt like watching something blooming. And as I was caught up in all of this, I began to think of my father's Carmengia, of all things.

My father drove a Carmengia when he got out of college. It was as close to a sports car as he could afford, and, apparently this is how dudes in the sixties got tail: showing off volkswagen convertibles, and being the proud owner of quality dope would be a good alternative, I'd bet. My dad used to know alot about cars, it was a passion, I gather...sort of like baseball cards for my brother and me. I mean, he'd tell me stories about knowing cars by the revving of their engine, and so on. So this car was a precious piece of machinery, but he loved it moreso, I now think, because it was a piece of his childhood, something to collect and salvage from the innocence of middle-american-50's life, before shit got complicated with war, civil rights conflicts, assassinations (but I digress.) The point is, I think, for my Pop the Carmengia was his last memento to cling to that spoke to him of being young, the last shred of youth. He sold the car away a summer after he bought it with all of his savings, so that he could enroll in Seminary school where he met my mom. My mother attended seminary because she had some serious spiritual beliefs, a religious background, and probably because it was a free graduate degree. My dad attended because he needed "consciencious-objector" status to avoid the draft. He couldn't bring his car to school. And so he severed that last shred of his innocent youth.

Well maybe I am babbling, or maybe the reason I was thinking of the Carmengia in the first place is because here I am, the same age my father was when he sold that car, so he could attend seminary to avoid going to a war where he would inevitably end-up either dead, or permanently fucked-up. And for all of the faults of the '60's--the blind idealism, the divisiveness of political extremes, the everlasting pat-self-on-shoulder arrogance that the BabyBoomer Generation has suffocated us with--for all of those negative aspects, there is an inherent truth to the fact that this generation (mine) has been a greatly priveleged one. This is due, in large part, to the struggles of the two generations before us. There is a negative aspect to this: namely, the cynical, self-obsessive nature of being a generation of babied "adults" who have the privelege of using detachment as a shield from needing to believe in anything, or worse, as an actual belief system: the religion of disinterest. But there have been benefits, too: namely, people like me live in a world where we don't have to be held at a proverbial gunpoint and forced to grow up. (And I know there is a larger issue here about the people who are not priveleged the way that I am, and are held at this proverbial gunpoint, but in case it isn't already clear, I use my blog to think about issues that tend to be more local than global, and by "local" I mean "me.")

I certainly don't mean to preach, but it just seems that people my age are quick to fall back on cynicism or detachment as a tool to avoid serious debate or consideration of an issue, an artist, an institution. The common reaction to things that don't immediately gratify or please us seems to be: find something at fault, or at least fallible with it, and rip it to shreds in a sardonic manner. We hear a band we don't like: how derivative ("totally never heard that before. Sooo unique!" wink wink) or how cheesey, etc.; we roll our eyes at Literature we don't think is up to snuff; we mock those who dress differently, or disagree with our political tendency. This way there is no need to even attempt trying to understand where others come from, why others do, say, feel, different than we do. In a way, it's become a belief system of its own: a crutch on which we can rely when we don't know how we should feel about something, whether we should believe in anything.

This isn't just self righteousness speaking: look, I am guilty of it, too. It's just become ingrained. We are constantly absorbing information: new music; new clothes; breaking news; voyeuristic gossip; personal blogs; art, culture, television...all on demand. How can we not simply scoff at some of it? This has been the gift and the curse of my age group: the ability to mold our world to function as a "pod" of ourselves. Surround ourselves in music we like on our Ipods; dress in clothes we like; live in neighborhoods we like; read (or choose not to read) the news coverage we like; drink when we like; obsess over ourselves when we like; peep into other's self-obsessions when we like. It's all about me, and all about you. Shit, YOU were the Time Person of the Year! And yet, you and I can be caught at moments where our minds are practically moribund with self-pity, and look up to see the world (the REST of the world) unfolding before us.

And so maybe these are or aren't the thoughts I was thinking, when I ran beneath the dark silhouette of Lady Liberty, and looked upon the emptied grounds of the station where so many boatloads of people, who sacrificed to make our lives thus, first came upon these shores. And no, I did not, at that moment--looking onward to the greatest city in the world--feel thoughts of Patriotism, or even complete sentimentality for my heritage. What I felt in that solitude was an inexplicable connectivity to things past, things future, things present, and taking place beneath the lights of so many streets, covered by tall buildings, or lonely rowhouses. As some might say, I felt the presence of god. I say I felt a different presence--my own--in relationship to the rest of the world, for the first time in a while.

link

Sometimes You Eat the Bear

2007-01-03T05:58:00.000-08:00

My wife says my blog is depressing. Looking back over it, I can see where she gets this opinion from: the conitnuous bitching about my work, the image of the lonely drinker, the self-pity towards my mediocre writing (especially because she knows I could and should do more to improve this, on my own.) So I am going to make the kind of New Year's resolution regarding my blog that everybody else makes regarding their personal health, happiness, and hopes: the kind that probably won't ever get resolved. I am going to do my best to make the entries more positive. As far as those aforementioned personal health, hapiness, and hopes resolutions: run 4 days a week (this has been going on for a couple weeks now, and shouldn't be a problem) in training for the Jersey Shore Marathon in late April; see more movies; read more; write daily.

Go and Give 'Em Hell, or Don't Go and Give 'Em Hell

Finally saw "Little Miss Sunshine" on DVD. It was definitely better than I thought it would be. Alan Arkin is simply awesome, and Steve Carrell does a good job taking on the "comedic serious" role. Otherwise, there are some definite funny moments, some decent writing, and a nice soundtrack. I was upset at myself for not seeing it in the theater, but I think it might be more of a curl up on the couch and enjoy type-of-movie anyway. It isn't life-altering or anything, but I recommend it, if you're looking for something light-hearted, feel-good, but not excessively cheesey.

Other than that film on Thursday, my weekend went by way too fast. Brian came up last-minute on Friday, and he and I met Dan for some beer and Darts at Park Tavern. Called it an early night Friday so I could get up early and sober for the family christmas. Went out Saturday and was properly hungover for the Jets game (friend from HS called me last minute with Tickets.) The atmosphere at the game was pretty good, but until the Jets had a comfortable lead, people seemed leery of getting too amped up. By the Third quarter though, it was constant yelling, and everyone seemed genuinely pumped (and probably still somewhat awe-struck.) Almost everyone I overheard on the way out was having some variation on the "how the hell did this team make it to the playoffs?" conversation. Nobody really seemed to care whom the Jets would face, or if they could even play with any of the other AFC teams. Later on in the day, when I found out the Broncos lost, and the Jets would be playing the Pats, is when it finally sunk in for me: as I predicted over a month ago (with a little inspiration from Peter King) the Jets will be playing the Pats in the first round of the playoffs!

It's hard to think of the Jets as anything but underdogs going into this game. I have said it before, and still contend that the the Jets victory in Foxboro, week 10, was more of an abberation than the Jets really beating the Patriots. Any Jets fan who says anything along the lines of "The Patriots don't scare the Jets, anymore," is either lying or delusional. The Patriots still have Tom Brady and Bill Belichick and those two men have been a thorn in the Jets side for 4 years. One win does not erase all that. The Pats should be gaining some healthy defensive starters by Sunday, while the Jets will be losing Andre Dyson, whom I say has been their best Corner this year. The Pats have two legitimate RBs while the Jets need to rely on Leon Washington to keep breaking magical big-plays (something he has proven himself capable of time and again, as the season rolls along.) Breaking down the teams component-by-component its pretty tough to find a single edge for the Jets. And yet, when you compare the teams to one another overall it is hard to say just why the Pats would be favorites in this game (y'know...other than the fact that they have the best QB/Coach tandem in the NFL.) The math, oddly, doesn't add up. You don't believe me? Try it:

QB- PLEASE.
RB- Washington, as I said, has broken out some spectacular plays. His balance is outstanding, his speed impressive. But when teams have stacked the middle against the Jets, the way the Pats certainly will, they haven't had a strong enough RB to push back the line, and wear down the big guys.
WR- All right, here is one! The tandem of Cotchery and Coles has been overlooked all year, and they might be two of the most athletic receivers in the AFC. But, why have they been overlooked? Oh, right, because whenever Pennington has to hit them on an outside pattern he either throws the ball 10 feet wide or ten feet shy.
Overall Offense- Given the inconsistency of either team, can you really say the Pats offense is better than the Jets? Would it surprise anyone if Tom Brady's receivers bobble 3 or 4 big passes, and one or two end up in Kerry Rhodes' hands? Would it surprise anyone if the Jets force the WRs to be the difference-makers in the game by stacking the line? And does anyone really think that New England's WRs can be the difference in a playoff game? Can anyone name 2 WRs that play on the Pats? Sure, with Tom Brady at the helm in a playoff game anything is possible. The guy could throw for 340 and 3 touchdowns with just about the worst receivers in the NFL. The good news? He is going to have a chance to do just that. The Jets offense on the other hand: 100% reliant on Pennington. I can't remember the last game where Pennington looked completely sharp. If he doesnt change that pattern, Ben Graham could be spending alot of time on the new turf at Foxboro.
Defensive Line- The Pats D line has been unreliable all year. Sometimes it has seemed as though opposing QBs could catch a film and lunch with the amount of time they have been able to give him. Other times their opponents have been nailed for multiple holds early on and turned into a veritable sieve by halftime. The Jets on the other hand have been consistently OK on the D-line. But, its the Patriots in the playoffs. Expect the Jets O-Line to pick up some early holds and turn into that aforementioned sieve, while New Englands O-line holds the Jets all over the field, only to unleash a frustrated Victor Hobson onto Tom Brady mid-delivery on a crucial third down. Brady's pass will be incomplete. Hobson will get a personal foul for "roughing the passer." Brady will applaud the league for protecting its mostest precious asset. Hobson will be inexplicably fined 15 Grand. Moral of the story? If it's too close to call, always give the Pats the benefit of the doubt.
Safeties and Corners- Typically I'd give this nod to the Jets because Rhodes has been downright nasty this year. Buuuut, something tells me Rodney Harrison is going to be playing in this game. And given Dyson's injury, the corners probably favor New England. Edge: Pats.
Special Teams- Slight edge to the Jets. Speed is the key on special teams, and they have it.
Coach- Please.

