Real Simple Magazine

In the spirit of the site's name, I write about another completely random subject. While urinating at home today, my glance settled upon the stack of magazines that sit atop my toilet. Place squarely on the top was the latest issue of Real Simple magazine. The layout so crisp, clean, and organized was striking in it's contrast to the myriad of magazines that shout obnoxiously to the onlookers, "pick me up!". The plain white paper stock is a bit thicker than expected, and surprisingly has a matte finish. The font is plain, and the titles more than adequately spaced, while the featured graphics are few and unobstructed. No more aptly had a cover ever conveyed the tone of the material within. Collectively, the effect had an impact on me, and left me asking myself what seemed like an interesting question; "I wonder what percentage of their subscriber-base reads this magazine because they are attempting to achieve the ideal that is represented, and what percentage are drawn to the magazine because they find the idea of such a pursuit quaint?". There is surely a significant divide between these two types of people, and I find this to be an interesting, if unlikely, coalition. If the publishers are out there, I wish they would pull that statistic for me.

Why Has Sean Taylor's Death Resonated So Strongly With Redskins Fans?

On the Taylor thing, here it is. Sean Taylor is the single can't miss player we've ever had. Even back in the glory days, the Skins never had a guy like him. We always had these guys who strung a season together on a few lucky deep bombs to Gary Clark, or Ricky Sanders. On defense, we had some names, but they weren't phenoms, guys who were freaks (a college graduate who can't read but can sniff half of Columbia through his nose doesn't count). Sean Taylor was that for us and more. He was an icon that said, "perhaps we too deserv to have a freak on our team, a guy who shouldn't be able to do what he does". For the first time, we had a guy who inspired awe in men who had been the focus of that same kind of sports-fan awe their entire lives. Now, that is impressive. With Sean there was the hope that no matter how bad things got, we at least had a guy in our defensive backfield who would make a quarterback double-clutch, a receiver double-take, and an opposing crowd wince just before the crash cart was rolled out. I guess Sean Taylor was our ounce of respect in the age of Danny.
Clearly Sean was no angel, but the guy by all accounts was cleaning up his act, and was no dummy. This year he finally really lived up to his potential. He was leading the league in picks, wasn't making any rookie mistakes, and seemed to be the glue that hung the defense together. He went down with a knee injury, but we all knew that was only a temporary bump in the road for our young phenom. But then we all heard the news. He wasn't out at a club, or chasing someone with machete (okay, maybe he was). He was at home, doing his thing, and someone broke in his house and shot him. I think my buddy Justin put it best when he left me a message that day saying, "Someone killed are baby John. They broke in his house and killed our baby." Sean Taylor was our baby. He was our baby in that he represented the hopes and dreams of the franchise. He was all the things we couldn't be, or have during our years as skins fans. Maybe we should listen to all the Christian conservative nut-jobs and get back to our biblical roots. Its been a while since I've seen such a justification for a public stoning. The Danny could even sell it on pay per view. What do you think?


Technorati Tags: Sean Taylor, Professional Athletes, Murder, Redskins, Miami

MLB Steroid Probe Comes to Conclusion

I'd like to point out that the current "steroid probe" is an excellent metaphor for what plagues our society; a chasm that exists between what we say and what we do. What do I mean? I mean the speed limit on most streets hasn't been recognized outside of a blizzard since there were horsedrawn carriages, the bathroom cabinets of nearly every house in suburbia contain marijuana, and the people who landscaped my backyard weren't Mexican...they were Guatemalan. What I'm saying is that things have gotten out of hand here. Print me 10,000 t-shirts with bright red text shouting "Athletes on Steroids Are Better". Don't worry, this business won't be a flash in the pan. I'll follow it up with "Hank Aaron was on speed - Asterisk".


Technorati Tags: MLB, Steroid, Baseball, Probe, Black Market

Sonny Lubick is Fired

I was asked the question, "How did Sonny Lubick get fired" from friends who live outside of Colorado. My response:
You know sports fans. They eat their young. Seriously. I realized it in it's sheer brutality when playing soccer this summer on an adjacent field to a football practice. We're talking about 10 year old kids, all jacked up on deer's blood smackin' the tears out of each other while their fathers shout expletives at them. Now, apply that lizard-brain behavior to Colorado State's coaching situation. You think the thought, "Before Lubick I didn't even know CSU had a football team...maybe we still have a good thing here," ever crossed the great divide between their shrunken lobes? I think not. And so now they'll embrace coach Fairchild, as an alumn with NFL pedigree, who they forget is known for inventing the "I run the draw on every 3'rd and long play" strategy. The water will quickly chill for Lubick's replacement who is simply a vehicle for creating the nostalgia and legend of the eminent coach. 'Tis the way of the world my friend.


Technorati Tags: Sonny Lubick, Fired, Steve Fairchild, Colorado State, Football

From the Vault

If you've spent any time reading this blog you already know that my writing comes in fits and starts. At times I'm prolific. At others, writing isn't even considered. More often though, I think of ideas I'd love to put to paper, but don't. So, in an effort to bridge the gap, I'm back with Writings from the Vault. What follows are a few things I put together a while back in varying states of completeness.

Dianetics Jacket

It was one of those silky-looking jackets that you’d expect to have a Chicago Bears logo on the back, or something like that. Even so, it would have been exceedingly tacky and would be owned by muscle-car drivers alone. More commonly, such a jacket would be adorned by a US Marines insignia, or even the logo of the owner’s favorite dojo. But in this case, it simply said, “Dianetics”, writ large in red across the back. There was no explanation, no context, and no slogan to accompany the term displayed on the back of the black jacket. So, I guess this begs more than a few questions. Not least of these questions is WHERE ON EARTH DID THIS MAN ACQUIRE SUCH AN ODDITY?!! Is this the sort of thing given out at your standard scientology meetings? Is there a catalog? If so, could we expect to find a similar “piece” in “TomKat’s” proverbial closet? Or would they have a more elaborate Orange County version, replete with diamond studs upon fine Chinese silk? I can’t decide which is more impressive. I’m sure future generations will view each with equal curiosity, as I do. Yet another question is, when this man put that coat on this morning, what was going through his head? I don’t say this in the obvious pop-culture sense, but with complete honestly. Was this man a) thinking perhaps “my brash support for my much-maligned faith will provide others with the courage to follow in my footsteps, b) “damn I look good in shiny black clothing”, or c) “I’m cold and I need a jacket.” If I weren’t so scared of people who think they are aliens living within some human host, I may have asked him. Then again, maybe its best that I keep my distance from alien parasites.

Film in Flight

How blatantly inconsiderate is it for the airline industry to ruin the whole medium of film by playing movies during flights? No, I’m not referring to the watered-down mainstream nature of their selections (though that is consistently frustrating. Ever flown internationally, where “Home Alone 3” is the only apparent stimuli to be experienced inside this metal box at 30,000 feet?) No, instead I’m talking about the whole practice of playing films silently. The airline is effectively giving you two options, a) Pay some nominal amount to view the selected feature under the worst movie-going conditions imaginable, or b) Have that film ruined for you forever by displaying the movie pictures, sans sound, ending and all. Perhaps it would be bearable if they offered a third option of a Delta brand THC tablet to accompany the flick. At least then you would have the opportunity to create your own uniquely inventive dialogue, replete with non-label specific soundtrack. In the absence of what would be “option C” the airlines exhibit the same inconsiderate nature as Marie Antoinette and the producers of Home Alone 3. If only my airline served cake.

Southern Comfort

Everyone in the South is fat. No, this isn’t an original thought and I’m sure you’ve all heard it before, but its nonetheless true. It almost seems to be a self-reinforcing system, where the inhabitants of this area are so desensitized to obesity that they are destined to resemble it. On the face of the choices it’s a far more enjoyable than the alternative... restraint. Of course we’d all choose indulgence without consequence, which is effectively how we make choices when you consider the lack of foresight attached to any decision whatsoever in this country. To further belabor this point, that the sheer number of obese people seen day in and day out desensitize Southerners, notice that this phenomenon crosses all traditional borders of our societal boulebez. White Southerners, fat. Black Southerners, obese. Poor Southerners, sweaty fat, yet in some instances linked by marriage to nearly anorexic tank-top enthusiasts. Rich Southerners, stately fat. Truly, the only two characteristics that link Southerners is their latitude and their apparent comfort with being fat. Oh yeah, and their accents.

