A snippet of conversation with my wife during the middle of this week consisted of her asking me this:
"Hey, did you know Buck Owens died?"
Ahhh, I don't begrudge her that. I guess if she ever gets on my case about my not being more interested in her Tupperware consultancy, then there might be an issue. I don't foresee it, though. I think this blog is much more trivial than most of the things she's interested in, and I prefer not to bother her with trivial matters.
The question did throw me for a loop for a moment, though.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Spring Succeeds.
This afternoon, I sat outside watching Son play with his trucks on the sidewalk. This lost week is almost over, and it has brought with it Spring: perfect temperatures, a gentle breeze that, for once, doesn't chill, and days that are getting longer.
Spring rejuvenates me. I've always been one who has only endured the seasons of extreme out of necessity - the blistering heat and humidity of summer, the hard, bleak cold of winter. Autumn gives me the same feeling as spring, at least till everything starts dying off. Autumn's air has a crispness to it that makes the season feel the most real of the four.
Spring, though, carries in its lightness a certain air of promise that the other seasons can't match. Spring says, "The calendar is your oyster!" (How colorful, and how meaningless, that particular turn of phrase was!)
As I sat outside jotting notes late this afternoon for posting tonight, Son came running up to me with a fearful look on his face. Down the hill from the Bramble Tamble compound, one of our neighbors has some construction going on on his property. The diesel engine of one of the big earthmovers in his yard revved up as it displaced more dirt, which, despite his safety from it thanks to its relative distance, frightened Son. He stood next to me and eventually calmed down, and he waved at the machine before going off to play some more.
There is really no sweeter phrase for a child than "let's play!" Such a world of imagination and possibilities awaits him; he will turn 2 in May. I look greatly forward to him asking me to play with him, to pretend with him, to discover the things that are new to him that I've long taken for granted.
I believe that the warm months will represent an exponential leap forward in his development. (As long as he refrains from constantly hitting his head on the sidewalk, which he managed to do just when we came outside. He has a little scrape on his forehead, but is no worse for the wear.) I expect that by the end of the summer - and I'm getting a little ahead of myself, I know - we'll be able to understand him a little better. The infant and early toddler months have been wonderful, and I deeply cherish the memories they have brought, but it's been difficult to glean things from his recently discovered voice. I want to be able to converse with him - granted, it'd still be a conversation with a 2-year-old, which would regardless be a deeper level of conversation than I've had with people at certain jobs in the past. I want to be able to understand what he wants; I want him to be able to tell me if he's hurting and where it hurts. Sure, baby talk is cute - all the "na-nays" and "meels" are a joy to behold - but I'm looking forward to him being able to enunciate. I think the summer will bring that. I hope, anyway.
Son discovered a 5-gallon bucket near the house that's got about an inch of last week's rainwater and various planting supplies in it. It was all I could do to keep him from drinking from the little plastic flowerpot inside - I believe I might have gone off the deep end in emphasizing that it's "yukky" - so he took to scooping up water with it, pouring it out and shaking it dry. His little arms are a mess; I foresee a bath in his immediate future (with clean water, not yukky water).
As dusk began to settle over the Bramble Tamble compound, the sun's rays didn't quite warm the breeze as they had some 15 minutes earlier. Wife was still asleep inside. Today is our 4th anniversary, and we didn't really get to spend a whole lot of it together thanks to the request from night shift that she spend the wee hours there watching the lines build cabinets and fixing the quality problems that have ensued as of late. One more night of this, I keep reminding myself. I'm sure she has reminded herself of that quite often today also.
Bath time. Son seems at his most playful in the tub. I was assigned to bath duty after one night when Wife was working overtime during her normal shift; I decided to "help out" and give Son a bath. In parenting as well as in the working world, this has often been my dumbest move: "Here, since you've proven yourself more than capable of handling this task, why don't you just take over doing it from now on?" I've never been in a position to say no.
Here's the difference, though. In parenting, I don't complain about it, whereas I've tended to make myself a martyr at those jobs in the past because of my willingness to take on extra work. But being a Great Dad is more important to me than a boatload of Employee of the Month awards. Maybe it's the very least I can do - and it often is - but I'll do it with a smile.
There are too many men who are more than happy to to initiate the process of fathering - I call them "front-end fathers" - but don't really do a whole lot of fathering at its most important time, after the child is born. This seems especially true in my neck of the woods, where the Rules of Men dictate that the responsibilities of parenting fall squarely in the mother's lap. This is probably a leading cause of the juvenile delinquency rampant in my area, and can only have more dire consequences for the child later in life.
I don't have anything against one-parent households - God bless them for making a go of it (as if they had much of a choice) - it's just that I believe the odds of setting a child on the right path in life seem to be better with two parents. Unless, of course, the parents are just complete deadbeats, in which case the ills that the child will face in adolescence and beyond are often insurmountable as far as they're concerned.
I've just come back in from seeing Wife off to work. Maybe someday we'll get what Liz Phair once called a "lotto revival," but that's hardly a plan for the future. We'll just keep doing what we're doing, and work on raising our son correctly, and give our family as good a life as we can with the means we have.
In the meantime, the inexorable march of Spring continues. I found this tonight on the National Weather Service website when checking out the forecast for my area:
A COLD FRONT WILL MOVE ACROSS THE STATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
ANY DAYTIME HEATING THAT CAN OCCUR IN ADVANCE OF THIS FRONT WILL
ONLY ADD TO THE STRENGTH OF FORMING STORMS. PRESENT INDICATIONS
SUGGEST THAT A FEW OF THESE STORMS COULD BECOME SEVERE. THE MAIN
THREATS FROM ANY SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WILL BE DAMAGING WINDS AND
LARGE HAIL.