So call me a homer, but the only real advantages I see there (and granted, they are not small, by any means) are Tom Brady and Bill Belichick. But, and I mean BUT, remember what I said following the week two game between these two teams: Bill Belichick is a time-bomb waiting to explode on that side-line. I don't think you can underestimate the lengths to which he will go (and therefore, the possibly foolish risks he will take) to show up Mangini and the Jets. I am not sure how it will go, but at some point in the game Belichick is going to take a risk that will either make him look like a genius or a overconfident fool. I have an odd feeling it will be the latter. So here is a scenario for you: 3 minutes left, the Pats winning 21-17. Pats have the ball on the Jets 29, fourth and five. Instead of kicking the field goal and forcing the Jets to score a TD to tie the game, Belichick goes for it. Wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Fearless Prediction: 24-21 Jets
"Told You So" Prediction: 28-20 Pats

Hang it Up Now or Never

2006-12-20T20:32:00.000-08:00

Hang it up Again

If my laptop was a phone, and my blog was my ex...this would be about as close to drunk-dialing as I have gotten in a while. I have absolutely no good reason to be blogging but I am bored, and alone, and drinking some port (after drinking some whiskey) so I figured why not? Of course, I haven't got much of anything to say, so here I am...

How's it goin' babe? Haven't seen y'in a while. Huh?! Wh'as'at? Naw, not too drunk, why? Jus' wanted to say 'what's up'...

Meg is at her Christmas party right now, which explains why I would be blogging on a couple glasses of Portuguese Port on a Wednesday at 11:30. Often times, I am quite jealous of people that work for well-established companies like the Wall Street Journal, and get to go to parties where some mythical being runs a tab and everyone is drinking their faces off on a Wednesday night, all in the name of the birth of Jeebus and the frugal oils of the Macabees. My own company picnic comes up on Friday, and allow me to take a moment to indulge in the "office culture" of my place of work. For the time being, let's just refer to it as "Nations Publisher." Here at Nations we don't exactly do a "christmas party" per se, just like we dont actually do a Chrsitmas bonus, nor a raise of any sort beyond the "cost of living increase" every six months, which at last calculation actually wasnt even enough of an increase in weekly take-home to cover my weekly increase in gas costs...but I am babbling. Anyway, at Nations what we do is more of a "social." Y'know, like that uncomfortable Jr. High dance, where the guys don't talk to the girls and vice-a-versa, and the chaperones try to facilitate a good time, but really everybody is monitoring their watches waiting for the moment that they can all go back to Tom's house, and steal a pack of his mom's Marlboro 100 cigarettes. The difference is, instead of the guys and girls being seperated by an invisible force-field, EVERYBODY is seperated by it. We need to call Michael Richards in to get to the bottom of this force field of hatred. Seriously, it's a problem. Here is the conversation I will have 10-20 times on Friday, while not drinking, and pretending to eat my room-temperature linguine:

Guy in a Turtle-neck (or woman in christmas-scene sweater, or weird accounting guy with a combover who walks around like Lurch, and gives everyone the evil eye: "So How's things in your department?!"

Me: "Same old, same old. You?"

Turtle/sweater/accounting: "Oh, not so bad. I can't believe this weather, though!"

(silence)

Turtle/sweater/accounting: "So I hear you got married."

Me: "Yep. In July."

T/S/A: "How was that?!"

UGHHH!!!!

At some point I will hurriedly retreat to the one table with people my age (who also happen to be people in my department, who ALSO happen to think I am a real jerk for some reason) and try to hold a normal conversation about like...football, and the drunk Miss USA, and shit...
End bitching and moaning about work.

You remember that time you called me fart-face at the beach?! That was great... Man, shit used to be great. Didn't shit used to be just great?!

I've gotten back to writing more often. Real writing. Well...not just blog-writing. Weird thing about applying to MFA programs: from the beginning of the application process, until basically the end, you (or I) don't really do much writing. All the time you would typically allow yourself for writing is flushed into revisions (and not the good kind, the knit-picky, overanalytical kind) and also the monatony of application procedures. I honestly wrote original stuff for an hour today for the first time since late October. Wild.

My dad's dog had surgery yesterday...lumps in her chest. This got me to thinking about my little bastard dog. I mean, I have only had him for 4 months, and he is good for a heart-attack a week, but still...I couldn't imagine being in my dad's position. He loves that dog. Like in a sick way. He makes my mom sit in the back sometimes because his dog wants to sit up front. No joke! Anyway, she is gonna survive (the dog, that is...we will see about my mom) but I just can't imagine it. I was bummed and stuff when my dog's passed away when I was a kid, but it is different when you are a kid. The totality of dog "ownership" when you are a kid is: "i want a dog" followed by "i have a dog!" followed by "i don't wanna walk the dog, Alf is on!" followed by "eww, mom, the dog pooed on the floor" followed by "the dog died?! WAAAAHHHH!!!!!" It isn't a highly involved process.

On the other hand, here is the totality of owning a dog when you are grownsed ups: I wanna dog, I can't have a dog in this apartment; lease is up, now I can move and get a dog; the dog is how much?! but i thought i was adopting, and doing you a favor, animal shelter people?! fine, i just won't go out drinking for a few weeks; dog pees floor 3 times a day x 5 or 6 weeks; this dog is cool now that he pees outside; i love this dog; worms? fuck! get him some medicine, wow that costs alot; play with dog in park, such an awesome dog; feed dog daily, this food adds up; dog stepped on glass?! jesus! 200 bucks at the vet; wow, this dog still licks my hand when i am feeling bummed, what a great dog!

Why you gotta go?! Aww, but we were jus' startin' to reminisisce...well I'll call ya t'morrow. Ca'I call ya t'morrow? First thing, kay?

Turned out to be Just God

2006-12-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

Introducing a gimmick: Hyperboles BIGGER THAN GOD!

I do my best not to be an excessively pessimistic blogger. It's easy to get suckered into the temptation of cynically mocking anything and everything that is more respectable or reputable than myself. I just feel like that is one recipe with which I need not cook. And here comes the big "however," right? However, one thing I cannot stand is the trend towards excessive hyperbole in sports media (particularly radio and those television debate-style shows, but print is not innocent of this at all.) Now, I am not talking about your typical "JP Losman may be one of the best Quarterbacks in the NFL" that you hear (following a wopping 200 yard day.) This stuff is annoying, but excusable considering these guys have to fill hour upon hours of NFL Primetime (or BBTN, or SportsCenter, etc...) with material that is meant to illicit discussions and debate. I am talking about just writing, or saying something that you know is downright absurd, and a completely agregious exaggeration.

For instance: have you heard about this new legislation attempting to ban men from women's practice teams? Yeah, I hadn't either. But according to ESPN's Nancy Lieberman, this might be the hottest topic in sports right now. Umm, what?! I mean, did she not have to submit this to an editor who might have, in turn, said something like "you're fuckin' joking with that line, right?" It's true though, man, this story is hotter than the AFC Wild-Card race, the hot-stove season with exploding contracts, the debate over the NBA brawling, and even the story of the resurgent New Orleans Saints (of which I hear the media is growing tired.) Surely this story, about men no longer being allowed to practice with women, is just as big. Here comes the pre-emptive attack: I'm not trying to be sexist, I am just a realist, and so on...but seriously. I don't know why this kind of writing bothers me, but I am certain it has something to do with the sheer laziness behind it all. I give Liberman some slack here, of course, because trying to make something like this seem interesting requires some creative spin (and she covered that by bringing in the Romo, Deion, etc..angle.) But there is a stark contrast between creatively manipulating a subject, and flat out falsifying its significance. Rating this offense on a scale of "harmless" 1 to "shameless" 11, I give Lieberman a break (only because she's a woman, and due to new legislation, couldn't get any assistance from the men) so this gets a 5.5.

What Did I say About those Lists?