Music Insecurity (part of this story was adapted into Insecurity at the Disco)

Insecurity seems to be at the root of a great deal of human behavior. What we buy, what we say, and the quality of our hand towels are all manifestations of our own insecurities one way or another. This fact is not new, and I suppose it dates back to the inception of self-awareness. However, the artifacts of this insecurity have a tendency to evolve over time (as I’m only 28, this assertion could be completely baseless). That being said, I can’t think of a more acute demonstration of individual insecurity than the music collections of me and my contemporaries. Think of it. What could be more terrifying than providing a stranger with unfettered access to your music collection? What would this stranger think of the innocent mistakes of my youth? Could I explain my ownership of a Vanessa Williams CD before my audience began to daydream as to the nature of the heads in my refrigerator, or on the possibility that I live in a house adorned with Trapper Keepers? In such cases a simple, “I thought she was hot” is your only shot. Attempting a nuanced argument on how the woman introduced you to the concept of M.I.L.F would simply take too long and perhaps scare your acquaintance into a prejudicial 911 call. To avoid such calamities, we often take great pains to cleanse that portion of our music collections that are not meant for public consumption. Away goes that first Destiny’s Child album, Cooley High Harmony, and every Christmas album you’ve ever purchased. If that were the end of the revision of your public taste, it could be credibly argued that this corner of self demonstrated human insecurity was no worse an example than say the number of “show pillows” owned in the average American household. But, the show must go on in order to paint a proper version of ourselves to others. Enter the entire genre of alt-anything. By definition its different, yet based on an established and widely accepted body of work. Christ, now that I think of it, the existence of alt genres more aptly defines our society than anything else on this planet that readily comes to mind. Its like a person who can’t swim standing in the 4-5 foot area of the pool all day. We all long to be viewed as risk-takers without actually having to take a risk, like James Dean with an air bag. Don’t let this straightforward explanation fool you into thinking accomplishing the look of a thoughtful music collection is easy. Its not. Just the opposite, its intensely difficult, as each of us are hip to the same idea and working tirelessly towards the same end. Not only carefully choosing music in our public collection, but laying thinly veiled hints at the iceberg of music knowledge that must lay just beneath the surface. Just like anything we hold out to be worthwhile, it must be exclusionary, resulting in only those in the highest percentile ever achieving the desired recognition, “Man, you really have great taste in music. Will you burn me a CD someday?”.

Addendum

How has the age of digital music made this exercise at once made this exercise more easy and more difficult.

• Easier - “I must have gotten a mislabeled track from Napster.”
• Easier - How digital file storage make hidden wings of your music collection simpler.
• Harder - Widely available access to playlists created by those who actually DO have good taste in music.
• Harder - Everyone has a slew of alt band tracks, so now the music actually has to be good to score points.

Harder - The sheer size of music collections makes only a random sampling possible for those holding the role of judge, jury and social executioner. As a result, the collection must be equally varied and consistent

If You're Going To Get A Tattoo...

...have someone who knows what the fuck they're doing perform the tattooing. I've seen one too many "jailhouse" tattoos on professional athletes. I've had it. If you're going to get the state of Texas on your arm, have someone with an idea of scale help you out (that means you Deron Williams). Don't be confused. I'm not saying that I dislike tattoos on professional athletes. There are many people that assume that if a player has tattoos, he must be a bad person. I disagree, and think the idea is idiotic, if not patently racist, but if you treat your body like a permanent canvas with the potential to define who you are as a human being, then don't let your buddy who can't draw the state of Colorado do your tattoos. If it's an issue of money, because god knows tattoos aren't cheap, then save your damn money. Remember, this shit is PERMANENT. If you can't afford to have a good tattoo artist do the work, my guess is you can't afford to have the shit removed either. If all else fails, you absolutely need a tatto, and for some odd reason you need to have it done before you can save up the cash (all I can think of here is gang affiliation or the death of a homey), then at least choose the potsmoker buddy over the speed addict unless your idea of art is an Etch-a-Sketch on meth. Further amusement at BadTattoos.com


Technorati Tags: Tattoos, Professional Athletes, Deron Williams, Tattoo Removal, Bad Tattoos

"Children Of Men"

The thin veneer of society over human nature or let's get it o-ooon? I had a similar idea for a screenplay a few years ago based on the idea that some technology, pervasive in the developed world, suddenly causes infertility. As the realization of the finality of their civilization sets in, order deteriorates, and those in the developing world are faced for the first time with choices on how their society should move forward. Will the better part of human nature prevail in order to create a more-perfect future society, or will our most base instincts lead to the eventual destruction of the human race.

Alas, I never wrote the screenplay that could have been a terrific vehicle for any number of philosophical questions on the nature of humanity, and it's relationship with both the earth and technology. However, some clever writer did (for the record, a novel published in 1992, with a bit of a different slant. "Children of Men" is set in the not so distant future, where people for some inexplicable reason have lost the ability to procreate. In the absence of a an overarching purpose, the biological imperative, the fragile social contract of the citizenry relinquishing a certain amount of freedom in return for order, breaks down. The world's cities deteriorate into chaos, and only a small part of England maintains some semblance of order. An island of order amongst the ruin of society, the issue of immigration is primary, pitting a totalitarian government lead by the nose of Homeland Security is pitted against rebel groups fighting for the equal treatment of all people. What follows is a story set amongst a society whose devalued human life, because it's just a matter of time. The result is a thoroughly depressing movie, that is sure to shock, and produce angst in the audience. Does the human race have a hope? Of course it does, ,or else it wouldn't be a movie, it would be a Frontline documentary.

Michael Caine is downright funny as an ex-political cartoonist hippy living out in the woods, and Clive Owen is always good. The movie is captivating in the way it keeps you on the edge of your despairing seat, but the only question is, does the denouement makeup for all the damn angst this movie puts you through?


Technorati Tags: Children of Men, Infertility, Clive Owen, Michael Cane, Movies

Allen Iverson as Clinton Portis

Like many basketball fans in Denver, I was ecstatic when I heard Allen Iverson had been acquired by the Nuggets. The city has lacked an athlete of his stature since the retirement of John Elway. On the court, Iverson has been electric, not only scoring the expected bunches of points, but distributing the ball at will to his teammates for easy assists.

But Iverson's value to this city goes beyond his on the court talents. Iverson is certainly intense, sometimes eccentric, and arguably a difficult player to coach. It's the eccentricity, exuberant eccentricity, that I believe will be the lasting image in the minds of Denver sports fans. His press conferences make great theater, sometimes drifting into a tangent on a barely recognizable metaphor for competition. The term "warrior" is a staple of these tangents, which in the world of sports is never a good thing (see Kellen Winslow Jr.). His interview with Stephen A. Smith on his way out of Philly was an instant classic (I wish I had video of this...please post a link if you do). Stephen A. Smith played this ridiculous word-play game, where Smith would suggest a word or a phrase and ask for Iverson's one word response. One exchange went something like this:

Stephen A. Smith: "Allen Iverson."
Allen Iverson: "Killer."
Stephen A. Smith: "Carmelo Anthony."
Allen Iverson: "Killer."
Stephen A. Smith: "Allen Iverson...with Carmelo Anthony."
Allen Iverson (stone faced): "Double killer."

It doesn't get much funnier than that. Allen Iverson, dead serious, responds with "double killer". I want to party with this guy.

However, this eccentricity has other manifestations, such as his desire to in his words, "bring some style" in being the first Nuggets player to ever wear yellow socks. Adding, "They would have already been brought", Iverson seemed surprised it hadn't been done before. Finding that yellow socks were unavailable, Iverson simply mummified his ankles in bright yellow tape. With antics like that, Iverson is like a more intense, not gay, version of Clinton Portis. And with that, Allen Iverson has the opportunity to make professional sports in Denver fun again. Oh, and it doesn't hurt that he has 42 points and 9 assists with 6:22 left in the 4th quarter of tonight's game.


Additional thought: Wouldn't it be entertaining to schedule one NBA game per team per season in which the players could wear anything they deemed appropriate as long as their standard uniform was a part of the ensemble? I'd love see your responses on what you think certain players would wear in such a game. I'll start off with a suggestion that Allen Iverson might just wear a grey hooded sweatshirt that looks like it was borrowed from Bill Belichek's closet. He wouldn't even have to wear that goofy sleave thing he wears on his right arm.