THUNDERSTORMS WILL ONCE AGAIN BE POSSIBLE SUNDAY NIGHT INTO
MONDAY. AT THIS TIME...IT IS NOT KNOWN IF ANY OF THESE STORMS WILL
BE SEVERE.
Ahhhh, Spring.
Spring rejuvenates me. I've always been one who has only endured the seasons of extreme out of necessity - the blistering heat and humidity of summer, the hard, bleak cold of winter. Autumn gives me the same feeling as spring, at least till everything starts dying off. Autumn's air has a crispness to it that makes the season feel the most real of the four.
Spring, though, carries in its lightness a certain air of promise that the other seasons can't match. Spring says, "The calendar is your oyster!" (How colorful, and how meaningless, that particular turn of phrase was!)
As I sat outside jotting notes late this afternoon for posting tonight, Son came running up to me with a fearful look on his face. Down the hill from the Bramble Tamble compound, one of our neighbors has some construction going on on his property. The diesel engine of one of the big earthmovers in his yard revved up as it displaced more dirt, which, despite his safety from it thanks to its relative distance, frightened Son. He stood next to me and eventually calmed down, and he waved at the machine before going off to play some more.
There is really no sweeter phrase for a child than "let's play!" Such a world of imagination and possibilities awaits him; he will turn 2 in May. I look greatly forward to him asking me to play with him, to pretend with him, to discover the things that are new to him that I've long taken for granted.
I believe that the warm months will represent an exponential leap forward in his development. (As long as he refrains from constantly hitting his head on the sidewalk, which he managed to do just when we came outside. He has a little scrape on his forehead, but is no worse for the wear.) I expect that by the end of the summer - and I'm getting a little ahead of myself, I know - we'll be able to understand him a little better. The infant and early toddler months have been wonderful, and I deeply cherish the memories they have brought, but it's been difficult to glean things from his recently discovered voice. I want to be able to converse with him - granted, it'd still be a conversation with a 2-year-old, which would regardless be a deeper level of conversation than I've had with people at certain jobs in the past. I want to be able to understand what he wants; I want him to be able to tell me if he's hurting and where it hurts. Sure, baby talk is cute - all the "na-nays" and "meels" are a joy to behold - but I'm looking forward to him being able to enunciate. I think the summer will bring that. I hope, anyway.
Son discovered a 5-gallon bucket near the house that's got about an inch of last week's rainwater and various planting supplies in it. It was all I could do to keep him from drinking from the little plastic flowerpot inside - I believe I might have gone off the deep end in emphasizing that it's "yukky" - so he took to scooping up water with it, pouring it out and shaking it dry. His little arms are a mess; I foresee a bath in his immediate future (with clean water, not yukky water).
As dusk began to settle over the Bramble Tamble compound, the sun's rays didn't quite warm the breeze as they had some 15 minutes earlier. Wife was still asleep inside. Today is our 4th anniversary, and we didn't really get to spend a whole lot of it together thanks to the request from night shift that she spend the wee hours there watching the lines build cabinets and fixing the quality problems that have ensued as of late. One more night of this, I keep reminding myself. I'm sure she has reminded herself of that quite often today also.
Bath time. Son seems at his most playful in the tub. I was assigned to bath duty after one night when Wife was working overtime during her normal shift; I decided to "help out" and give Son a bath. In parenting as well as in the working world, this has often been my dumbest move: "Here, since you've proven yourself more than capable of handling this task, why don't you just take over doing it from now on?" I've never been in a position to say no.
Here's the difference, though. In parenting, I don't complain about it, whereas I've tended to make myself a martyr at those jobs in the past because of my willingness to take on extra work. But being a Great Dad is more important to me than a boatload of Employee of the Month awards. Maybe it's the very least I can do - and it often is - but I'll do it with a smile.
There are too many men who are more than happy to to initiate the process of fathering - I call them "front-end fathers" - but don't really do a whole lot of fathering at its most important time, after the child is born. This seems especially true in my neck of the woods, where the Rules of Men dictate that the responsibilities of parenting fall squarely in the mother's lap. This is probably a leading cause of the juvenile delinquency rampant in my area, and can only have more dire consequences for the child later in life.
I don't have anything against one-parent households - God bless them for making a go of it (as if they had much of a choice) - it's just that I believe the odds of setting a child on the right path in life seem to be better with two parents. Unless, of course, the parents are just complete deadbeats, in which case the ills that the child will face in adolescence and beyond are often insurmountable as far as they're concerned.
I've just come back in from seeing Wife off to work. Maybe someday we'll get what Liz Phair once called a "lotto revival," but that's hardly a plan for the future. We'll just keep doing what we're doing, and work on raising our son correctly, and give our family as good a life as we can with the means we have.
In the meantime, the inexorable march of Spring continues. I found this tonight on the National Weather Service website when checking out the forecast for my area:
A COLD FRONT WILL MOVE ACROSS THE STATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
ANY DAYTIME HEATING THAT CAN OCCUR IN ADVANCE OF THIS FRONT WILL
ONLY ADD TO THE STRENGTH OF FORMING STORMS. PRESENT INDICATIONS
SUGGEST THAT A FEW OF THESE STORMS COULD BECOME SEVERE. THE MAIN
THREATS FROM ANY SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WILL BE DAMAGING WINDS AND
LARGE HAIL.
THUNDERSTORMS WILL ONCE AGAIN BE POSSIBLE SUNDAY NIGHT INTO
MONDAY. AT THIS TIME...IT IS NOT KNOWN IF ANY OF THESE STORMS WILL
BE SEVERE.