In anticipation of every independent radio station on God's Green Earth playing an end-of-the-year countdown, Pitchfork and PopMatters came out with their respective top 50 (PFM) and 60 (PopMatters) "albums of the year" lists. So I thought I would quickly hop-scotch through those and point out any glaring omissions, or excessive fawnings I might find in each. To be honest, I think Pitchfork (sadly) is a little more in line with my own preferences so we will go through that list last. Also, surprisingly, there is more on the PopMatters list that I did not get a chance to enjoy...so that could be part of the issue. Problem number one is a glaring one, but it's really the biggest error, according to my preference:

I am glad they could fit M Ward and Destroyer's Rubies on there somewhere between Steven Bernstein (who's he?) and Beth Orton...who I am pretty sure is Cat Power, when Chan what's-her-name remembers to take her Zoloft. I say "bullshit." Both of those albums are top 20 albums this year, no question.
I also haven't listened to Much Lupe Fiasco, cause Rap isn't my thing, but 50th seems a bit low. Most people who like Rap put this in the top 5 or 10.
Who is Michelle Malone?
Didn't we all agree that the new Flaming Lips album was a failure. Better than Destroyer's Rubies. According to whom?
Good to see Bruce and Tom Waits on there...more on that when we get to you, Pitchfork.
Look, I love Pearl Jam. Just this weekend, I was drinking beers with friends, put on Ten, and remarked what an unbelievable album it is. But the new album sucks. We shouldn't be giving these people great the honors bestowed by placement on year-end lists, just because shit they did 15 years ago totally killed it. It's a 2006 list, right?
Isn't Kelley Stoltz the guy who playes the heroin dealer in Pulp Fiction?
Never heard this Casey Dreissen guy. But he should get docked a few spots just for those glasses.
Per The Roots, see memo on Pearl Jam.
The Dixie Chicks make my ears bleed.
Mastadon sucks, Arctic Monkeys Suck, and Gnarls Barkley?! There was one good song on that whole damn album.

And on to Pitchfork:

I haven't heard half of the 50-40 group, but that's probably because I am not cool enough. Decemberists, and M Ward however do not belong in a pile of poo, and since I don't know much about these bands, a pile of poo it is.
Tapes n' Tapes...I don't know just what to make of you. You either dont belong on these lists at all, or you belong alot higher than 40. Your like Bud Heavy. I shouldn't like you very much...but I love you lots.
Somebody told me this Danielson shit would be right up my alley. Then I downloaded an mp3. Somebody was wrong.
Good Call on Califone.
Bad call on Justin Timberlake.
Sunset Rubdown=Not that great. Destroyers' Rubies=Great. One of us is doing bad math.
I agree with 4 of the top 10. The other 6 make me want to cry. To be fair, Ghostface is probably pretty good. I just dont like rap. Batting .500.
Where the eff are Bruce, Bob Dyland and Tom Waits(whom I don't love but whose new albums I know are better than, say, The Pippettes)?!

End Snarky, Pessimistic rant right...NOW.

I Am Gonna Make it Through This Year If It Kills Me

2006-12-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

Some Thoughts on Lists

I get the feeling that this time of year we are all supposed to make lists. You know. Christmas lists. New Years resolutions. List our accomplishments over the past year. Lists of best albums. Best new writers. Best movies. Person of the Year. It seems like an ever-growing enterprise, this lists business. I've only had this blog for half the year. I think it started right around my wedding. But the original spawn of this whole thing started, I believe, about a year ago, now. So what better way to celebrate the year that was, then with some lists. We'll use it as an opportunity to recall what, in my book, was a pretty damn great year (a few stumbling blocks, aside.) I think we'll cover all the bases here: social events, arts, film, sports moments, books read, etc...The blog is the 21st-Century-Man's journal, in theory. I guess, if, in some alterworld my grandkids were to look back at this (and let's hope they skip the sections about my embarassing permanent body art) I would like them to see just how radical their Gramps was. Totally living on the edge, and all that. Today, I'm liking the arbitrary number six. Without further ado, some Top Sixes:

Six Best Sports Moments:
6- Jets beat Patriots in Foxboro. I know. This should really be higher. But as I have said before, it was just a terribly boring game (outcome notwithstanding.) Given that it now is a crucial W, in terms of making them a viable contender for the playoffs down the stretch, I am man enough to admit it was a good win. Even if Pennington played like Neil O'Donnel. I can't wait for the rematch in round 1 of the playoffs.

5- Tigers Trounce Yankees in Playoffs. Any time the Yankees get knocked out of the playoffs it is a top ten moment in my sports year. The fact that they did it so convincingly was a little vindication for just how poorly the Sox played down the stretch while the Bombers were playing their best ball.

Tied 3- Jets Almost Beat Pats in Great Comeback, Giants Stadium. When can a loss to your rivals be even better than a victory against them? When you are at the game, it is a gorgeous day, and your uncle and pops, whom you've brought along are beaming ear-to-ear, beacause all three of you know you're watching a team that has heart. And said team hasn't exhibited said heart, in, oh, about three years.

Tied 3- Sox get pounded by Yanks in 5-gamer, Tickets to Game 3. Again, an aesthetically odd choice. Nobody likes to have front row (not literally) seats to watch their favorite team get paddled by their rivals. But if you can tell me what's better than sitting with one of your best buddies, draining cold brews, and watching your respective favorite teams play a day game rivalry in Fenway park, I'd love to hear it.

2- Rutgers upsets Louisville. Watched the game at a sports bar, surrounded by NJ citizens who were actually rooting for RU football with passion. The first time I can EVER claim that has happened. Let's hope it isn't the last.

1- Red Sox Lose a Toughie to A's, Roof Box Seats. See 3B. Multiply "1 of your best buds" by 12. Add in a 2 hour bus-ride, 4 cases of beer, and a group of old guys, including one who is 24 hours away from becoming my father-in-law. Watch fireworks ignite.

Top Six CD's Acquired:

6- Grizzly Bear, Yellow House. Just an all-around excellent album. Brian burned this for me over our "stuck in the middle of crazy-ass duck-huntin' Maryland/Delware territory. In the best way, this was the perfect music to evolve out of that weekend: eerie, haunting, yet infused with tons of punk-rock qualities. Shades of Liars and Animal Collective but way more subtle. Perfect evening driving tunes.

5- Thelonius Monk, Monk's Dream. I am pretty sure my dad told me about this little gem. Jazz is mood music for certain. But if you can't listen to this one while sipping some wine, and reading a good book, then there is something wrong with you. Monk's control of rhythm and timing is insane. He is working on a completely different rhythm pattern than most musicians can even comprehend, let alone some idiot like me. I heard an interview on FUV that Monk was known for spending up to 24 hours sitting in one place contemplating arangements. When you hear this album, such assertions really don't sound that ludicrous.

4- The Many Sides of Fred Neil. Hands down the best old-school folk album I have purchased since John Wesley. I can't listen to Dolphins without wanting to dance around like some bra-less hippie chick at a be-in. Dylan, Buckley, Prine, and Springsteen all consider him a prime influnence. There is no other album which predicates these guys best stuff the way this album does. The guitar is fantastic. So fantastic, that it got a spot on this list over John Fahey.

3- Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome (The Seeger Sessions) Don't care what you think about Bruce. Don't care if you've never heard of Pete Seeger. A good, honest cover/tribute album is rare. One that is THIS good/honest comes around once, maybe twice, every decade.

2- Belle & Sebastian, If You're Feeling Sinister. For some reason, this is one of the Belle and Sebastian CD's I hadn't bothered to pick up for quite some time. In the early spring I went and scooped it up, in preperation to go see them with my Pop, who, in all his hipster glory, actually introduced me to them way back in the day, with this album. Upon first listen, I basically was transported back to my parents living room, where my dad made a habit of spinning this on spring and summer Sundays. On second listen and beyond, I realized, indubitably, that from start to finish, it is the most nearly perfect album in the pop-folk genre.

1- Destroyer's Rubies. Why did it take me almost 5 months to get this CD again? This is the best Indie CD I have bought since NMH, and that is no exxageration. Amazing lyrics, affected but pleasant vocals, and fantastic layers of intruments. All around FUGGIN great. It really isn't an album that words can do justice. Go get it. Now.

Top Six Arts/Music/Lit. Events:

6- A Night With Camille Paglia. I hope my memory suits me correctly, because I believe this happened in February. Anyway, Paglia is a controversial figure. And while I didn't agree with about half of what she said (and a good 75% of the poems she chose for her definitive Poetry collection.) Nonetheless, it was a great lesson in where poetry has become stagnated in the minds and discussions of most scholars (both those Columbia-types whom Paglia directly called to task, and the supposedly progressive camp in which Paglia would like to claim a stake.) Suffice to say, I don't believe Wanda Coleman is taking poetry (particularly American poetry) to fronteirs it has never been, or was never destined to go, should it follow its predictable path. I can continue to mention the same names (have I mentioned Maurice Manning before) but history says, it won't be for another 30 years or so until due recognition is received.

5- Belle & Sebastian at Nokia Theatre. Music-wise, you really couldnt ask for a better performance (well maybe if The New Pornographers had been better...) The Venue was nice, but way the fuck overpriced. And the audience was what was to be expected. 50% there to enjoy really good music, 50% there to be seen in their vintage sweaters and coke-bottle glasses. Plus the night gets bonus points, because my brother, who had to fill-in for my pops last minute, decided to wear an almost identical jacket to mine, leading us to our fifteen minutes of indie-fame, as stars of a concert review.