Technorati Tags: Allen Iverson, Clinton Portis, Stephen A. Smith, Bill Belichick, NBA Uniforms

Christmas Eve Eve

I'm doing a little home building research and I finally got sick of the healing light infomercial that came on after the basketball game (Florida vs Ohio St.), featuring that douche from "Heart to Heart". I thought I'd find a Christmas show to put on in the background for my wife to wrap gifts to. Unbelievably, at 4 pm on Christmas Eve Eve, I was only able to find a single show on the hundreds of channels we have with the word Christmas in it. Is O'Reilly right? Have the liberals killed Christmas? Of course not, the capitalists killed Christmas, and I couldn't care less. The new version is more fun anyway. Call me a hedonist if you like, but I'm enjoying the one Christmas show on...a cartoon full of Caucasian middle-easterners in a re-enactment of the baby Jesus story...on the Black Family Channel. What could be more entertaining?

Immovable Object

We finally dug out. Last night a team of Bobcats pulled into our apartment complex like a scene out of War of the Worlds, odd overhead lights illuminating rapid, somewhat ominous, movements. In short order, a path had been cleared roughly one and a half times the width of a car. Unfortunately, this path did not adjoin our garage.

The next morning I decided it was time to dig out. It wouldn't be easy. Fifteen feet stood between my garage and the mechanically cleared path. At a depth of greater than three feet, I was looking at a good bit of work.

Thirty minutes later, I was halfway there. I decided to take a breather, and spread salt over the area I had cleared. After a short break, I pushed on, and was able to finish the second half in less than twenty minutes.

Later that day we went out. It was an adventure to be out and about after two and a half days spent couped up in a one bedroom apartment with two dogs. We drove all over the place, checked the status of our new home construction, went to lunch, and saw a movie. All along, I was taking every opportunity to test out the "four wheel" in four-wheel drive. My wife drives a 2007 Yukon, which happens to be largest car I've ever driven. The weight of it alone calls for driving directly through snowbanks. It was a good time, seeing how far I could push it before my wife was driven to clutching the ample armrest.

The movie was a great mental escape. We saw "The Pursuit of Happiness", which was inspirational, if only for the number of miles covered by Will Smith while making the film. Seriously, the guy is ALWAYS running in this movie, and usually in a suit.

The parking lot was a sheet of ice. Walking towards the car, I was spending a good deal of energy making sure I didn't fall on my ass. My wife apparently had more confidence in her footing, as she was the first to point out...the immovable object. There, sitting on our tailgate, through the trip to the house, to the restaurant for lunch, and finally to the movies, was that container of salt. It was just your standard cylinder of Morton's salt, blue wrapper, white top. Or was it? How the hell does something like that stay on nothing more than a bumper through such conditions? I can only hope someone in traffic took a quick photo of the event to post on the internet with a caption of "Ghetto Salt Truck". Regardless of it's effect on the road conditions, I'm convinced it was a Christmas miracle.

Big Snow = Big Food

Today I'm the victim, or beneficiary of, cabin fever. When I woke up this morning, we probably had four inches or so of snow, but the forecasters were calling for 2 to 3 feet in the next forty-eight hours. Word was, the CFO was in the office. So, the precedent was set, and while my wife lay pajama'd in bed, I got ready for work. On went the layers, packed was the backpack, and out the door I went. The conditions were not comfortable. Living in Colorado, I've learned that snow isn't a big deal. Snow blowing at 40 miles an hour is.

I was on the highway, nearly enjoying the feeling of adventure that accompanies venturing out in a severe storm, a trailblazer facing the elements...in my luxury SUV, when I received a call from someone in the office. Word had just come down from the COO's office, that the building would be closed due to the inclement weather. Freed from the shackles of capitalist cubedom, I made a right turn at the next exit, vectoring the nearest super market. We were about to be snowed in, which can mean only one thing. We're going to need more snacks.

I pulled up to the local Safeway, which we now live behind while our new house is being built (the cause for my extreme dereliction of duty in respect to this blog), to find a smattering of locals getting in on the tail-end of a pre-storm shopping frenzy. These runs generally see the emptying of shelves once filled with practical items, such as bottled water (a woman behind me purchased 13 two gallon jugs of the stuff), milk, bread, and eggs. The staples. I had less nutritious items in mind. I started with the standard cake donut variety pack, moved onto the movie-theater style popcorn, and finished off the list with some high-end potato chips.

Perhaps my behavior is rooted in the collection of instincts that have served the survival of man for thousands of years? Like a big ol' Kodiak bear, I was gathering supplies on which I could fatten, and hibernate throughout the long winter. Then again, I could just be using the storm as an excuse to eat a lot of shit I wouldn't be able to justify in the same week, let alone the same day.

Regardless, I had a bit of each or more. Donuts were the first course, providing the sustenance required to get through an early conference call with a couple people also working from home, and a colleague located in sunny Buenos Aires. I almost envied him, enjoying a warm sunny day South of the equator, but was he eating a donut in his pajamas? I think not.

The second course accompanied a movie we ordered, "Unknown", about five guys who wake up in an old locked-down chemical plant, all with amnesia, and all wondering what part they played in an apparent kidnapping plot. While slow, the premise was certainly interesting, the acting was rather strong, and the chips lived up to expectations. These weren't those cheap-ass Ruffles, where your mental refrain of joy for the first five chips is followed by disdain for the next five. These were that brand with the lighthouse on the front of the bag, crispy, and sodium-packed.

From there, we opened up the food groups a bit, with a solid layout of club crackers, sharp cheddar cheese, and sliced summer sausage. I have to point out here that I'm not a huge fan of summer sausage. In fact, I'm convinced that it's only considered edible due to a concerted campaign by red states. But...it was a snowday. And, a snowday wouldn't be a snowday without an anything goes mentality. Down they went.

Never done, I worked up my snowday appetite by watching TV and playing some video games, while my wife handled some conference calls and got some work done. It was dinner time at this point, and we needed some animal protein. I threw on some fajitas we prepared at a place called Dinner in a Pinch, which I highly recommend. Needless to say, we chowed.

I later rounded the night out with a large mug of hot chocolate, and another donut. Some might read this and feel sick for me, given both the volume and extreme variety of my snowday menu, but as I was raised, anything less would be shameful. Much breath and airtime has been wasted in recent years discussing the erosion of our culture, and the importance of traditionalism, citing subjects such as the emergence of gay marriage, and the ethical dilemma of abortion. Well, that stuff is all bullshit. There are traditions we need to worry about looking after, that deserve more attention, like building a fire on a moonlit beach surrounded by 40's of Old English, and empty cans of Natural Light, or trying to lower your sister down the side of the house in a laundry basket, and yes...eating your ass off when you're snowed in.


Technorati Tags: Denver, Snow, Junk Food, American Traditions

Gameday Boncho

I think we can all agree that spectator sports and the pursuit of ultimate comfort go hand in hand. We've all heard reports of the decadence that has been acheived. It goes far beyond an excess of finger food, Lay-z-boy recliners, and ridiculously large televisions. On gameday, dedicated sports fans attempt to maximize caloric intake while minimizing metabolic rates by maintaining a sedintary position on oversized sectional couches. I've had friends take measures to the outer-limit, wearing adult diapers on New Year's day in order to watch every minute of every bowl game. It's a bit extreme, but effectively illustrates the length's to witch sports fans will go.

To this end I bring you the "gameday boncho". Never again will you worry about having a blanket on your leather chaise lounge to maximize comfort. Nor will you be left to wonder which piece of team paraphanelia to wear when your favorite team is competing. To experience the comfort and pride of the gameday boncho, simply follow the steps below:

1. Visit your local Target, and select their most comfortable white blanket (look for something with the qualities of a baby blanket). An optimal size would be ten feet in length.
2. Fold the blanket in half, and cut a 9" semi-circle in the middle of the folded edge.
3. On one side of the blanket, draw your jersey number with a black Sharpie.
4. On the other side, sew on various patches that represent your favorite sports teams.
5. Put your head through the hole, ensuring that the number is placed on your back, consume exorbitant amounts of cheese-based snacks without fear of dripping on your clothing, and watch as much football as possible.

I'll be adding a photo of my boncho once construction is complete.