Ahhhh, Spring.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Laughs: $.05
Well, the Ron White special wasn't a complete disappointment, as I had feared it would be. I didn't laugh till I cry, and I didn't cry at watching a formerly funny man's career going down the tubes. It was somewhere in between. He had a couple of good bits in there, I reckon.
I think he told too many pee-pee jokes, myself ... when attempts at real humor (like the career-making "Tater Salad" routine) fail, you can always get a cheap laugh with almost no effort by telling a pee-pee joke. I mean, which do you think will stand the test of time:
"Are you ... Ron 'Tater Salad' White?"
- or -
"Boobs!"
I think you know my answer. What's yours?
I think he told too many pee-pee jokes, myself ... when attempts at real humor (like the career-making "Tater Salad" routine) fail, you can always get a cheap laugh with almost no effort by telling a pee-pee joke. I mean, which do you think will stand the test of time:
"Are you ... Ron 'Tater Salad' White?"
- or -
"Boobs!"
I think you know my answer. What's yours?
"Frogger," however, barely missed the cut.
In the interest of balance, I wanted to take a second to set aside the political disagreements and the issues I have with some of their themes, and talk about the good things about Bad Religion ... specifically, my favorite songs of theirs. These are in no particular order after numbers 1-4.
1. Against The Grain
2. No Control
3. Stranger Than Fiction
4. Generator
My four favorite Bad Religion songs are each the title tracks off their respective albums, and are also the strongest songs on those albums.
“Against the Grain” and “No Control” are both driving, raucous, songs that rocket across your soundscape. I could just as easily take one over the other; today, “Against” is my favorite BR song – it’s all about individualism in the face of the running-with-the-herd mentality prevalent in society. Tomorrow, "No Control" might be my favorite; its namesake album remains my favorite, with ATG and Stranger Than Fiction a close second and third.
“STF” was the first BR song I ever heard, catching its video on MTV late one night and immediately being swept away by the catchy vocal melody and the Texas-sized hook, “… and the obituary … oh yeah.” When Graffin sings “And the lampposts can’t stop crying” in the first verse, it still makes the hair on my arms stand up every now and again. I still don’t know what “caringosity” is, though, or how it killed the Kerouac cat.
The lyrics of “Generator,” meanwhile, evoke such grandiose imagery, which is a trademark of a lot of BR’s songs.
Honorable mentions:
Drunk Sincerity – This song from “The Gray Race” holds personal meaning for me; the album was essentially stuck in my car's CD player after a particularly meaningless trip to see a woman in Minnesota. The expectations of the visit and the ensuing happiness I was sure we would share deflated within the first three hours of our meeting face-to-face. Needless to say, the weekend ended poorly, despite the two months' worth of promises we made. "You heard love from the lips, you were rapt by the hips, and the promise was eternal but you couldn't see that far." This song, that lyric, that album, sustained me on my 12-hour drive home with my tail between my legs.
Cease – More of that trademark imagery. Also from The Gray Race, and also filled with personal meaning for me. "It evokes such pain and significance, what was once is reduced to rememberance."
A Streetkid Named Desire - The propulsive, powerful drums make this song; otherwise, it would just be another "Hooray For Me ..." (Which I do love, incidentally - it's just that I love it the one time.)
You’ve Got A Chance – The subject matter will look a little dated a few years from now – the absurdity of America’s obsession with reality TV – but the coda alone makes this opener from “The Process of Belief” a keeper.
Anesthesia - If I were ranking these songs after #4, this one would probably be #5. "I remember your face that August night when we lied about the beautiful times to come" is probably the saddest lyric they've ever written - and Graffin sings it at about 400 words per minute.
Too Much To Ask - If there were ever a Bad Religion theme song - other than the song "Bad Religion" itself - it would probably be this one. The first verse, Graffin sings about a lot of the simple things he desires - "A safe stroll in a middle-of-the-road community, a neighbor who in times of need will not turn away"; in the second verse, he sings about reality and how it runs counter to his desires: "Corruption at the expense of the simple majority, a violent clash, a plunder of the Third World, any wretched ploy that bolsters our economy."
Sanity – This song from No Control was so good that the band later made other songs that sounded almost exactly the same ("Faith Alone," "Infected" and "The Answer" have that same plodding midtempo 4/4 beat with four similar-sounding chords in each song), but fell short. This is another song in which Graffin paints such vivid imagery – “There’s a watch in my pocket, but its hands are broken – the face is blank, but the gears are turning.” This song would probably be #6 for me.
Sinister Rouge - More relevant lyrical content about the Catholic priest scandal. The song smokes.
Supersonic - Sometimes you just need to rock out mindlessly, faster and faster.
Boot Stamping On A Human Face Forever – I can imagine the discussion about this song while they were recording The Empire Strikes First:
"Let's do the bleakest song that we've ever done."
"Good idea!"
"And let's make it slow. And let's make it sound red."
"Awesome!"
"And let's give it a really bleak title."
"Yeah!"
And so they did. And it succeeded, on all counts. "You can't win," the chorus repeats. Did I say anything about it being bleak?
Incomplete - The first song on the first BR album I ever bought, Stranger Than Fiction. It's almost a song about futility - "I'm a prayer without faith, a temple with no god, a jack without an ace, the tip of your tongue, I'm a promise in an unmailed letter, an unbuilt motor, deck without a joker, a creeping gray memory ... I am incomplete ..." If the title track of the album hooked me, this one reeled me in.
Automatic Man - This one has another of my favorite lyrics: "A true creature of habit, he smokes three packs a day, when he has an original thought, he forgets it right away." Another one from No Control.