4- Hopper Exhibit and Picasso/America at the Whitney. I just mentioned this one last week. If one has to spend a Friday night, sober, and hungry, there are far worse things one could do with said time, then study some of the most amazing paintings by one of America's finest artists, in one of NYC's historic charms. Negative points for the DBs who managed to sidle next to me at every single exhibit and proclaim such insightful nuggets as: "Doesn't that look exactly like our vacation house?" and "Pollack was waaaayyyy better at the end of his career."

3- Wooden Wand @ Knitting Factory. Apparently if I had been patient enough to stay for the entire Akron/Family show this would have been an easy choice for number one. Instead I got a little too carried away sipping on PBR as James Toth did his crickets-on-a-summer evening thing. A fantastic 2 hours, that should have been a mind-blowing 5 hours.

2- The Undertow Orchestra and General Museum-hopping, DC Blizzard. This was one of the most excellent weekends all year. It was filled with not-really educational, but justifiably cultural activities like wandering through the Museum of the American Indian, dodging the cult-liberals at the Momuments, and finally seeing one of the best musical concerts I have seen all year, all in the middle of a huge snowstorm, trumped by a massive snowfight with strangers in the streets of Arlington, VA. Amazing.

1- Silver Jews @ Webster Hall. Awful venue. But whatever. This was likely a once in a lifetime experience, what with the fact that David Berman is probably never touring again. The music was good, the atmosphere was fine. But what made it fucking fantastic was the mere fact that I was watching a genius at work, in the one rare circumstance that any human being would ever get to do so in such a venue. My immediate reaction was ambivalence. Looking back on it now, it was one of the highlights of the year.

Six Best Headlines

6- Mel Gibson Goes Hitler On Us. Totally unexpected, yet totally unsurprising.

5- Drinking Coffee Cures Your Liver After Drinking. Fucking fantastic.

4- Marf54. Members of the Legislative branch, having cybersex with 14 year old boys. Time-defining.

3- Michael Richards Goes Hitler On Us. Wow. If the cellphone video footage of his rant didnt shock and awe you, the apology on Letterman, in all its akward glory, had to do the trick.

2- T.O. Does or Does Not Try to Commit Suicide. What an odd, odd, day to work in Sports News. Fascinating.

1- Macacca. If you look at it now, it sure seems that George Allen's big moment of folly cost him the Senatorial Race in Virginia, which in turn meant the Democrats taking both the House and Senate...which in turn means, perhaps, George Bush will be held accountable for his decisions for the next two years. And to think, if certain Republicans had either kept their mouths shut, or avoided sexy-talk with 14 year old boys, this whole situation could be completely different.

Six Best Movies/DVDs/TV Shows Seen:

6- Borat. Oh my god was this movie funny. Was it the world-altering comedy some people made it out to be? No. Was it hilarious from start to finish? Yes. Did it usher back in an irreverent style of comedy we havent seen since Mel Brooks in his prime? Let's hope.

5- Season One, Rescue Me. This show is just plain good. It isn't political, it isn't moralizing. It isn't terribly thought provoking. It is just the perfect combination of humor, emotion, excitement, and drama. Season One was the show at its rawest, and sometimes most absurd. But in a way, this makes it even more appealing. Anyone who doesn't like Dennis Leary should watch just one episode, and then read an article about the background of the show. Perceptions alter.

4- The Last Waltz. I don't know why the hell it took me so long to see this. Scorsese, and The Band?! Together?!?! Why woudln't this be a fantastic music DVD?

3- Thank You For Smoking. I wrote about this a-way-back-when. Perhaps on myspace? Anyway, as far as Satires go, this film is totally fantastic. Great acting, hilarious writing, poignant direction. All Around, the Bee's Knees.

2- This Season of The Office. The best sitcom on TV. By a mile.

1- Old Joy. Brokeback was a good movie. It would have been a great movie, had it been subtler. Had nature played an even more prominent role, and less of a signifier, I think it had a chance to be the best movie made in a long, long, time. And as good as Ang Lee is as a director, he missed some serious opportunities to make that film a work of sheer beauty. Each opportunity he missed, is capatilized in Old Joy by the young Director, Kelly Reichardt. I have never read the short story by Raymond, upon which this is based, but all interviews indicate that the film couldn't have done more justice to the story. It takes serious study of a text to create such a faithful interpretation, and that alone is cause to be impressed. The fact that the acting is nearly flawless, the characters hyper-realistic, and the cinematography awe-inspiring is an added bonus.

Best Six Books Read:

6- Shape of Things to Come by Greil Marcus. Sadly it had been almost two years since I had read, and finished, an entire lit. theory book when I picked this one up. However, I have to say it was for pretty good reason: Lit. Theory is generally, sleep-inducing in its boredom. HOW-evah, Marcus is onto something. He draws in musical theory, popculture analysis, and even a little bit of intriguing historical context to create the story of America, in textual form. I wouldn't suggest jumping into this book without some serious familiarity with some of the central subjects: namely, Dylan, Phillip Roth, HG Wells, and Dos Passos' 42nd Parallel (more on that later) but even if your knowlege of these is vague, one can take away from this a great lesson on the American predicament: the significance of national identity in a nation of individuals.

5- To Hate Like This is to be Happy Forever by Will Blythe. Sports books are a tough read. It's hard to combine the thrill, and the minute-to-minute play-by-play involvement of watching a great sporting event, with the nuances of good writing. Perhaps that is why sports books are best when they are biographical. In many ways this is the biography of the irrational fan, fueled by one of the best rivalries in sports. Blythe, a diehard UNC fan, writes about the UNC/Duke rivalry with as much level-headed analysis as one can expect from a guy who watches certain games in the fetal position, hoping his feng-shue will alter the outcome of the match. If you are a die-hard fan of a team, and appreciate solid, unpretentious writing you will enjoy this immensely. If you can relate to the madness of being a fan of a team embroiled in a rivalry such as this, you will simply love Blythe's tale.

4-Molloy by Beckett. As far as really confusing, hard to read post-modernism goes, this is probably the most accesible by way of its universality. A friend of my dad's in Easton is a pretty big Beckett Scholar, and argues that the essential thesis of Beckett's writings, the trilogy, in particular, is that modern man's greatest fear is his own insignificance. Why else would we have invented blogs?

3- Imre Kertesz' Liquidation. At 120 pages, novellas like this tend to be forgettable. But part of what makes Kertesz such a great writer is his ability to give us just enough information, and allow us to mold the story for ourselves. Like Calvino, he plays with the form of literature to make us think more broadly about literature itself. In undertaking this book, ones is reading less of a novel than the ways in which one actually reads. With which characters can we identify, when the characters exist solely as a function of their own being. Narcissism, Self-indulgence, and nihilism are all central themes, and yet Kertesz is questioning the very need of such themes in the human experience, and more particularly in modern literature. What makes a tale a tale worth telling? A novel a novel? And if a tale told is not explicitly told at all, but rather is an experience, does this cheapen, or contrarily inflate its value to the reader?

2- Memoir of the Hawk by James Tate. I don't know what's most surprising about this book of poetry: that I am so astounded by it, or that the literati agress with me. The same people who proclaim to love Ashberry and Kenneth Koch, are suddenly finding worth in an author whose goal seems to be to deride the very lyrical poetry which sprung from that New York crowd. Having said that, there are times when Tate (particularly in his early poems) seemed to be writing almost for effect. While I can see why others enjoy this, it isn't until I read the Hawk, that I could feel Tate as a personal influence on my writing. Colloquial style, aside, there is something fantastic about the commonality, and the simplicity of his impossibly wild imagery that makes a writer like Tate endearing among writers who seem to be obsessed with craft over content.

1- Dos Pasos 42nd Parallel. Wow. Dos Passos work was the only major work discussed in Shape of Things to Come that I wasn't already familiar with. And now that I have read it is is pretty clear why. The choppy, incohesive style, along with the scathing analysis of American life throughout the course of the 20th Century are an immediate harbinger of why the book would never be a popular critical darling. And yet, it is perhaps, one of the most ultimately American books written post-Twain. Greif, Despair, Isolation, hope, chaos, and the desire to compartmentalize our lives into controllable pieces, make it a true American tale. It is all there. There are bizarre and inexplicable moments, but if you happened to catch just one of my top six headlines, then you know. "Bizarre" and "Inexplicable" are often the best descriptive when adressing the stories that make up this great nation.

Six Mostest Amazingest Weekends

6- DC Blizzard. See events #2.

5- Fourth of July, Out and About. Just an all around fun long-weekend in which I got to see family, friends, and eat BBQ food all weekend. What more can we ask for during the summer?

4- Memorial Day BBQ, Darien. Perfect way to start the summer. Passed out on your buddies lawn.

3- Bachelor Party. Pizzas, sodas, some go-fish. That kinda thing.

2- Honeymoon, KBP/Bahamas. Everybody should be required to take 2 weeks off for their honeymoon. Best vacation I have ever had. Maine was the ideal amount of activities (beach, shopping, great meals, canoeing) and interspersed with the sheer laziness of 5 days in the Bahamas, it was the perect celebration.