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

Esera Tuaolo was the first NFL football player to publicly come out of the closet, but after carefully utilizing my well-calibrated gay-dar, I've decided that he won't be the last. Let me point out that I have absolutely nothing against homosexuals. They're generally more interesting than straight people and as Will & Grace dramatized, they play a vital role in economic re-development. I'm just interested in pointing out some particularly extroverted flamboyant behavior in the most macho of sports. Below is a list of players in the NFL who I've identified as gay, and the evidence I have to support this claim:

• Clinton Portis - To prove I'm not a homophobe, I've started the list with one of my favorite players, and creator of the alter egos Southeast Jerome, Sherrif Gonna Getcha, Dr. "I don't know", and of course, Dollah Bill (see more on his alter egos here). Off the field, he buys wigs, performs in front of cameras, and sometimes wears capes. On the field, he can be found dancing, er prancing, a jig in the endzone, or providing a limp-wristed mock resuscitation of a football.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


• Terrell Owens - No stranger to a jig, or even a litle Riverdance, in the endzone, Owens is known for his controversial extroversion, and inability to get along with coaches and teammates. When suspended, he can be found performing shirtless benchpresses on his makeshift driveway workout facility for journalists. On gameday, you can find him clad in purple spandex and headphones as he warms up on the field. I think this also explains his attempted suicide.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


• Jeff Garcia - Well, Terrell Owens outing him, and his subsequent dating of a playmate make this an open and shut case.






• Michael Strahan - The gap-toothed wonder of NYC is another clear example. Anyone who's seen his ill-conceived "jumpshot" celebration can attest to that. Incidentally, I found this snippet from a New York Daily News article while searching for a photo of said celebration:
  Strahan's Divorce Trial Get's Real Ugly
• 
  

...more to come...


Technorati Tags: Gay Athletes, Clinton Portis, Terrell Owens, Jeff Garcia, NFL

The Colbert Report

The Colbert Report started off slowly, but the answer to The Daily Show has really found it's stride. Steven Colbert, host of the Comedy Central show, has proven to be the perfect antidote to the hilarious Daily Show program. I think the genius in its creation is that The Colbert Report is that perfect salty snack after you've had your sugar. The Daily show is great, and I really enjoy it, but after a while I get bored with the straight, humorous analysis of current affairs. The Colbert Report provides twice the sarcasm, to provide a 180 degree facade on the same message. Even the Fox-like graphics, supplying the subtext, demonstrate that there's an abundance of humor in critiquing the current state of journalism. Watch a little bit of the Colbert Report and I'm ready for more sugar.

Technorati Tags: Steven Colbert, The Colbert Report, The Daily Show

YouTube Digest

I've sung the praises of YouTube in this space before, but I think I've become addicted. As a result, I've decided to start a new series, akin to the "What I'm Listening to Today" column, where I plan to provide random highlights of my YouTube explorations. Some entries will be familiar, perhaps clips from recognizable television shows. Others will contain random content, only found on the world wide web.

David Letterman
Here are a couple really funny segments from David Letterman I found through a good site called Dead-Frog.com. The first is an interview with Steven Colbert, of the Colbert Report on Comedy Central.



The second is a full on verbal brawl between Letterman and Bill O'Reilly earlier this year.


Technorati Tags: Bill O'Reilly, Steven Colbert, David Letterman

Diet Coke & Mentos

I realize I'm awfully late to this party, and by this point, it's probably gotten rather tiresome. We've all seen the guys who put together an epic display of chemistry by choreographing the explosive result of mixing Mentos (the freshmaker) with Diet Coke, but have you thought of the consequences for mankind? Is the FDA involved in this one? Should there be warnings prominently placed on the packaging? It's not as if a person wanting to have some Mentos followed by a little Diet Coke is beyond the realm of the possible. I'm sure at least a few times by pure accident some poor soul must have thought that they were experiencing the movie Alien and rushed to the hospital after having a little candy and soda. Take a look at these movies and think of what it would be like if this randomly happened to you, and wasn't the result of a gag...no pun intended.

Movie 1

Movie 2

Technorati Tags: Diet Coke & Mentos, Food Explosion

The Restaurant Culture

Sometimes I think I'm the only person on the planet who hasn't done a stint as a waiter or waitress. Many people, especially those who have taken dinner orders for a living, would say I'm lucky, but I have to admit that sometimes I think I missed out on something.

The fact is, I avoided the profession during high school and college because I knew I'd be a terrible waiter. My memory is okay, but my memory for details is remarkably absent. I like people, but have little patience for those of the rude variety. And while I'm a hard worker, I get grumpy when I'm tired. So, I'd be likely to remember your burger, but forget the bacon you ordered. I'd probably have a great conversation with you before I forget your bacon, but would give as much as I got when you rudely said, "Well, where is my bacon?". And this situation would probably turn out okay if it occurred in the morning, but be a complete blowout if in the evening.

But by avoiding this profession, I've avoided that odd world that is the restaurant industry, with all of its hardships and happiness. I never had the embarrassment of dropping a tray full of entrees on the floor, but I never experienced the camaraderie of a bunch of people my age working their asses off all night. I never had to stay late to clean up the mess of a drunken Friday night, but I never took that drunken mess home with me for all-night no strings attached debauchery.

There's a whole culture to this industry, possibly best described by the "work hard, play hard" mantra. The stories I've heard about this culture are colorful, and generally involve lots of drug-use, poor behavior for lack of a meaningful consequences, and of course, sex amongst co-workers. The synergy of these high-risk behaviors is explosive, resulting in either wildly enjoyable, or wildly painful outcomes. It's a high-stakes game of finding the edge, over which drama and possible jail-time reside, but those who've lived to tell about it have better stories than I can make up. For a person so fixated on the deliciously intricate details of life, missing out on great stories is like missing out on living.

Perhaps someone who's lived a remarkable life in this culture will be good enough to write a can't-miss screenplay so that I can live vicariously through their experience, because that window in my life is closed. I will never be in a situation where it's okay to make five dollars an hour plus tips, to work a non-standard work week, or to snort coke off of a fake-breasted woman's ass on the bar of a closed restaurant. So, write the damn screenplay you worthless slackers, so I can live that life for two hours.

Technorati Tags: Waiter, Restaurant, Illicit Sex, Bohemian

Doctor, Doctor…Gimme the News

Strange things continue to occur.

The first Monday after the CSU victory over CU, I had one of the most killer stomach aches I’ve ever known. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the shotgun beer-drinking technique performed with friends at the game, ritualizing our nostalgia. The symptoms hit a crescendo at around ten o’clock that Monday, highlighted by a sharp pain in my abdominal area. Leveraging the fine resources of WebMD, I put together a crackerjack diagnosis of appendicitis, centering around the symptoms of abdominal pain and being 29.

Lucky for me I had an interview that day at noon downtown. Nearly doubled-over in pain at the office, I decided to call my doctor to see if they could squeeze me in just ahead of my first face-to-face discussion with an interesting consulting firm. My first dial resulted in a busy signal. I thought it a bit odd for the line at a doctor’s office to be busy, but I chalked it up to either high call volume (it is the beginning of flu season), or technical difficulties. I waited a few minutes and tried again. I received the same result, that terrible tone that we’ve been trained to associate with disappointment since birth. I blew it off for a while and got back to work.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at it, dialing up the doctor hoping I could walk in and get him to tell me this is not an emergency situation. The prospect of calling a potential employer to tell them I’m sick wasn’t in the realm of appealing to me. I believe calling in sick to an interview is akin to telling them you’re not worth their damn time anyway. Unfortunately, my hopes were once again doused with disappointment as the busy signal mocked my plight. I was really getting frustrated. What kind of doctor’s office, a place providing care to the ill in a time of need, allows their phone to be busy, for whatever reason, for hours at a time? I could have a freakin’ alien in my stomach ready to pop out and start a global pandemic, and this guy has a telco issue? Give me a break.

With one more call I abandoned all hope of getting to the doctor ahead of the interview. This was a time to suck it up, regardless of what might be ruptured in my midsection. I got in the car and went downtown for the interview thinking I’d let it pass. And I did. I let my issue with the doctor pass as well. It’s one of those areas, such as shitty service at a car dealership, that gets me frustrated enough to talk about writing a letter, but not angry enough to actually do it. I think you’re with me here. A week or two passed since the incident, and I hadn’t thought a lot about it.