I Want To Conquer The World - This one attacks both hippie idealism and right-wing beliefs. "I want to conquer the world, give all the idiots a brand new religion ... do away with air pollution, and then I'll save the whales. We'll have peace on earth and global communion." Hee.
American Jesus – I can listen to and enjoy this one while completely ignoring the irony. “I don’t need to be a global citizen, cause I’m blessed by nationality.” USA! USA! USA!
New America – I thought this song from 2000's album of the same title was actually a little prescient, given the current political landscape. “You can live in such denial and mark me as your enemy, but I’m just a voice among the throng who want a brighter destiny.” After this part, the singalong chorus "We are the new America ... whoa-oh ... whoa-oh ..." is the centerpiece of this track, and then the drums kick back in, propelling the song to its end.
Along the Way - A classic from BR's first era (1980-85); this simple four-chorder goes down especially well live. "Don't forget to find love and happiness, unless you're willing to be strong when they are gone along the way."
1. Against The Grain
2. No Control
3. Stranger Than Fiction
4. Generator
My four favorite Bad Religion songs are each the title tracks off their respective albums, and are also the strongest songs on those albums.
“Against the Grain” and “No Control” are both driving, raucous, songs that rocket across your soundscape. I could just as easily take one over the other; today, “Against” is my favorite BR song – it’s all about individualism in the face of the running-with-the-herd mentality prevalent in society. Tomorrow, "No Control" might be my favorite; its namesake album remains my favorite, with ATG and Stranger Than Fiction a close second and third.
“STF” was the first BR song I ever heard, catching its video on MTV late one night and immediately being swept away by the catchy vocal melody and the Texas-sized hook, “… and the obituary … oh yeah.” When Graffin sings “And the lampposts can’t stop crying” in the first verse, it still makes the hair on my arms stand up every now and again. I still don’t know what “caringosity” is, though, or how it killed the Kerouac cat.
The lyrics of “Generator,” meanwhile, evoke such grandiose imagery, which is a trademark of a lot of BR’s songs.
Honorable mentions:
Drunk Sincerity – This song from “The Gray Race” holds personal meaning for me; the album was essentially stuck in my car's CD player after a particularly meaningless trip to see a woman in Minnesota. The expectations of the visit and the ensuing happiness I was sure we would share deflated within the first three hours of our meeting face-to-face. Needless to say, the weekend ended poorly, despite the two months' worth of promises we made. "You heard love from the lips, you were rapt by the hips, and the promise was eternal but you couldn't see that far." This song, that lyric, that album, sustained me on my 12-hour drive home with my tail between my legs.
Cease – More of that trademark imagery. Also from The Gray Race, and also filled with personal meaning for me. "It evokes such pain and significance, what was once is reduced to rememberance."
A Streetkid Named Desire - The propulsive, powerful drums make this song; otherwise, it would just be another "Hooray For Me ..." (Which I do love, incidentally - it's just that I love it the one time.)
You’ve Got A Chance – The subject matter will look a little dated a few years from now – the absurdity of America’s obsession with reality TV – but the coda alone makes this opener from “The Process of Belief” a keeper.
Anesthesia - If I were ranking these songs after #4, this one would probably be #5. "I remember your face that August night when we lied about the beautiful times to come" is probably the saddest lyric they've ever written - and Graffin sings it at about 400 words per minute.
Too Much To Ask - If there were ever a Bad Religion theme song - other than the song "Bad Religion" itself - it would probably be this one. The first verse, Graffin sings about a lot of the simple things he desires - "A safe stroll in a middle-of-the-road community, a neighbor who in times of need will not turn away"; in the second verse, he sings about reality and how it runs counter to his desires: "Corruption at the expense of the simple majority, a violent clash, a plunder of the Third World, any wretched ploy that bolsters our economy."
Sanity – This song from No Control was so good that the band later made other songs that sounded almost exactly the same ("Faith Alone," "Infected" and "The Answer" have that same plodding midtempo 4/4 beat with four similar-sounding chords in each song), but fell short. This is another song in which Graffin paints such vivid imagery – “There’s a watch in my pocket, but its hands are broken – the face is blank, but the gears are turning.” This song would probably be #6 for me.
Sinister Rouge - More relevant lyrical content about the Catholic priest scandal. The song smokes.
Supersonic - Sometimes you just need to rock out mindlessly, faster and faster.
Boot Stamping On A Human Face Forever – I can imagine the discussion about this song while they were recording The Empire Strikes First:
"Let's do the bleakest song that we've ever done."
"Good idea!"
"And let's make it slow. And let's make it sound red."
"Awesome!"
"And let's give it a really bleak title."
"Yeah!"
And so they did. And it succeeded, on all counts. "You can't win," the chorus repeats. Did I say anything about it being bleak?
Incomplete - The first song on the first BR album I ever bought, Stranger Than Fiction. It's almost a song about futility - "I'm a prayer without faith, a temple with no god, a jack without an ace, the tip of your tongue, I'm a promise in an unmailed letter, an unbuilt motor, deck without a joker, a creeping gray memory ... I am incomplete ..." If the title track of the album hooked me, this one reeled me in.
Automatic Man - This one has another of my favorite lyrics: "A true creature of habit, he smokes three packs a day, when he has an original thought, he forgets it right away." Another one from No Control.
I Want To Conquer The World - This one attacks both hippie idealism and right-wing beliefs. "I want to conquer the world, give all the idiots a brand new religion ... do away with air pollution, and then I'll save the whales. We'll have peace on earth and global communion." Hee.