1- Wedding Weekend. Best weekend of my entire life. If you were there, thanks so much for being a part. If not, you can always live the night vicariously, here.

What do We do with the Pieces of a Broken Heart??

2006-12-05T05:04:00.000-08:00

As Promised, The First Rejection:

Dear Geoffrey:

We regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you a position in our 2007 Optional-Residency MFA program. We are only able to accommodate a small percentage of the almost 140 applicants we received this year. The quality of the applications was extremely high and faculty had to make some difficult decisions.

Your application was read and evaluated with care by our faculty members. That being said, we do not pretend to be the final arbiter of what is excellent or successful writing. Evaluating writing is always a subjective process, and many a writer who was turned down by a publisher, institution or writing program has gone on to great success.

Our judgement does not close the door to another application at a later date, and indeed a number of students have been accepted on subsequent application in the past, including several this year who had been turned down last year. Every writer grows by revising old work and writing new material. Should you wish to try again in a later year, we would welcome your application; to make this easier we will keep your transcripts and related application materials on file for one year.

We regret that we cannot provide individual students with information about why they were not accepted; it is not uncommon, however, that students with strong work in one genre but weaker work in other genres are not accepted – we do look in particular for ‘well-rounded’ portfolios and faculty in all our genres read the applications.

An official letter will be sent this week by postal mail to your mailing address on file.

Sincerely,

Andrew Grayfor Linda Svendsen, Chair
UBC Creative Writing

Where's My Head At?

Well, I can't say this is all together a surprise and had it come bundled between the rest of the rejections it probably would hurt a lot less. But it hurts. Alot. It was easily my second choice, and certain aspects of it made it my top choice at specific times during the process, including quite recently (namely the low residency, and the diversity of the published writers coming out of the program.) But--and hindsight is always 20/20 on this stuff--my priorities have changed a little bit just these past few days, enough so that I had guarded myself for this probability. I think this shift in priorities reflects, namely, a reevaluation of two factors: economics, and location. The UBC program is a great one no doubt (and for all intents and purposes, lets include Warren Wilson and Stone Coast here as well, though the former requires special consideration for reasons to be discussed later.) However, much of what makes these programs great is, inherently a double edged sword. That is, they all allow the writer to continue working at full-time, or close to full-time, status. The corellary to that is the tuition is not subsidized. This means if I am pulling in (in a near-full-time freeelance position) let's say, 30G, and I am spending 18 G to attend the program, 2 G to travel, and a G on books, I am looking at a Net salary of less than 10G. That's not really doing much for my mortgage, and the sacrifice of working/living in a writers community is pretty significant. On the other hand, attending a full-time residency means all of my tuition is paid for in most cases, and TAing provides a small stipend. Some personal loans from banks pays the part of the mortgage that my wife can't pay, and I am in debt again. So, that's the economic aspect. It's a lose-lose, but when you consider loans, etc. The full-time residency is less of a financial burden in some ways, than is the low-residency. Then there is location, location, location. This factor is very important, as well. Weather, proximity to cultural activities, and general geography (love mountains, love oceans, love cities) are all a big deal to me. Let's look at all of those, in reverse:

Find your city....find yourself a city to live in. Am I going to spend the majority of my life in close proximity to NYC? Probably. I friggin' love New York. Look, I don't want to sound like a Manhattan snob, I think Manhattan is probably the fourth best borough behind Jersey City, Brooklyn, and Queens. That's right. I said it. JC is a borough. Get over it Brooklynites. My train-ride to mid-town is shorter than yours. But the whole NYC area is just the best area in the world. There is no mecca of culture/arts/entertainment/sports/food/commercialism/ethnicity/bars/human-insanity like this area. Period. The top five people watching destinations in America have to be in New York. Sure, the scenes get a little annoying sometimes, but the trade off is worth it. This past weekend alone I saw two of the best art exhibits I have ever seen: Hopper (A Procedural Exhibit); and Picasso and America, an exhibit that examined Picasso's influences on American artists from De Kooning and Pollack to Jasper Johns. Fantastic stuff. Then I had the best slice of pizza money can buy. The next morning I volunteered at one of the most succesful food banks in the country. Granted, I was able to take advantage of most of this stuff because I wasn't in one of New York's great barrooms due to my medicinally-imposed sobriety...but still. So, fine. We all know it. This area is amazing. But as I said. I am going to live here forever. Does that mean I have to spend the next 2-3 years of my life here as well? ABSOLUTELY NOT.

When We Get Back to the Ocean, When We Get Back to the Sea. My Junior year in High School I shipped out for four months on a tall-ship and sailed from St. Thomas to Venezuela, and up to Nova Scotia. Since I was a baby I have spent my summers in Maine on small motorcraft, canoes, and on ocassion, tugboats. I love the ocean. If it were up to me, I'd live on a boat. And I am not just saying that off the cuff. I've done it, and if I could afforf it, and the wife would allow it, I'd do it. In a heartbeat. Still, if I were to attend a school by the ocean, I can't imagine I would spend my free-time casting off in fishing vessels, or floating in a canoe. More likely, I'd sit on the beach and look out into the waves, if time would allow it. That's what vacations are for.

I'm the Man on the Mountain, Come on Up. Of all three, the most inspring, the most easily accessible, and the most untapped geographical resource for me is the Mountain. I love hiking. I love finding a cabin or a tent-site, and camping for a long weekend. I love just being outside, surrounded by nothingness (a feeling one can ONLY get in the open ocean, or deep in the woods on a hike.) Quite often, I crave solitude, and let's face facts, it cannot be found here. When I considered the benefits of a low-res. program, the biggest boon for me was the concept of individuality in the process of writing. My writing is not neccesarily best when I am writing to an audience, or in the company of other writers. But it is certainly at its best when knowlegeable people can help me to mold and refine it. So perhaps the workshop is not something to view as a burden, but rather an added benefit, so long as the writing is done the way I have always done it best: alone. And whether that is done huddled over a laptop in the nearest coffeshop, or in a tent in the wilderness, shouldn't change all that. So do I need a coffee-shop, or a bar, a spot to watch the world move by, to be at a place where my writing is at it's best? In some ways, yes. In other ways no. In fact, isn't the world going by just the same in the Ozarks as in downtown Chicago? In a St. Paul coffeeshop? In a Portland Maine fisherman's bar? In the Smokies? In other words. Won't the location be what I make of it?

The Re-Examined List

In that light, perhaps my list is looking a little foolish. To say that UBC was number 2 on such a list is a little bit arbitrary. To say there is a number two at all, a little bit arbitrary. Are there favorites? Certainly. But why can't I make the most out of two very, very different schools? And why fear change?

Heaven on Earth: Stanford Fell.
Other Favorites: U of M, Warren Wilson, UH, Arkansas, NYU
And Still Great: Sarah Lawrence, Stone Coast
Dead to Me: UBC

Why so finnicky? Well, simple, really. I just shifted my priorities away from the schools I thought would be most accesible given my styles, etc...to the schools that meet the standards of WHAT I WANT. Why should I make it a priority to hope for schools that I think will like me, what about schools that I like! Stanford is an unbelievable opportunity. Will I get in? Hell no. Can I still admit, that in my wildest dreams, it is the perfect scenario for me to get paid to write at a place where some of the best writers of the past century (Wendell Berry, Ken Kesey, etc..) have all written? HELL YES. U of M, UH, and Arkansas would require a major lifestyle change. It might mean selling my condo, it might mean living apart from my wife for a few months, or a year or two, it might mean living in debt. But would it be worth it to know I have gone into this with every possible ounce of energy I have? Absolutely. Warren Wilson, and NYU provide the unbelievably valuable degrees of top 5 reputation programs, with the convenience of not having to move. The Pros are obvious. The cons? Cost. Stagnation. Obvious. On that note...let's end with the words of one of my heroes, Jimmy Santiago Bacca:

"If it does not feed the fire/ of your creativity, then leave it./ If people and things do not/ inspire your heart to dream,/ then leave them./ If you are not crazily in love/ and making a stupid fool of yourself,/ then step closer to the edge/ of your heart and climb/ where you've been forbidden to go./ Debts, accusations, assaults by enemies/ mean nothing,/ go where the fire feeds you."

Rockin' on the Horse Size Pills

2006-12-01T10:54:00.000-08:00

Yeah I don't like the Dandy Warhols Either, Man

But still, it's apropriate to mention the lyrics given the fact that, even though mankind is able to cram an entire Robert Siegel-size CD collection (dont bother trying to wikipedia that) into an Ipod the size of a baby's elbow, we are somehow still incapable of making certain medicine pills much smaller than that. (WARNING: This post will discuss my various medical issues, it will not be exciting, and other than the fact that my colon is weaker than Chad Pennington's arm, there is not much in the way of sports discussion here...well maybe a little at the end.) So anyway, thus the Dandies lyrical reference in the title, in reference to these awful metallic-tasting walnut sized pills I am shoving down my throat these days to keep my underside from bursting into flames. Lets hope never to cross-reference 90s grunge music from the My So Called Life soundtrack, like, ever again, OK?!