Then we got a voicemail from my father-in-law, surgeon general of WebMD hypochondria. Spend too long with this man and you’ll start believing you have MS, or smallpox. Just before his trip to Europe, he was experiencing some serious flu-like symptoms and wanted a quick once-over by his physician, our physician. Calling for an appointment, he continually received a busy signal. Not one to be discouraged by such trivial obstacles to good health, he saddled up in his car and drove over to the office.

Walking up to the door of suite 210, he saw a piece of paper taped to the door. This isn’t odd for a doctor’s office. There’s always some new HIPAA regulation requiring further clarification. However, this note was different. It said that the office had closed down, that patients are referred to the doctor down the hall, who should be able to get access to the doctor's medical records. No explanation was provided. No forwarding number or address given. Poof, like a Colts team in the night…he was gone.

So, today my research begins. There’s a story here. Doctors don’t just up and leave in the middle of the night without explanation. Yes, there was a period a year or so back when all of the other doctors in the practice moved out, leaving him with a large office to support, lease and all, but that doesn’t explain this sort of behavior. It’s not as if I missed a front-page story in the New York Times on how the fountain of youth had been discovered. Medical services never go out of demand, and a doctor could always move to a smaller office if necessary. Even more, a medical practice is no different than any other sort of business. Customer accounts have value, in that there is a cost to acquire them, and a benefit in having them. If his departure was a voluntary one, you’d think that he’d generate some sort of compensation for the referral of all of his patients. A sign on the door pointing us to “the guy down the hall”, doesn’t suggest anything along those lines occurred. Here’s a list of possibilities I’ve come up with:

His license was pulled due to some sort of gross medical malpractice.
He is running from creditors.
He had some sort of cataclysmic injury, or death.
He decided to join the Peace Corps.
He left his wife in the middle of the night for some Filipino floozy.
He found Jesus.
He found Jesus while on his own pharmaceutical samples.

Technorati Tags: Doctor Humor, Disappearances, Malpractice

Iowa Barbeque

I've had a nasty cold ever since I gave an old college try at alcoholism at last week's Colorodo versus Colorado State football game. That didn't stop my wife from guilting me into attending what has become a quarterly dinner party her friends from work throw. This evening was hosted by a couple we've known for a while, and billed as an "Iowa BBQ" on the Evite. Apart from the cold, I wasn't too thrilled to go to the event because I've never really been fond of this couple. The wife, Allison, is a bit obnoxious with her loud nasal voice, and the husband, Josh, can be best described as an "asshole". Pardon my french. Alas, I had to go because my wife had to go. And my wife had to go, because some good friends of ours had to go. Such is the domino effect of relationships in the world of adult couples. That, and having to send out invitations and thank you notes to facilitate eating food or watching television together are sadly the norm.

When we showed up to the barbeque, about half of the twelve expected attendees had arrived. After being called a "pussy" for not drinking beer at a party when I shouldn't have even been out of pajamas and kleenex's, I settled in on the couch with my water to check out the Nebraska versus USC game. The ladies all gathered in the kitchen, as is the custom, and surely spoke of all the ills generated by their husbands. Meanwhile, I had a spirited discussion with the guys over whether or not professional athletes deserve exorbitant sums for their services, which drifted to social responsibility for poverty, and oddly to whether or not going to war in Iraq was a good idea.

A solid spread for dinner was provided, including burgers, chicken, salmon, corn, and macaroni salad. I used a story a guest told about his toils working at McDonalds to start a round-table discussion on "the worst job you've ever had". Apparently he was forced to compete in a grill-cleaning competition, from which he came away with a less than prized trophy. It was actually a lot of fun. The male host took the cake with his job at a meat-packing plant. Of course, he relished providing the details of his chitlin processing experience as we ate.

But I didn't write this post to give you a bad three paragraph episode of "Thirty Something". That was way too boring in it's first and second iterations (yes, "The Big Chill" sucked). When brownies and cake had been enjoyed by all, and the party was seemingly coming to a close, was when this story took a turn for the awkward. For, apparently there is more to an Iowa barbeque than good food and good drink.

Breaking up the small talk that had developed around the dinner table, Josh and Allison walked around making sure that each glass was full. The effect was such that a toast seemed to be in the works. Sure enough, Allison took a nervous stance in front of the counter, and was joined by her husband Josh as she started out with, "Okay, everyone, Josh and I have an announcement to make...". You could feel the anticipation in the audience. From roughly age 23 to 35, such moments are common, those ages being years of engagement, matrimony, and, of course, pregnancy. And that is the exact logical progression you could see wending its way through each person's mind, as the opening comments of the announcement were made:

They were already married, so an engagement was obviously not in play. So it must be she's pregnant. But wait, Allison's holding a glass of wine. Wow, if she's not prego, what the hell could this be all about? They did call this an Iowa bbq, and they are head to toe adorned in Iowa Hawkeyes paraphenalia. That must be it.

"Josh and I have been thinking about this for a while now, and...". If I had been friends with this couple, the suspense would have been killing me by now, but instead I thought, "Okay, so they're moving to Iowa. I guess I don't have to come to another one of these damn bbqs again. Sweet. I wonder if I can get home early enough to watch the late Sportscenter?". I suppose many there thought differently, and did have a little imaginary drum-roll humming at this point.

"Josh and I have been thinking about this for a while now, and...we've decided to get divorced." There was more shock and awe in that room than in all of the first month of the war in Bagdhad. Even more, there was silence. Allison continued, "We've been in counseling for eight months now, and we just decided this was the right decision for us." Silence. "We decided to have the barbeque because I didn't want to just send out an email to all of my friends." Silence.

Why the hell am I here? This is bullshit. I'm sick as a dog, I hardly know these people, and here I am feeling more uncomfortable than I ever have. And WHY ISN'T ONE OF HER FRIENDS TALKING? Break the fucking ice for god's sake. This is pure needles in the eyeballs here.

Josh started in, "We've been together since we were sixteen, and it's just going to be better this way. We had some issues that honestly should have been dealt with before we got married." "Our counselor told us she could tell we weren't going to make it in the first month, but took our money anyway," Allison added with a chuckle.

They seem super relieved, but the faces on those around the table tell me the sentiment isn't shared.

"And we didn't want to tell everyone before dinner and then have anyone say, 'Wow, look at the time, gotta go now.'"

Ouch, there goes Sportscenter.

"Well, if this is what you two want, then congratulations I guess," one of the female guests blurted out nervously.

Finally.

Unfortunately, things deteriorated for the happy un-couple as the night went on, and the booze continued to flow. Comments such as, "Well, the dog listens better than you do", and "I guess it's imaginary, kind of like the blow jobs I've been getting," certainly made us all comfortable with the situation. The whole freaking experience was odd, but I suppose we all learned a valuable lesson. When dealing with an Iowa barbeque, you can be sure that in addition to burgers, mental agony and divorce are on the menu.

I left the party thinking that if I replaced Iowa with New York City in this situation that this thing might just take off. I can see it now plastered across the pages of GQ and Mademoiselle, "The Divorce Party: What better way to usher in bachelorhood...again?". Hell, everyone's doing it. The only question now is who to invite.

Technorati Tags: Divorce, Iowa, Barbeque, Dinner Party, Friends,
Awkward

The Hype Machine

Continuing the practice of bringing you the most exciting new tools on the information super-highway, I bring you "The Hype Machine". This incredibly cool site crawls a number of music blogs, and aggregates the content by band in a convenient list format. Search for a band, see entries from the blogosphere, and select to listen to the posted track, buy it from amazon, or iTunes, or read the blog post that inspired the listing. What could be cooler? Check it out

Note: Tourfilter has just added Hype Machine listings to each band homepage.

Technorati Tags: Hype Machine, Music, Bands, Technology, Sites, Blogs

Clever Advertising

While I believe that drug prevention advertisements are completely useless (in fact I think they may even promote druge use), I have to say that the Office of National Drug Control Policy has come up with a clever device in their latest series of ads. The "my anti-drug" series, at least focuses on the source of drug abuse, self-esteem, rather than on wasting everyone's time trying to scare kids straight with unrealistic scenarios, but I still think they're worthless. Pretty much, they're created and placed so that parents will think the government is at least doing SOMETHING.