American Jesus – I can listen to and enjoy this one while completely ignoring the irony. “I don’t need to be a global citizen, cause I’m blessed by nationality.” USA! USA! USA!
New America – I thought this song from 2000's album of the same title was actually a little prescient, given the current political landscape. “You can live in such denial and mark me as your enemy, but I’m just a voice among the throng who want a brighter destiny.” After this part, the singalong chorus "We are the new America ... whoa-oh ... whoa-oh ..." is the centerpiece of this track, and then the drums kick back in, propelling the song to its end.
Along the Way - A classic from BR's first era (1980-85); this simple four-chorder goes down especially well live. "Don't forget to find love and happiness, unless you're willing to be strong when they are gone along the way."
The Walter Texas Ranger Chronicles ...
Oh. One post-script to my previous post.
Wife and I have fallen into a routine where, on a nightly basis, we watch the two-hour block of “M*A*S*H” on the Hallmark Channel, and we’re both either too lazy to turn the channel afterwards, or we know that the things one of us would want to watch is not something the other would be interested in, so we end up watching the Chuck Norris vehicle “Walker Texas Ranger” for at least an hour. (I started calling it "Walter Texas Ranger" for poops and giggles, and the name just kind of stuck.)
When I got back home last night, Wife had been awake for about 15 minutes, and she was sitting in the recliner in the living room. We’re both teetering on the brink of madness, anyway, thanks to the crazy shift she’s working this week, so when I got home with Son, she said to me, “I think that, for the sake of our sanity, we best not watch ‘Walter’ tonight.”
Me: “Why not? Are you already pretty slap-happy? It's only Tuesday, you know."
Her: “It’s the two-parter where he travels back in time, and he ---“
Me: “YES!!!!”
It doesn’t matter what she would have said after that – in a series that was often punctuated by moments of unintentional hilarity, “the one where he travels back in time” and “the one where he becomes a NASCAR driver” are two of the most unintentionally hilarious episodes in the history of television.
(And that’s not hyperbole, either.)
Wife and I have fallen into a routine where, on a nightly basis, we watch the two-hour block of “M*A*S*H” on the Hallmark Channel, and we’re both either too lazy to turn the channel afterwards, or we know that the things one of us would want to watch is not something the other would be interested in, so we end up watching the Chuck Norris vehicle “Walker Texas Ranger” for at least an hour. (I started calling it "Walter Texas Ranger" for poops and giggles, and the name just kind of stuck.)
When I got back home last night, Wife had been awake for about 15 minutes, and she was sitting in the recliner in the living room. We’re both teetering on the brink of madness, anyway, thanks to the crazy shift she’s working this week, so when I got home with Son, she said to me, “I think that, for the sake of our sanity, we best not watch ‘Walter’ tonight.”
Me: “Why not? Are you already pretty slap-happy? It's only Tuesday, you know."
Her: “It’s the two-parter where he travels back in time, and he ---“
Me: “YES!!!!”
It doesn’t matter what she would have said after that – in a series that was often punctuated by moments of unintentional hilarity, “the one where he travels back in time” and “the one where he becomes a NASCAR driver” are two of the most unintentionally hilarious episodes in the history of television.
(And that’s not hyperbole, either.)
Stendal: Welcome to the end of the world
Because this is an upside-down week in our household - Wife sleeps in the daylight hours because of the split-shift schedule that she is on - I take the opportunity to get our son out of the house and let her get at least a few more hours sleep. This was something that I did and wrote about a few weeks ago.
I loaded Son into my vehicle, sippy cup full of milk, and we drove to town to where U.S. 231 and 50 intersect, and turned west onto 50. U.S. 50 used to be a coast-to-coast highway, but the ends were truncated somewhat, and the highway now has endpoints in Ocean City, MD, and West Sacramento, CA. Time magazine a few years ago did a photo essay on U.S. 50, and Shoals (the town in which I grew up) was featured. It was a momentary blast of local pride.
(An aside: I love lightly disjointed English; the U.S. 50 site I linked above features this on its front page: "This web site will lead you to many interesting places. Please bookmark at this time ROUTE50.com. This allows you to return and continue your journey without delays. O.K.")
50 is still a major thoroughfare to the locals, and there’s still plenty of truck traffic on it, but its relevance is diminished somewhat by the arrival of the interstate system. But if you wanted to, you could still travel from California to Maryland on it, which I find neat.
Heading west out of Loogootee on 50, the next town one runs into is the small town of Montgomery (pop. roughly 500). Remember how I wrote a couple of weeks ago how thrilled I was to learn in elementary school that Indiana was the smallest state in the lower 48 west of the Alleghenies? Montgomery is the answer to another bit of useless trivia, one that I once thought was a much bigger deal than what it really is: It’s the highest point on Highway 50 between St. Louis and Cincinnati. Whoopee!
A few miles west of Montgomery is the city of Washington. Son and I forsook the bypass around the south end of Washington in order to take what is now Business 50 directly into the very dead east end of a dying city. It’s a side of town that will likely become even more dead once Wal-Mart moves from its current location along Business 50 to a lot along the bypass in the next year or so. I don’t begrudge Wal-Mart their move, incidentally; I’m not one who buys into the argument that Wal-Mart is the root of all evil. But I do see the connection between the arrival of Wal-Mart and the demise of a lot of locally-owned businesses, and what’s happened in Washington is a prime example.
Stoplights were once, in my mind, a pretty decent barometer of how healthy the business district of a small town is. (Is that irony - “stoplights” indicating “progress”?) Growing up, I always thought my town was a poor town because it only had a flashing caution light in the middle of town, while Washington was a more vibrant town because it not only had stoplights going north on 57, but stoplights stretching about 4 or 5 blocks down Main Street, and they were all synchronized, which was cool to watch if you’re 9. Now, post-Wal-Mart, the stoplights are still on 57, but on Main Street, they've been replaced by stop signs at those intersections to accommodate the decreased traffic.