All apologies (ah, did it again) for my absence in the blogosphere, lately. See, in case you haven't picked up on it, I have been a bit under the weather. In other words, I hope you all enjoyed your thanksgiving, because I spent mine with my knees to my chest, cursing the gods in agony in my freshly painted bathroom. I mention that it was freshly painted, 'cause, well, I painted it...on Wedensday night, in preperation for hosting the in-laws, parents, and brother for the holiday. And while I was painting said bathroom I felt a pretty odd empty rumbling in my stomach. So...no big deal right? WRONG! For the next three hours my schedule looked like this: paint 4 sq. feet, clutch waistband, rush to toilet, RELEAAAASSSEEE!!!! repeat. Oh my god. It was awful. It took me 4 hours to paint the bathroom, a good 75% of which time was spent tearfully gripping the side of the sink and wall (whoops, forgot the paint was wet!) as my stomach punished me for every awful thing I had ever done to it:

Jello Shots with Cheap vodka in Tenth grade? TAKE THAT!!
Beer-Case race with Stanley after Graduation?! HIYAAAA!!
Budweiser and Hamm's like water freshman Year?! BAAAAAAMMMM!!!
Libya? Quarters? Golf? Hockey? Asshole?! LITERALLY, BITCH!
Bratwurst and Keystone at Tailgates?! MUAHAHAHAAA!
Grain Fruit Punch in the Water Cooler? OYYYYY!!!! UGGHHHHH!
Jameson Shots? Jaeger Shots? Vodka Shots?! FUGGGGGG MEEEEEE!!!!

You ever have the feeling that sometimes karma is the cruelest fate? Sometimes you're walking and you stub your toe really friggin' hard, and all you can think is, you know I deserve that for laughing at that guy who dropped the moving boxes on his toes, or whatever? Or, you know, certain friends with really nasty senses of humor, who think roofies are funny, or whatever, just happened to be the only people you know who actually get roofied. It's crazy how the world works. I mean, the more crap changes, the more certain things remain constant: sure, it's 69 degrees in December. But there's still war in the Middle East, You will still get hungover if you drink too much, you will still be annoyed every time you look at the column on your paycheck where the taxes are deducted, and you will still always pay for what you get. You always pay for what you get. It's the constants: death, taxes, and retribution.

Now, ostensibly speaking of course, my stomach was in a rage because I ate somethig foul (I am blaming the Chili I accidentally left out over night.) But it isn't really about the Chili. I mean, it is...but it isn't. You see, it is only about the Chili in that said Chili just happens to be the vessel that Karma chose to ride down my esophagus to my tailpipe and plant its infectious seed. What it is really about is payback for all of the awful, awful things I have done to my tummy the last 9 years or so, with the equivalent of a wrist-slap in return. I deserved it. I earned it.

So I spent Wedensday night until this Tuesday feeling like that. I tried to drink Friday (awful idea) and work Monday (bad idea) and went to a Doctor Wedensday morning. Just yesterday I ate my first whole meal in a week. Diagnosis: colonitis. Sounds like a minor inflamation right? No big deal. I am telling you: I was at death's fuckin' door. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemies. So the Doctor gave me these horse-sized pills, "No problem, just take two of these a day," he shrugs and sent me on my merry way. And as I am on my way out the door, this: "Oh, and Geoffrey. No drinking and just bland food for the next five days. Pasta, baby food. That sort of thing. But NO drinking."

Call Me Samsa, George Samsa.

Back the fuck up. Is he kidding me?! Look, I don't mean to whine. Five days of pasta, and bread and shit is fine. I mean cancer patients have to eat yogurt and rice for the reast of their lives. I should complain. Five days without drinking? Small price to pay for an iron-clad stomach that will be ready to rage for nine more years until my next torturous collapse. But, Doc. What the christ! Bland food, and no drinking?! What do you think I have been doing for the last week? Ripping down Mad Doggs and eating Kung Pao Chicken? I could have given me that advice. So essentially, my wife's health insurance company just wrote you a check for a couple hunny just so you could write a prescription for apple-sized immodium?! I cry foul.

It's my fault, really, for being such a man. Three times in the past week I could have bitten the bullet and gone to see this crotchety old pill-man, but I balked because I figured it would just go away with bland food and lots of Pepto. And it teased me, and teased me, but it stuck around. Right Until Wednesday, when I finally caved in, went and got these monster pills. And so I took the first dose. And guess what. It went away. One friggin' dose. But I had 9 of them left. And I "have to go through the cycle or it could mutate." So now? Baby food and seltzer for four more days. Do the math: I went to the doc on Wedensday. 5 days later is Monday. Great, I can have Coors and Salsa Picante for the friggin' Eagles Panthers game. Awesome. See that timing? Of course I had to try and work on Monday and let the Dr. appt. wait until Wedensday. Karma, kids. But more importantly...my weekend. What about my weekend?!

I don't mean this in an "I need to drink to have fun" kind of way. I don't know that the truth is far from that, but still...my universe is larger than barrooms and packed fridges, I think. But until something TOTALLY devestating like this happens, you really don't appreciate how much of a detour this puts on your weekend journey. I mean, I think we can all recall a certain post I wrote about that feeling I typically get on Fridays (hey what ever happened to those two dudes, anyway?) So of course, I have that feeling now, and, of course, my burning love for Friday Afternoon beer delight will go unrequited. So what do I do? Well, there's this great show at the Whitney ending today (see the bottom, ignore that weird hippy chick.) I could go see that. And the new Bond is out. I want to see that. Or I could read, or write. I could go to a coffee place and read or write. No I cant. Coffee's out. I could sip a water and read, or write. Ok, no reading or writing. So I will probably got to the Whitney. Or the movies.

Then there is tomorrow: annual pierogie making day at the old homestead. This is usually a fine enough event. It is something that has to be done (fueling the fire of heritage, and all) but, to be quite honest, it involves 6-10 hours of not only co-existing, but also collaborating with my mother. In other words, it is a project best supplemented by a steady flow of cold beers. No such luck. I give us two hours before the flour is flying, the pots are boiling over, my mother is crying and I am testing the validity of this warning label that says "mixing with alcohol may cause dizziness, vomitting, and death."

Saturday night? Rutgers/WVU. Great game to watch with a few brews. This time of year the better liquor stores start carrying Sam Smith's Celebration. Fantastic, right?! Not for me. I will be miserably watching the Knights BCS hopes smolder in the rain. Sober as a priest. Great!

The list goes on like this. And it gets worse. Believe it or not it gets worse!! I know, friends, I'm putting together a message board like Barbaro's where we can all commiserate over my sad lot in life, this unfair hand I've been dealt. So Monday, obviously, I am not going to celebrate my two weeks (10 days at that point) of sobreity by ripping through a gallon of Popov. It's Monday. I can't roll like that anymore. Tuesday is out. I have to be at work early Wednesday morning. Wednesday night would be great! Except, I told someone I'd give them a ride to the airport at 10! Thursday night. A round 13 days of Sobriety. Fantastic. Oh, I have to meet my parents for dinner in Gladstone. Fortunately, not into drinking and driving...anymore. Well that settles it. Friday it is. TWO friggin' weeks of sobriety, but next Friday, I am going to sit on my ass and just chug beers. What's on? NBA? College Football? College Basketball? Who cares. I'll drink and watch hockey. Oh, but there's this. My wonderful wife, as part of her new job, has a few "perks" which are almost always awesome. One of them she gets to use the Dow Jones luxury box at MSG to entertain clients. And next Friday some clients have asked for entertaining. So she asked me to join. Awesome. Free booze? great? Free food? Fantastic! Whose playing, Knicks? Rangers? Indoor Lacrosse?! A concert? Who? My Morning Jacket?! Stones? Almans?! U2? U2 is ok, I can even handle U2! UHm...what? What'd you say? I could have sworn you just said DASHBOARD CONFESSIONAL!?!! Are you kidding me? Dashboard Confessional? For serious? UGHH. I'd rather see The Dandy Warhols. Well at least there is the free cheeseburgers. And then, of course, me and beer. United at last. After two LONG weeks.

No Barkin' From the Dog, No Smog...And Momma Cooked a Breakfast with no Hog

2006-11-17T05:54:00.000-08:00

Happier Days

Alright, and we're back. Better moods. I think I woke up on the wrong side of the bed on Wednesday, although I did mean what I wrote. So, now that the nervous breakdown has subsided a little bit, let's do a little voyeurism, and talk some sports, shall we? Pull out the football, the cold brews, and the lipstick and panties. Err...just the football and cold brews'll do. First of all some sage wisdom on sports betting: don't gamble on the NFL this year. It is a tremendous waste of money. Something very odd is going on in Las Vegas this year, and something even more odd is going on with the middle fifty percentile of NFL teams. The Jets could beat the bears by 9 this weekend, or lose by three touchdowns, and frankly neither would surprise me. Conversely, the NCAA football scene has been rather predictable, aside from last weekend, where teams were letting spreads and points slip through their fingers like greased pigs. Anyway, I had a five team parlay last weekend that got tremendously botched by the Giants ATROCIOUS defense (had they kept the score under 38.5, I would be sitting at a blackjack table in AC right now, and not at my cubicle, but that's a different tragic story for a different blog.) For the sake of my marriage it is probably good I didnt end up with 1100 expendable dollars, as this will allow me to stay home and finish wallpapering tonight. For those of you who have never gotten into wallpaper, don't do it. It's a horrible, horrible thing. Somewhere on par, I imagine, with popping ludes, or tripping on bad Acid while watching In The Name of the Father (something a college roomate of mine once did, which made me permanently fearful of such activities.) I will be done bitching about condo renovations in early December, at which point I will share before and after photos, so I can stroke my man-ego for all the awesomeness I have brought into this world with a hammer, a power drill, and a paint brush.