Anyway, what strikes me in viewing these commercials is the typeface they're using. It's a free-hand type, housed within what is obviously the suggestion of a form. I suppose we could assume that this form look is meant to suggest that each of us has the ability to fill in whatever answer we have to the question of "what is our anti-drug?". That would be too simple though. I'm giving Madison Avenue more credit here. I believe the aim of this format lies in the occassions in which we must fill out forms. It's always a setting of formality. If I'm filling out a form, 90% of the time I'm either applying for a job, or interfacing with a government entity. In either case, any association with drugs is a bad thing, and I'm certainly not in that emotionally relaxed state in which I'd use drugs. The suggestion of a form, a tool of an orderly, and obedient society, is the perfect subliminal message to send to possible drug-users.

Technorati Tags: Anti-drug, Marijuana, Drugs, Advertising

What Quiet Guy In Accounting Does On The Weekends

Think you know that co-worker sitting in the cube across the way? I bet you think that they seem pretty reserved. Your impression is that they lead an incredibly mundane existence, mowing the lawn, going to church, and eating Uncle Ben's instant rice pretty much sums it up. I'm right there with you. I've made this mistake many a time, only to have this image shattered in an instant when the office is illuminated by trance music coming out of a cell phone. We're not talking one of the default choices here. We're talking, this person went to a rave, did X, totally lost their musical compass, felt compelled to download this track, and make it their ringtone. Of course, they never anticipated such a dramatic outting of their personal life, thirty seconds of music undoing years of hardwork crafting a workplace mask. "I always have my phone on vibrate at work. It won't matter" was the thought when they made the selection. This singular lapse results in embarrasment, and even terror for the owner of the phone playing "Symsonic (Sexy Spinners Remix)".

Technorati Tags:Office Humor, Raves, Bands, Ring Tones, Ecstacy, Embarrasment

Insecurity @ The Disco

Am I the only one who doesn't understand the current Panic @ The Disco craze (read fad)? From what I can tell, this band is the latest manifestation of the "artsy pop band". Artsy because their style has a SLIGHTLY off-beat quality to it. Pop, because 90% of each song is really just like the rest of the top 40. This type of band is broadly appealing, and notable, because it provides "fans" a cultural marker to project what listeners think of as desirable personality traits. To their peers, saying they're a fan of Panic @ The Disco immediately communicates, "I'm original enough to like offbeat bands". While this sort of psychology underpins much of music-buying behavior, and much buying behavior for that matter, this genre holds a particular irony, in that the fan is attempting to communicate that they are not a run-of-the-mill type of person, while citing a band that is wildly popular.

A contrary point of view may be that these people just like the music, and that's all. It's possible, but I think it's more likely that those who truly enjoy the music for the music, and not for its symbolic quality, represent a very small portion of the whole. I say this because there is an ENDLESS supply of bands who sound like Panic @ The Disco. However, it's only Panic @ The Disco that enjoys such a level of success. My conclusion is that at some point, this band was tagged by the music community as culturally relevant, and somehow more original than it's peers. The result, in many cases, is that once this distinction is digested by the masses and not just by the few, those who originally propped up the band as a dedicated base fade away, having their own issues of musical personification.

So, perhaps I understand the Panic @ The Disco craze completely. I'm just dissapointed that my radio won't stop playing music that is popular simply because people are so painfully insecure.

Special Exercise 1: Ask five insecure friends who their favorite band is and a) tally those who select a band that falls in to this category, and b) name Panic @ The Disco.

Special Exercise 2: What is your favorite band? If you had to think of how your answer would be judged, you would have answered that same question with Radiohead eight years ago, and I'd be willing to bet you have a Jetta in your garage.

Technorati Tags: Panic at the Disco, Pop Culture, Image, Fads, Alternative, Alt-rock

Tourfilter

One of those "next big thing" tools, Tourfilter provides users with the ability to track upcoming concerts for each of their favorite bands. Simply build a list of your favorite bands, and receive email updates when concerts are scheduled for your area. While the site doesn't currently support Denver, I've been assured by it's creator that the rollout to the Mile-high city will come in the next few months.

From the About section of the website:
The Story of Tourfilter

We made Tourfilter because we were missing too many shows.

We would hear about shows after tickets had already been sold out. Or worse, read about them in the Globe the day after. Maybe even in the Metro (oh, the shame!)

So we decided to write a program that would download all the Boston-area club listings daily and search them for the names of bands we liked, then send an email when a hit came up. And that's Tourfilter. And it's not just for us, it's for everyone (chances are we're coming to your city soon).

In short, Tourfilter has tools to:

* Track as many bands as you can think of. We'll send an email to you as soon as a show one of them is in gets announced.
* Browse the bands tracked by people with similar taste, and maybe decide to track some of their bands, too.
* Recommend upcoming shows to your friends.
* Get recommendations from particular people with interesting taste.


In case you haven't noticed, Tourfilter is a work in progress. Please email us (info at tourfilter) with feedback, suggestions or issues!

- Tourfilter

Technorati Tags: Tourfilter, Concerts, Bands, Music, Technology, Website

What I'm Listening To Today

The Magnetic Fields
I've had the album, 69 Love Songs, Volume 1, since last October, but until now, I haven't given the entire album a listen all the way through. And what an album it is. This album is the definition of "listenable". Whether I'm driving down a shady country road, or painting, this is the album I want to be listening to. The music on the album could be most aptly described as what Johnny Cash would sound like if he were forced to do an impression of Hawaiian ukulele music. Yeah, what's not to like? As you'd expect, the lyrics on these tracks are clever, often dark (The One You Really Love is about unrequited love at the hands of a love interest being fixated on a deceased ex), and always catchy. There's also some variety here, with certain tracks led by other vocalists remeniscent of one of my favorite bands, Belle & Sebastian. I'm giving this album 5 stars (yes, this is the first appearance of a star-based rating for music on this site. Take note).

Best Tracks: The One You Really Love, Chicken With Its Head Cut Off, I Think I Need a New Heart

Technorati Tags: Magnetic Fields, Music, Bands,
Johnny Cash, Technology, Website

Immigration Reform

So hard-working Mexicans should not be allowed to enter this country. However, admitted pedophiles should not only be allowed into this country, they are such a vital national resource that we should drag them back from foreign lands with police escort. While this may be a traumatic experience for the resource we hold in such high regard, we should attempt to make them feel as comfortable as possible by seating them in business class (1st class would be a bit pricey on the tax payer's dollar). I look forward to legislation solidifying this program in the national interest. Without it, John Mark Karr may be the last pedophile we are able to import from Thailand.

Technorati Tags: John Mark Karr, Immigration, Thailand, Mexicans, Jonbenet Ramsey,

Public Bathrooms 3

I'm fond of public bathrooms in spite of the fact that they're usually dirty and contain annoying "new technologies" for hand-washing and drying. I'm fond of them because more often than not, I have humorous experiences there. In those instances when I don't, I'm afforded with a short moment of introspection to make those random observations I hold so dear.

Public bathrooms at the airport are particularly fruitful. Perhaps it's because of the transitory nature of its patrons. Perhaps its because of the relative anonymity of its guests. Thinking of it, public bathroms are probably the closes thing to an immediate ancestor to the internet.

Today I was at DIA, Denver International Airport, owner of some of the cleanest and most well-maintained bathrooms on the planet. While using one of their space-age urinals (the space-age was the 1960's, right?), the kind with the auto-flush sensors, I noticed a small sticker. It had been placed just below said sensor, with some care. It was a small sticker of a cartoonish looking sheep. It begs the question, what kind of person places a sheep sticker on a public urinal (are there really private urinals?)? If it were on one of those low-ride junior urinals, I would have assumed it was the work of a child, proud of his ability to make a lasting impression on his world by placing his beloved sheep in such a public location. But I was using a big boy urinal, and the placement of the sticker would be out of the reach of all but the most pituitarily challenged youngsters. This was the work of an adolescent at the very least.

If the sticker had been from a new article of clothing, I might have understood the motivation of its past owner. A tiny alligator, or a jockey on a horse would not have been so surprising. A sheep, though, was. I'm not aware of any significant clothing line branded with a cartoonish sheep. Are you? If so, let me know.