The business vacuum that Wal-Mart created in the middle of Washington eventually claimed at least two casualties from my youth. When Highway 50 still ran through town instead of bypassing it, Washington was bookended by two discount stores that my family frequented fairly often: K-Mart on the east, and 3D on the west. Now, the first thing you see when you head west into Washington proper on Business 50 is the blight of a former K-Mart store that now sits empty and rusting, with grass growing in the parking lot, and the building is lifeless save for the occasional Halloween-time haunted house. Welcome to Washington!
The 3D chain, meanwhile, was beset by many problems (the company that bought Danner’s Stores, Inc. filed Chapter 11 in the late 1980s) and was replaced by Big Lots. Not one of the shiny new Big Lots with the redesigned logo and some semblance of order in its stores, either – this was an old Big Lots with the feminine products next to the Uncle Alfie’s Reconstituted Motor Oil, which was next to the stale cereal, which was next to the boxcutters, while the sign along the highway and on the building was a garish orange with the name in black in a skinny version of that T-shirt iron-on font. Eventually, it closed, and something called “STAGE” (you’ve gotta say it in all caps) was there for about 6 minutes. Now the building houses a locally owned office supply store, which means that they’re hopefully in for the long haul, as opposed to a national chain trying to make it work on what is essentially a dead-end road on a dead end of town. They probably can as long as Office Depot or Staples stays clear.
Anyway. Back to the travelogue. To keep him from getting restless, I bought Son a Happy Meal, and we left Washington, heading south on the often-flooded Indiana 257. There was still water standing in the fields from recent flooding at the Daviess-Pike County line, which is demarcated by the White River. 257 is usually among the first of the local highways to flood when the banks are no longer able to hold water after torrential rains, and usually the last to be reopened to traffic after the waters recede.
Son and I drove all the way to the end of 257, singing “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” and playing peek-a-boo. When we got to Otwell, however, the games had to stop momentarily, for I had to sing him the title ditty from the musical my buddies and I began to write one drunken night called “Otwell!” (The chorus of the title song was all that we really ended up writing, if by “chorus” you mean “a barbershop quartet-style recitation of the word ‘Otwell,’” and by “writing” you mean “not having the ambition to actually commit it to paper, instead singing it drunkenly at random intervals on the cue of the first among us to begin singing it and almost getting a noise complaint filed against us.”)
Otwell was also the site of a particularly shameful moment in my life some years ago. It was around the time that Denis Leary’s “No Cure For Cancer” comedy album came out, and the big song from that album was “Asshole.” One of Leary’s lines in the song was, “I use public toilets, and I piss on the seat.” I don’t think I really need to say any more than that. Doug from Maine was with me at the time, and he was flabbergasted. (It was in Pike County, so it was OK.)
257 meanders over rolling hills (do hills do anything else, really?) further south through Velpen, home to nothing else but 100 or so folks and a major trash-collection business. Velpen was one of those little towns that grew up and died along the rails. Some little towns, like Edwardsport over in Knox County, are “river towns” – where the telltale trees along the river tell you all you need to know without even seeing the water – while other towns like Velpen are “railroad towns,” where you can tell that the railroad, which still crosses 257, was once the major artery of the community, and its decline brought with it a certain poverty in the towns that once depended on it so much and were unable to adjust to the changing times. Both probably thrived at one time until other modes of transportation and delivery became cheaper and more popular. I imagine that 200 years from now, the highway will no longer be a major mode of travel, and towns that don’t adapt will wither on the vine along them like leaves on a dying houseplant, much like the river towns and railroad towns that preceded them.
Further south on 257, we crossed Indiana 64 and wound through the Pike County hills to Stendal. Like Velpen before it, there’s not much in Stendal aside from the creatively named “Stendal Store,” which looks to have been boarded up for years. Bruce Springsteen would call Stendal a “dead-end town”; technically, even though the pavement continues at the southern edge of Stendal, the official “highway” portion ends, and the road becomes a county road (I believe it is what the locals call “old 64”). It was a relief, really, to see a road continue from the end of 257; I was a map geek when I was a kid, and seeing Stendal at the end of the road there, I feared that the road just dropped off into nothingness at its terminus. Still, driving through it, you get a sort of an eerie feeling that if the world ever ends, it will either start here or end here.
We turned around and started back north; I don’t really like to do that on these trips, preferring to make a loop around instead of doubling back, but I didn’t have the time to explore further at the end of 257; it was nearing suppertime, and Son starts to get restless about 90 minutes into these trips. He can only jibberish his ABCs - and he gets especially excited when he gets to the last line; if he were able to actually speak the words, it would sound like, “Next. Time. Won’t. You. Sing. With. MEEEEEE!” – but it gets old for him after about 15 or 20 recitals. (Not for me, though. It’s the sweetest music in the world.)
I loaded Son into my vehicle, sippy cup full of milk, and we drove to town to where U.S. 231 and 50 intersect, and turned west onto 50. U.S. 50 used to be a coast-to-coast highway, but the ends were truncated somewhat, and the highway now has endpoints in Ocean City, MD, and West Sacramento, CA. Time magazine a few years ago did a photo essay on U.S. 50, and Shoals (the town in which I grew up) was featured. It was a momentary blast of local pride.
(An aside: I love lightly disjointed English; the U.S. 50 site I linked above features this on its front page: "This web site will lead you to many interesting places. Please bookmark at this time ROUTE50.com. This allows you to return and continue your journey without delays. O.K.")