Another thing consuming my life: MFA applications. For the sake of community chuckles, I am going to post all rejection letters in their entirety on here for us to share with delight. Some applications are already out the door, most will be out by early December. So here's the lineup, in order of desired acceptance, 1 (if I don't get in I will weep into my pillow, if I do get in, I will wonder if they didn't mix up my portfolio with somebody else's) through 9 (If I don't get in, I will scoff at their stupidity, if I do get in, I will wonder of they didn't mix up my portfolio with somebody else's.)

1. University of Houston (Advantages: Nick Flynn is a professor there, and has read some of my stuff; Tend to lean towards young, fresh, new styles; excellent faculty; good funding. Disadvantages: less than 5% acceptance rate; endless ball-sweat for three years, will need to adjust to lard being the missing block on the food pyramid. Wild Card: Was Nick's reading of my stuff positive enough to help me out? Can I live in Non-Austin Texas?)

2. University British Columbia (Advantages: Low-Res, wouldn't have to move; young, fresh, new styles; good faculty; no funding, but could work close to full-time; no move required; bi-annual trips to Vancouver. Disadvantages/Wild Card: If I was free-lancing and MFAing from home, would I really work as hard as I need to?)

3. Warren Wilson (See above, replace "Vancouver" with "Asheville")

4. University Minnesota (Advantages: Ground-breaking, definitely most willing program to take a risk on unusual styles; fantastic faculty; very good funding; if I am going to move, Minneapolis seems better than Houston or Arkansas, and they have Caribou Coffee. Disadvantages: I get cold easily; less than 5% acceptance rate; HEAVY teaching load. Wildcard: Would I like or dislike the greater reading emphasis compared to other programs? The weather in Portland depressed me...the weather here is probably worse.)

5. NYU (This would probably be tops--or close to it--except I am NEVER going to get in, so I pushed it down. Plus, I see NYU kids every week. They annoy me.)

6. Arkansas (Advantages: everyone I am reading went there; good faculty; awesome funding. Disadvantages: Arkansas. Wildcard: No, really...Arkansas.)

7. Sarah Lawrence (Advantages: proxmity; good funding. Disadvantages: Not a great faculty, more theory-based curriculum than I would like.)

8. Stone Coast (Portland, ME) (Advantages: See U.B.C., replace "Vancouver" with "Maine"; disadvantages: not very cutting-edge; lesser faculty.)

9. Stanford Fellowship* (* This doesn't really belong ninth, it is just a completely different opportunity than the rest. It does not end with a degree. However, they essentially pay you 30 Grand a year to write for yourself and extra money to teach, which is pretty amazing. Less than 1% acceptance rate. Seriously.)

So that's the deal. If I am being totally honest with myself I would say I have a decent shot at two: Stone Coast, Warren Wilson. I'd say I have an outside shot at 3: UBC, Sarah Lawrence, Houston. I'd say I have next to NO shot at 4: NYU, UM, Arkansas, Stanford. Rejection letters should be rolling in from December 1st thru early March.

You Kiddin' Me?! Some Thoughts on the Application Process:

For the life of me, I can't understand why all of these schools don't get together and have one common online application, and one common recommendation form. I understand the need for different schools to target their "statement of purpose" questions in different directions, obviously the Low-Res schools want you to talk about how independent you are, and how you would benefit from a one-on-one relationship over a workshop atmosphere, while the residency programs want you to say just the opposite. But honestly: every MFA student (9 out of 10) is seeking the degree because they just want time and space to write. That's it. Sure it makes a difference if you prefer to workshop in groups or to be a hermit and send your portfolio back and forth with a professir, but essentially, the writing sample should be (and to a certain extent is) all that matters. However, recommendations are pretty significant, which under the current system is unfortunate for two reasons. First, it favorst current undergrads over people like me...who is going to get a better recommendation? A kid who goes up to his professor after class and asks for one, or me, writing an email 3 years later, saying, hey! remember me?! wanna write me a recommendation?! And then, the fact is, the professors have to write between 5 and 10 different versions of the recommendation. It is stupid and foolish.

I understand that studying for the LSATs and the GMATs, etc. is extremely difficult and taxing. However, I will NEVER be convinced that the waiting period (between appliaction send-off, and notification) is more nail-biting for any program than it is for an MFA, whether it be visual art, or Creative Writing. I mean, with Law School, you can look at the GPA and LSAT scores of the recent enrollees, and at least get an idea of what your chances are. With MFA it is totally subjective. Most schools have a 3 person reading panel, who spend an hour or so each with between 10 and 20 pages of what you "think" is your best work, and you have to hope one of two things happen: all 3 of them think it is great or 2 of them think it is great, one of whom loves it so much he/she is willing to lobby the others for you. Say, that EVERY reader agrees on 4 or 5 writers whom they think are cream of the crop. That leaves about 10 slots open, and you have to hope that out of a couple hundred writing samples, yours is one of the ten that catches just one readers' eyes enough that they feel confident putting their judgment on the line to lobby for you. Half of these spots will be filled because 2 of the readers will be female readers, minority readers, or gay readers who read a sympathetic voice that they love (sorry to bring sex, and race into this, but it's a factor, as in all things...readers identify with writers for a number of reasons. An oversexual, drunken, hopelessly white slob of a professor, who loves boxing, and talking about women's legs might read my poetry and shit himself with glee. Lets hope.) Good, so there's five spots. Now you have a few hundred applicants to fill five spaces. And you have to hope that for WHATEVER reason, someone whom has never met you, and is reading a minute fragment of your life's work, latches on to something in your writing that they feel so strongly about that they fight to get you in. And the most grueling part? You have your sample on your desktop every day for the next 3+ months, and every day you will look at it, and think of a way it could have been improved. I'm already appalled with half the stuff I sent. And yet, the way this process works, that could be the stuff that gets me into one of the better programs, and laughed out of one of the lesser. 9 Rejections wouldn't surprise me. More than 2 would. But if it is going to be one or two? I couldn't take a stab in the dark at which 1 or 2 it would be. Depends which side of the bed my readers wake up on I suppose.

Not Sure What it all Means, But Dont it all Mean Somethin'?

2006-11-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

Brutal Fuckin Honesty Disclosure: This entry will have little or nothing to do with sports. It is much more likely to focus on personal, narcissistic concerns. File under "posts I write for myself, because the alternative would be for me to harp on them ceaselessly until my wife leaves me." Take it or leave it. Read it or don't.

I am really beginning to question whether I have it: whatever it is that allows one to make it from day-job desk jockey who writes on his own time, to someone who dedicates his life to the trade. I am not sure I have whatever Maurice Manning had when he sent away a chapbook of poetry to Southeastern MFA programs, hoping someone would take a chance on him, let alone whatever Jimmi Santiago Bacca had to make it from life-long failure, to poet icon; whatever Bill Simmons had that allowed him to struggle from an unemployed cult-web-hero to a writer so well revered that it has actually become popular now to hate him, or whatever Will Leitch had that allowed him to go from being a self-effacing so-pathetic-its-cute blogger, to being king of the Underworld, as ESPN would have it. It's not that this is the goal, per se, and in my own personal world, something more akin to what Maurice Manning has done with his life, sounds ultimately more fulfilling, and more in-line with my own goals, than watching hours of TiVo and writing about my favorite teams or finding compromising pictures of College Football QBs on the internet. In fact, I've been reading alot of Leitch's original blog and I'd venture to say if he had his druthers, he'd be doing something that requires a little more insightful creativity, and a little less rumor-milling, and humor-pandering. And judging by Simmons' recent hints at retiring from Page 2 for a career in film-writing, it seems that his aspirations reach for slightly more intellect as well. But I digress.