Technorati Tags: Public Bathrooms, Airports, Stickers

What I'm Listening To Today

Atmosphere - You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having
This group from Minnesota has a ton of talent. Their beats are not the run of the mill "I bought a synthesizer and think I'm a mixmaster" tracks we've grown accustomed to. Someone put a lot of work, and in many times agnst, into them. Between the beats and the lyrics, Atmosphere brings a sense of authenticity that much of today's hip-hop is lacking. MC Sean Daley is a story-teller. On many tracks, he takes you through someone elses trials and tribulations, demonstrating the ability to whittily cobble together what might seem like trivial bits of a person's life to provide an empathetic picture. Not every track is terrific, but there is more originality here than you'll hear elsewhere.
Best Tracks - That Night, Pour Me Another, Smart Went Crazy, Angelface

Supernatural - Spit
Supernatural has a less-original style, but I was pleased to find a nice collection of solid tracks on this album, highlighted by "I'm a Fighter". This is a great album to throw in when you're in a chill mood, or driving late at night. It has that great relaxing style along the lines of Guru.
Best Tracks - Rise, I'm a Fighter, Not That Way

How To Be A Republican

So far I've been able to resist posting my thoughts on politics. For those of you who know me, this has been an amazing feat, given my intense interest in the subject. Well, I'm hangin' up the cleats, calling it a record, and moving on. Here is my first political post. I hope this isn't a watershed event that derails the intent of this blog (I've had political blogs before).

I'm almost ashamed of what is bringing the streak to an end. I detest partisan politics, as it's basically an exercise of fandom rather than logic, and I loathe arguing issues that only matter on TV and at fund raisers. So, if I'm so high-minded, why am I about to break my no-politics-blog streak for what amounts to a lame forward? Because, I'm bored, because I found it funny, because I found it sad. Most of all because a coworker read me a really lame anti-Dem forward this week involving cave men that wasn't even remotely whitty. Let's be honest, Dems do whitty and creative well, Republicans hold up a lack of imagination as party discipline and call it a virtue. You're thinking I must be a Democrat. Well, that's true, but it's also true that I was a Republican, and very well could be a Republican again. I just don't support the Republican party of today, which is certainly not the Republican party of my youth. To be a Republican since the 80's and still hold that affiliation is to be blindly faithful...or rich.

So here it is, a link to a post about "How To Be A Republican".

English Premier League Preview

As written in this column many times, I have become a big international soccer fan. Tomorrow marks the beginning of the season for international soccer's most prestigious league, the Barclay's English Premier League. I know most of you aren't interested in following a sport often maligned within the US, while loved abroad, I encourage you to check out some games during the two weeks leading up to the NFL season. What else are you going to watch, baseball?

Here is a great intro to international soccer article written by an American to get you acclimated for maximum enjoyment:
English Premier League 2006-2007

ESPN Columnist Bill Simmons Weighs In On Selecting An EPL Favorite

Highlight reel for my favorite player, Didier Drogba...watch this and think of the possibility of NFL and NBA athleticism playing soccer

Little Miss Sunshine (4 1/2 stars)

Until tonight I thought expectations meant everything when it came to whether or not I'd enjoy a movie. To me, a movie is never judged in a vacuum. Instead, my enjoyment is directly related to the relative gap between what I expect, and what is presented. I'm sure there is a long list of films that I would have enjoyed, and
remember more fondly had I not expected so much in advance.

The film I saw tonight threw me a bit of a curveball. I had high expectations for "Little Miss Sunshine", as it looked to be of my most beloved genre, the dark comedy focused on a deeply flawed and slightly non-traditional family unit. Of this genre, I rate the "The Royal Tenenbaums" as the most representative, and most appreciated. In addition, I'm a big fan of two of the lead actors in "Little Miss Sunshine", Greg Kinnear for his ability to sell just about any character in a way that makes you believe he could be "that guy", and Steve Carell, for his ability to take what might be a mundane role and provide the nuance that makes you smile. Even the previews were done well, leaving me with as I said, high expectations.

The surprise that shattered my theory of cinematic judgment was that while I really, really enjoyed "Little Miss Sunshine", I don't think it was a truly great film. That is, I truly enjoyed this film, despite the film not reaching my sky-high expectations (I've rated it a 4 1/2 star movie, but was expecting a 5). The whole experience nearly threw off any sense of equilibrium and confidence in my reality (much of my faith in reality is, perhaps unusually, based on my ability to build plausible theories for the reasons behind things).

I suppose I should say something of the film in an effort to explain. Think National Lampoons Vacation written by a manic-depressive from New Mexico. Greg Kinnear and Steve Carell certainly didn't disappoint and the cast of characters offered ample quirkiness to keep things interesting. The writers also included some clever elements of suspense, most notably the son who has taken a vow of silence. More than anything though, I enjoyed the alternating moments of laughter (at one point I laughed so hard I had tears welling up in the outside corners of my eyes) and sadness that the movie offered. If, like me, you had a less than Beaver Clever upbringing, some moments will sting. Even with all that the movie offered, it wasn't truly great. There was something missing in the tempo, failing to successfully walk the thin line between pensive moments and moving too slowly. Perhaps this evaluation is too harsh, or maybe I'm just ensuring you'll enjoy the experience more than I did.

Other Takes on LMS

BlogTO
CineRobot
For Cinephiles by Cinefille

On Sports

Sports play a big role in my life. Their beginning ushers in the fall, and their end signals the start of summer. In many instances, sports frame my memories, providing me a context for everything else. I can't even imagine how many hours I've spent watching one sport or another, loving the suspense they provide.

As another sports season begins, for the first time I find myself questioning which season has me most excited. It should be an easy decision, but I've found that in this case, ratings are futile. Thinking about it abstractly, NFL football is my favorite, but I don't think that's an accurate evaluation. The NFL does a better job than any sports league at promoting the idea of the game (yes, including baseball with all that crap about keeping score while eating peanuts and hot-dogs). As a result, I don't think of flags, or 30-second huddles between each snap. I think of some massive hit, or a 50 yard run for a touchdown by Barry Sanders. In truth, these are rare occurrences, but the marketing strategy has been so effective it's arrested my sub-conscious.

While I love college football, it can't be my favorite. There are so few meaningful games, and allegiance to a team is a difficult thing outside of an alma-mater, as faces change so rapidly. What is there to hold onto besides memories of college, or proximity to schools. I suppose in certain cases, Virginia Tech and CSU included, I root for the coaches.

Now, while I'm new to following soccer, I've learned to enjoy it more than I ever thought I could. What I used to think mundane is now beautiful in it's blending of creativity and skill. When I see a great play in soccer, it reminds me of truly inspirational play in basketball. While football, "the ultimate team sport" is a measure at how well a group of players can follow a script, success in basketball, and to a greater degree soccer, is dependent on how well players can play together without a script. The latter is far more difficult, and when accomplished, much more satisfying. Unfortunately, basketball at the pro level is only enjoyable in the playoffs, when the players actually care more about a win than their new rims or strippers. And, at the college level, the degradation of talent as it flees to the NBA early has clearly eroded the degree of teamwork and skill that we were used to seeing.

I guess my point in this whole rant is that I'm hopeful at some point I can say soccer is my favorite sport. At this time, the NFL and it's insidious marketing ploys have my mind, if not my heart.

Tiger Woods Thinks Soccer's For Pussies

Reporter: "You kind of made reference to it earlier, 20 years until you've got to ride in a cart. I am kind of curious where you see yourself at 50. Are you still trying to add to your major totals, or are you a soccer dad or what do you see?"

Tiger Woods: "No, not soccer (laughter). Hopefully Pop Warner or something more physical than soccer. I know Elin will probably get mad at me for saying that, but who knows."

You heard it right, the famous blasian (I think I just coined a term there) who makes his rather generous living playing golf thinks that soccer isn't physical enough for his children. Either I didn't get the memo on Adam Sandler joining the tour, or cocktail hour in between rounds is full-contact. What's next, Veselin Topalov, undisputed world champion of chess, calling basketball players pussies?

Worse in my mind, Tiger Woods, the man credited with taking a sport from niche to mainstream, especially with America's youth, is apparently not so keen on his children playing a sport that is attempting to make a similar transition. For a man so careful about image-management, I'm surprised he'd make such a comment, especially at such a pivotal point in American soccer.

Honestly, I've been surprised at the image Tiger Woods has developed over the years. Let's remember that this is the same kid who was raised by his often poorly regarded father to do one thing, succeed at a single sport. I don't think we should expect too much from golf's version of Todd Marinovich, the ill-fated, can't miss, USC player raised by his father to be the ultimate quarterback. While Tiger obviously hasn't matched Mr. Marinovich's police record, I'm not quite convinced we should consider him to be any different than any other successful athlete.

Okay, he went to Stanford, and maybe I'm just annoyed with a golfer calling soccer out as not a physical sport.