50 is still a major thoroughfare to the locals, and there’s still plenty of truck traffic on it, but its relevance is diminished somewhat by the arrival of the interstate system. But if you wanted to, you could still travel from California to Maryland on it, which I find neat.
Heading west out of Loogootee on 50, the next town one runs into is the small town of Montgomery (pop. roughly 500). Remember how I wrote a couple of weeks ago how thrilled I was to learn in elementary school that Indiana was the smallest state in the lower 48 west of the Alleghenies? Montgomery is the answer to another bit of useless trivia, one that I once thought was a much bigger deal than what it really is: It’s the highest point on Highway 50 between St. Louis and Cincinnati. Whoopee!
A few miles west of Montgomery is the city of Washington. Son and I forsook the bypass around the south end of Washington in order to take what is now Business 50 directly into the very dead east end of a dying city. It’s a side of town that will likely become even more dead once Wal-Mart moves from its current location along Business 50 to a lot along the bypass in the next year or so. I don’t begrudge Wal-Mart their move, incidentally; I’m not one who buys into the argument that Wal-Mart is the root of all evil. But I do see the connection between the arrival of Wal-Mart and the demise of a lot of locally-owned businesses, and what’s happened in Washington is a prime example.
Stoplights were once, in my mind, a pretty decent barometer of how healthy the business district of a small town is. (Is that irony - “stoplights” indicating “progress”?) Growing up, I always thought my town was a poor town because it only had a flashing caution light in the middle of town, while Washington was a more vibrant town because it not only had stoplights going north on 57, but stoplights stretching about 4 or 5 blocks down Main Street, and they were all synchronized, which was cool to watch if you’re 9. Now, post-Wal-Mart, the stoplights are still on 57, but on Main Street, they've been replaced by stop signs at those intersections to accommodate the decreased traffic.
The business vacuum that Wal-Mart created in the middle of Washington eventually claimed at least two casualties from my youth. When Highway 50 still ran through town instead of bypassing it, Washington was bookended by two discount stores that my family frequented fairly often: K-Mart on the east, and 3D on the west. Now, the first thing you see when you head west into Washington proper on Business 50 is the blight of a former K-Mart store that now sits empty and rusting, with grass growing in the parking lot, and the building is lifeless save for the occasional Halloween-time haunted house. Welcome to Washington!
The 3D chain, meanwhile, was beset by many problems (the company that bought Danner’s Stores, Inc. filed Chapter 11 in the late 1980s) and was replaced by Big Lots. Not one of the shiny new Big Lots with the redesigned logo and some semblance of order in its stores, either – this was an old Big Lots with the feminine products next to the Uncle Alfie’s Reconstituted Motor Oil, which was next to the stale cereal, which was next to the boxcutters, while the sign along the highway and on the building was a garish orange with the name in black in a skinny version of that T-shirt iron-on font. Eventually, it closed, and something called “STAGE” (you’ve gotta say it in all caps) was there for about 6 minutes. Now the building houses a locally owned office supply store, which means that they’re hopefully in for the long haul, as opposed to a national chain trying to make it work on what is essentially a dead-end road on a dead end of town. They probably can as long as Office Depot or Staples stays clear.
Anyway. Back to the travelogue. To keep him from getting restless, I bought Son a Happy Meal, and we left Washington, heading south on the often-flooded Indiana 257. There was still water standing in the fields from recent flooding at the Daviess-Pike County line, which is demarcated by the White River. 257 is usually among the first of the local highways to flood when the banks are no longer able to hold water after torrential rains, and usually the last to be reopened to traffic after the waters recede.
Son and I drove all the way to the end of 257, singing “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” and playing peek-a-boo. When we got to Otwell, however, the games had to stop momentarily, for I had to sing him the title ditty from the musical my buddies and I began to write one drunken night called “Otwell!” (The chorus of the title song was all that we really ended up writing, if by “chorus” you mean “a barbershop quartet-style recitation of the word ‘Otwell,’” and by “writing” you mean “not having the ambition to actually commit it to paper, instead singing it drunkenly at random intervals on the cue of the first among us to begin singing it and almost getting a noise complaint filed against us.”)
Otwell was also the site of a particularly shameful moment in my life some years ago. It was around the time that Denis Leary’s “No Cure For Cancer” comedy album came out, and the big song from that album was “Asshole.” One of Leary’s lines in the song was, “I use public toilets, and I piss on the seat.” I don’t think I really need to say any more than that. Doug from Maine was with me at the time, and he was flabbergasted. (It was in Pike County, so it was OK.)
257 meanders over rolling hills (do hills do anything else, really?) further south through Velpen, home to nothing else but 100 or so folks and a major trash-collection business. Velpen was one of those little towns that grew up and died along the rails. Some little towns, like Edwardsport over in Knox County, are “river towns” – where the telltale trees along the river tell you all you need to know without even seeing the water – while other towns like Velpen are “railroad towns,” where you can tell that the railroad, which still crosses 257, was once the major artery of the community, and its decline brought with it a certain poverty in the towns that once depended on it so much and were unable to adjust to the changing times. Both probably thrived at one time until other modes of transportation and delivery became cheaper and more popular. I imagine that 200 years from now, the highway will no longer be a major mode of travel, and towns that don’t adapt will wither on the vine along them like leaves on a dying houseplant, much like the river towns and railroad towns that preceded them.