The thing is, I really cannot downplay the significant toll that the 9-5 takes on one's ability to create, to formulate thoughts, cohesively draw them together, and make something entirely original, or at least consciously aware of its precedents, and yet aiming for something unique. This is not to say it is impossible, nor is it to say that my job is particularly draining. It's not. There is no complaint here, but rather, perhaps unadultarated honesty. Perhaps I am just not that dedicated, or perhaps my well has been tapped. Perhaps--I am horrified to say--a reading of a prize-winning short story at an awards banquet in college, is as far as this alleyway goes. Perhaps I don't have what ever it takes to make it from that (fairly common) level of output, to the level to which I once aspired. Perhaps, I don't have what it takes to say, "sure I like my job, and sure, my office is a peaceful place, but I don't want to spend my life researching other people's accomplishments, or pretending to research other people's accomplishments while I putz around on friends' and acquaintances' blogs. I want other people to research my accomplishments." It is an ugly thing to admit, I suppose, and terribly narcissistic, that my goal is to know that I have left some kind of legacy. And I am not talking about 4 or 5 penguin classics on a shelf, or even one great poem read from obscure poetry collections by those in the know (though I wouldn't complain about these things.) Rather, I am talking about looking back at my work, or having others look back at my work, and feel that it was an actual contribution to an era of writing, that it was an origina; voice of that era, or that it at least was unique to its time, and honest to its author. I am not so sure I have what it takes to accomplish that task with sincerity. To write--and to make it a priority to write--honestly about what this is I am going through, whatever this is to be 24 in America, in this America, or at least my version of this America. To drive myself further into debt trying just to make it writing about an indebted generation. Or do I cut myself off from everything that is involved in a morning commute, a rushed cup of coffee, and headphones in the office, when really it is the commute, the coffee, and the headphones that define my entire experience in this universe right now?

I woke up today in my new condo, next to my new wife, and with my new dog. I went to my old job, stared at my old computer screen, and read through emails from old friends. I started the day within the same five minutes I start everyday, more-or-less (7:27-7:32) then checked my email for MFA info, and to see what friends had to say, and looked at the same 4 websites I look at each morning, in order: espn.com, cnn.com, popmatters.com, deadspin.com. I spent my day fluctuating between researching book entrants for my job (Brandon Webb, Bobby Knight, Manny Acta, Daisuke Matsuzaka) and checking my email, or looking at random websites. I ate a salad for lunch, alone. I left as soon as I could, drove home into the overcast city, walked my dog and came home to a quiet house. Wondered, what the fuck am I doing? I know. I know. I can't complain about the new house. I can't complain about being married to a woman who honestly I would have no business picking up at a bar in the city if we were strangers and met there this weekend. I have no right to complain about the dog, even though in a fit of temper he ran into the lot across the street, got a shard of glass in his foot, and is now running around with his feet in bandages and a giant cone on his head. Nah, I can't complain about all of that. And I can't really complain about my job, which at times is frustrating, but at the very least is an honest way to make a buck while reading about sports-related news half the time.

But, to borrow a phrase from 34% of broadcasted sporting events, this "wasn't the way I drew it up." I can't recall the last time I sat with a cup of coffee, or a cold beer, a pen and a journal and just threw my thoughts onto paper. In fact, most of my writing these days is done in moments of random inspiration, rushed into Word format or onto my blog (usually just depending on whether the creative output is sports-related, or intellectual) while looking over my shoulder in the office. This is the first moment I have spent on my own writing, and all I can think about is how hard it has become to write, to find inspiration, to feel the need to purge something haunting, sick, vile, wonderful, or inspiring. How--if I could just afford to, mentally, and financially, stop working--maybe I would have that time...but then what would there be to write about? I have looked to every corner for inspiration, to poetry, to music, to film. And then I found myself putzing around on Leitch's old site and came across this. First of all, it is refreshing to see someone who has made it, speaking in a voice totally lacking in confidence. I am not sure how close Leitch's mindset was when he wrote this to that of my own right now, but it sure seems like he is questioning his own motivation and determination. Secondly, it points to a much larger reality here: there are thousands, no, probably millions of people out there trying to make it in one artisistic fashion or another, and finding themselves increasingly frustrated with failed attempts at recognition, or worse: the paralysis of self-consciousness, which tells us we aren't worthy of aiming for such lofty goals. "Not quite good enough. Haven't quite got it. Try the 9-5." But what I love most about Leitch's post, is, he is willing to admit that for him the goal is a legacy, in his case, some kind of notereity, and he is willing to expose himself to all of the cynicism that is certain to garner. And yet, he doesn't give a shit, because he knows the trial he is going through is one that pushes his limits, and he wants a reward for that. And sure, with twenty-twenty hindsight, it is easy to see how this youthful arrogance is now obfuscated by his success, and these proclomations come across as noble determination as opposed to idealism at best, and self-seriousness at worst. But who cares if that is one of Leitch's faults, and who cares if Leitch exposes a desire in this post that is dangerous for the creative mind to expose. I find it hard to believe that anyone creating ANYTHING doesn't hope in their deepest heart-of-hearts, that they garnish some recognition for it. I don't think anyone writes, or paints, or creates music, for their creation to be blown away in the wind, or burned, and sent heavenwards, as some type of spiritual connection to be made eternally with and for themselves, and never for others.

I don't know what is going to become of my writing. I don't know if it is even good enough to get me into an MFA, if it is orginal enough for me to make it as a viable published writer, or if it is just crap meant to fill journals, be hashed out at my kids birthdays and weddings, read at my funeral when I die toiling away in futility. I don't pretend that my writing is anything spectacularly unique, or that I don't need a hell of alot more focus, time, and probably luck to make whatever I write any more worthy of critical success than the shit you find scribbled in any other 20-somethings journals, or on any one's blog. I also refuse pretend that I don't want it to be something bigger than it is, that publishing once or twice every few months in small-circulation poetry journals is satisfaction enough for me. I know for sure I have the stubborn pererverance it takes to try, and try, and fail, and try again. I just don't know that I necessarily have within my writers' soul whatever it is that all that trying is aiming to accomplish. I don't care in the end if I look back and say, "well I did my best and failed" because I don't want to ever admit my best is a failure. But maybe it is. Still, I don't care if it makes me cocky, brash, or a downright self-obsessed prick to believe that this can't be so. And I don't give a shit if it makes me narcisstic to want to want to end this post right now, and write something that isn't written entirely for me (and the five other people who started reading this...and perhaps two or three who have made it this far.) I don't care what it makes me, that I take it upon myself to pour a cup of coffee, find somewhere quiet and write. I don't care at all what you think about me, and what I write. Only I do care...tremendously.

On Coaches Long Gone, and Vindication NOW!

2006-11-12T19:17:00.000-08:00

Brother, can you spare a dime?

Well that was a little bit anti-climactic. The Jets beat the patriots for the firt time in eight tries in the quagmire that was Foxboro Stadium, today. And well, to be perfectly honest, I am not really sure how. Nobody played particularly well, outside of one great catch by Jericho Cotchery. I guess Mangini coached pretty well, but basically, I think the Jets won for two reasons: Brady's o-line left him exposed way too often (some credit should go to the Jets D line for that) and Bill Belichick sort of seemed like he was just in a rush to dry out his sweatsuit, win or lose. (Seriously, can we all chip in and buy this guy some new gear? I know the stupid rules in the NFL stipulate he has to wear liscensed team gear, but outside of wearing this I really can't imagine the dude rocking anything more obnoxious than the fupafying sweat suit.) I don't really know what I expected the firt win against the Patriots in forever to feel like. I didn't think I'd be cracking open champagne bottles or anything, but I certainly thought I would be pumped up, and I also thought it would be one of those games, as they say, where "the team with the ball last wins." Instead, I was just wondering aloud why the hell they had to lose to the friggin' Browns to weeks ago. Because had they won that game, I would be legitimately wondering on this blog, and in the ear of anyone willing to listen, if the Jets might just be a bona fide team. But they can't be. Too inconsistent. Essentially, this game was a gift from Bill Belichick. A weak after John Madden questioned where the Pats run game was, Belichick seemed determined to prove to John and others that he really didn't need it. The game started with Corey Dillon running downhill on the Jets pitiful run D, and ended with Belichick inexplicably calling pass play after pass play, despite the fact that Brady couldn't find any semblance of timing. Other than a big day out of CrazyEyes Caldwell basically nobody on the Patriots seemed interested in playing the game. If this blog is a bit boring and contrite, well, so was the game. I am still trying to figure out how the Jetties won that game. I mean, it isnt like they deserved to lose. But they didn't really dedserve to win. All in all, I am reserving judgment and/or predictions on this team until after I see what they can do with the Bears on Sunday.

Dice-K and the 42Million Dollar Conversation-Starter

It is expected that some time today the official announcement will be made that the Red Sox won the bidding for Japanese Gyroballer, Daisuke Mastsuzaka. The winning bid, just for the rights to talk to Matsuzaka's agent (Scott Boras) was supposedly 42 mil. This is absurd. I am not going to get all righteous and say that this is Yankees-baseball, and that winning this way is less satisfying than winning the way that the A's and Minnesota win (with actual talent evaluation, and trade analysis) but I am a little disappointed. I mean, I could personally care less how John Henry spends his money, and theoretically, as long as the Sox stay under the cap, they are playing "fair." But A) this is an ABSURD amount of money to change hands just for the right to talk to a guy who's never pitched in the Majors. and B) it is quite frankly more fun to root for a guy like Liriano (especially when you got him in a trade for AJ Pierzinsky) than it is to root for a guy when you team pays more than some teams payrolls just to start the conversation. I think the guy has nasty stuff (from his numbers, from what I can track down on Youtube, and from the WBC start I saw in February) so I look forward to rooting for him in a Sox uniform. I'm just not convinced this was the best use of 42 million dollars. Then again, as some poster on SoSH pointed out, that's really only Carl Pavano money, so I shouldn't complain.