Technorati Tags: Tiger Woods, Soccer, Whimps, Children, Contact Sports

Uniform Rebellion

I watched a re-run of SNL tonight, featuring the band, "The Strokes". I've always liked the strokes. I think their sound, while obviously not original, is refreshing in this era of music. They definitely have their style, and play it up to its fullest. However, I have to say that watching their performance left me thinking more about the costumes of musicians than whether or not I enjoy their music. The lead singer was wearing some sort of obviously tailored sailer-like suit. Now, it wasn't a sailor suit. It couldn't be something he would have picked up at Goodwill, or a thrift shop, having been left behind by a former vet. This was a blazer made to look vaguely like a sailor's jacket. What drives me nuts is that someone probably made this blazer for him, perhaps even for this performance. Now, the whole idea of rock-n-roll clothing is that you don't care, sometimes resulting in really fucking goofy outfits. As long as it's not forced, pretty much anything goes, including a policy against hygiene. And this is where my issue lies. This blazer was so forced, and as a result, I suspect the outfits of his cohorts were contrived as well. Perhaps I would have believed the cacausian, possibly jew, afro sported by the guitarist as just a lack of care if I hadn't seen the lead singers ensemble.

My issue in the whole matter is the question of why these outfits are worn. Again, I don't buy that these costumes are worn out of a lack of care. Someone made a conscious decision to dress the band in such a way as to achieve a particular look. What is that reason? Should I belive that the band, or it's manager, has a deep-seeded insecurity and feels costumes are necessary? Perhaps they feel that they need to give this band a wardrobe, a look, that keyed the audience into the fact that these musicians were cutting edge and original. To be honest I find the opposite truly compelling. Seeing a group of guys who look like just about anybody get on the stage and play enjoyable music is always fun. I guess the argument would be made that this is just a case of effective branding, but the opposite message reaches me. Self expression is endearing, transparent manipulation of an image is not.

What Made Milwaukee Famous...

...is an assload of talent and enthusiasm. After watching them play a couple of songs on Austin City Limits, I went to check out this band at a tiny Denver venue, the Larmer Lounge. Although the place smelled of urine, it made up for it with a very cool open-air patio area around the back. The second band to play, "All Capitals", a Denver-based group was surprisingly good. I might have to check them out another time.

Despite the appearance that the band knew a few people there, the turnout for the show was smaller than I expected, somewhere on the order of 40 people. After having beers with friends on the aforementioned patio, the band took the stage. It was probably around 12:30 at this point, but the crowd let the band know that this performance is what they had been waiting for. WMMF started out with one of their top songs, "I Decide", available on their MySpace site. Right off the bat I was happily surprised that they sounded much better than the clips I had seen on YouTube, and perhaps even better than on their CD, "Trying Not To Catch Up". The band, most notably the amazing drummer, showed a ton of energy, especially when you consider the small and muted nature of the crowd as they played. When you check out this band, what you'll notice first is that their lead singer is in fact...a singer. You're not going to get some passable rock-n-roll shouting here. Instead, Michael Kingcaid offered an impressive range of vocals throughout the performance that left me feeling that this band is possibly a can't-miss talent. However, the variety doesn't stop with just the vocals. WMMF varies their sound from song to song, at times sampling Postal Service like synthesizer effects, and at others playing what they described as "a song for all those prom queens...and kings out there". Regardless of the sound they're going for, they always sound good, a result of solid talent througout the band, a heck of a lot of enthusiasm for what they do, and obviously a ton of hard work.

Now signed, I anticipate a lot of buzz around this band in the coming months. Their re-released album, "Trying Not to Catch Up" will be out August 22nd, and include four new tracks.

Travel Advisory Blues

I woke up this morning to Michael Chertoff explaining to me why my day was going to suck. "John, a terrorist plot has been foiled, and you will have to re-pack all of your bags that you packed last night in your Dallas metroplex hotel room. I'm sorry, but that shampoo in the front pocket of your laptop bag, that was only there for your visits to the gym, must be removed. The expensive cologne you received as a birthday present this past March will need to be removed from your toiletry bag, along with just about everything else in there. In fact, just go ahead and put that in your checked baggage."

"Oh well, no biggie. I can handle a little re-packing," I thought. Then I got to the office and heard just about every bullshit rumor that my coworkers could come up with, out of some motivation to have the definitive information of the crisis. Why everyone thinks they need to prove they're sleeping with Wolf Blitzer's producer is beyond me. "You're going to need to put that laptop in your checked baggage. And I'm not even sure about your cell phone. They're not letting electronics in the cabin." "You might just want to Fedex everything," said another. Despite my skepticism, all their admonitions convinced me and my coworker to split early. That, and the prospect of being at work for another minute provided a compelling argument. We left for the airport a full three hours and fifteen minutes prior to take-off and arrived about thirty minutes later.

In the end, I have to thank Mr. Chertoff, not for his "steely" defense of the motherland (I was a big fan of his sterling response to hurricane Katrina), but for allowing me to make an earlier flight home. I ended up making nearly two hours on the deal, for which I am thankful. But it wasn't all roses. It almost ended badly.

The long approach over the Kansas-like prairie that is eastern Colorado did little to temp me away from the NASA profile in Discover magazine I was reading, but as we descended I noticed another jumbo-jet (at one point the term 'jumbo' wasn't exclusively used to describe jets and shrimp) turning into an approach towards a parallel runway. The sight of running side-by-side another jet was pretty entertaining. I was looking forward to seeing the smoke pop off the wheels upon touchdown as I'd seen so many times before in movies. I was so mezmerized by the scene that I hardly noticed that my plane started to rise even after our wheels had touched the ground. At first my mind didn't trust it, interpreting the enhanced sense of gravity as an effect of our rapidly decreasing speed. From that feeling, my mind moved straight to wondering why our pilot hadn't yet provided us with one of those status updates that have all of the comic whit of a drunk ventriloquist.

Now, I wouldn't say I was necessarily concerned. I'm not the sort to jump to morbid conclusions, such as assuming the landing gear was bad. Flying to me is less of a concern than driving. Unfortunately, I don't say this because of some statistical evaluation. I make this judgment as a result of my somewhat twisted worldview. I don't believe in an afterlife. I believe when you die, you die. That's it. There isn't any consciousness there to allow for regret, pain, or loss. In effect, I'll be the only person I know not caring about my demise in some way or another, even if only because I'd be the best "I had a friend who died in a plane crash" story for each of them. What DOES scare me is living out the rest of my years after being maimed in some tragic accident, and having nothing but time to think about it. The basis of my relative concern is the fact that in a plane crash the former is more likely, and in a car accident the latter.

When we finally heard from our jolly captain he provided an explanation for the failed landing. "Sorry about that folks. The winds were a little bad there and we didn't like the approach. The winds have died down now and we're going to take a second try."

What bullshit. Not only did I watch another plane land parallel to us at the exact same time, I find it hard to believe that if they didn't know the wind would kick up at that exact moment, they probably wouldn't know if it was going to kick up again. My theory is that pilots are trained to lie to us in such cases. The tradition of the ship's captain is alive and well, and the crew must never see him blink...or fuck up. Letting a cabin full of passengers in on the truth is both bad for business, and for confidence. "If he fucked up once, he could surely fuck up again," they might think. Now, if the issue was not one of expertise, but of completely normal meteorological events that can be avoided, it's no big deal. Even better if the pilot externalizes even further and says that "We" made the decision. As if the dude sitting next to him had any input in the matter as the pilot suddenly jerked the plane back upward. Thinking of it, I assume that pilots and stewardesses are trained a litany of sensitivity techniques and corporate policies that result in ways to deftly lie to their passengers. They'd have to. It's the only responsible thing to do in many situations.

In the end, the second attempt was more successful than the first and all of my thoughts were just indulgent musings on the nature of air travel. I did, however, allow myself one final random thought. After all, I am the author of MyHelterSkelterHead. If my plane had dissolved in a fiery landing gear incident, how would my flight status be listed on the handsome flat screen monitors at Denver International Airport? Would the status remain as 'on-time' until it was at some point removed from the listing? Or, would it be changed to 'delayed'. I'd hope it wouldn't be set to 'arrived'. I wouldn't think the airline would deserve the grape-scented scratch-and-sniff sticker that is the 'arrived' status on this one. I assume there isn't a status of 'fiery crash'.