Further south on 257, we crossed Indiana 64 and wound through the Pike County hills to Stendal. Like Velpen before it, there’s not much in Stendal aside from the creatively named “Stendal Store,” which looks to have been boarded up for years. Bruce Springsteen would call Stendal a “dead-end town”; technically, even though the pavement continues at the southern edge of Stendal, the official “highway” portion ends, and the road becomes a county road (I believe it is what the locals call “old 64”). It was a relief, really, to see a road continue from the end of 257; I was a map geek when I was a kid, and seeing Stendal at the end of the road there, I feared that the road just dropped off into nothingness at its terminus. Still, driving through it, you get a sort of an eerie feeling that if the world ever ends, it will either start here or end here.
We turned around and started back north; I don’t really like to do that on these trips, preferring to make a loop around instead of doubling back, but I didn’t have the time to explore further at the end of 257; it was nearing suppertime, and Son starts to get restless about 90 minutes into these trips. He can only jibberish his ABCs - and he gets especially excited when he gets to the last line; if he were able to actually speak the words, it would sound like, “Next. Time. Won’t. You. Sing. With. MEEEEEE!” – but it gets old for him after about 15 or 20 recitals. (Not for me, though. It’s the sweetest music in the world.)
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Hmmmm ... Sampson, eh?
Eh.
Not exactly the bombshell hiring that you might have expected. I'm less than enthused right now.
My vote, incidentally, would have been for Rick Majerus. (My vote and a quarter will get you a cup of coffee, though.) That's a coach and a man that would have united the fanbase.
Not exactly the bombshell hiring that you might have expected. I'm less than enthused right now.
My vote, incidentally, would have been for Rick Majerus. (My vote and a quarter will get you a cup of coffee, though.) That's a coach and a man that would have united the fanbase.
Safety, pay drivers and those brave, brave sportswriters
Leave it to Robin Miller to speak all of the unspoken thoughts about Paul Dana’s death. And the Bloomington Herald-Times’ Kurt van der Dussen, for shame, used the occasion of the fatal accident as a platform for IRL/Champ Car reunification (pointlessly, the link is to a subscription site).
It appears that the hope against hope – that Dana had a throttle stuck open or nonfunctioning brakes – did not come to pass. Telemetry shows that Dana braked only a mere fraction of a second before his collision with Ed Carpenter’s car – much too late, especially given the fact that Dana had a full seven seconds to react by, you know, slowing down, easing off the accelerator, etc. It would have been one thing if Dana was right on top of Carpenter and had nowhere to go (and we likely wouldn’t be mourning his death today). But that wasn’t the case, and so another race car driver is to be buried shortly.
Other people are taking the opportunity to lay into the IRL for the lack of safety in the cars. Safety? Two thoughts:
1) I’m no physicist (or physician), but the laws of physics state that if you are going 176 miles per hour in a front-engine car and hit a stationary object, all of the HANS devices and energy-absorbing hoohah built into those cars won’t be particularly helpful, especially since the engine compartment will bisect your innards. You will likely die. (That’s verbatim from the Hoohah Corollary of Newton’s Fifth Law of Physics.)
2) Ed Carpenter’s stationary car absorbed an impact of – I can’t repeat this enough – 176 mph. Ask him what he thinks about the safety of the cars; the neat thing is that you can. It’s a testament to the safety advances made since the days of Sachs and MacDonald, since the days of IndyCars being true deathtraps. The fact that every bone in Carpenter’s body wasn’t disintegrated upon impact – the fact that he was released from the hospital yesterday with a bruised lung – says all you need to know about the safety of the vehicles.
There’s going to continue to be a bit of piling on in the coming days – that Paul Dana, a genuinely likable guy with a dream to race IndyCars, had no business being in same; that it’s shameful that auto racing is the only sport in which anyone who is monetarily able can put his life and the lives of others at risk. Look at the history of pay drivers in the world’s most popular form of open-wheel motorsport – and the tragic end of a young racer’s life is going to turn into the Dwayne Pafko Follies.
It appears that the hope against hope – that Dana had a throttle stuck open or nonfunctioning brakes – did not come to pass. Telemetry shows that Dana braked only a mere fraction of a second before his collision with Ed Carpenter’s car – much too late, especially given the fact that Dana had a full seven seconds to react by, you know, slowing down, easing off the accelerator, etc. It would have been one thing if Dana was right on top of Carpenter and had nowhere to go (and we likely wouldn’t be mourning his death today). But that wasn’t the case, and so another race car driver is to be buried shortly.
Other people are taking the opportunity to lay into the IRL for the lack of safety in the cars. Safety? Two thoughts:
1) I’m no physicist (or physician), but the laws of physics state that if you are going 176 miles per hour in a front-engine car and hit a stationary object, all of the HANS devices and energy-absorbing hoohah built into those cars won’t be particularly helpful, especially since the engine compartment will bisect your innards. You will likely die. (That’s verbatim from the Hoohah Corollary of Newton’s Fifth Law of Physics.)
2) Ed Carpenter’s stationary car absorbed an impact of – I can’t repeat this enough – 176 mph. Ask him what he thinks about the safety of the cars; the neat thing is that you can. It’s a testament to the safety advances made since the days of Sachs and MacDonald, since the days of IndyCars being true deathtraps. The fact that every bone in Carpenter’s body wasn’t disintegrated upon impact – the fact that he was released from the hospital yesterday with a bruised lung – says all you need to know about the safety of the vehicles.
There’s going to continue to be a bit of piling on in the coming days – that Paul Dana, a genuinely likable guy with a dream to race IndyCars, had no business being in same; that it’s shameful that auto racing is the only sport in which anyone who is monetarily able can put his life and the lives of others at risk. Look at the history of pay drivers in the world’s most popular form of open-wheel motorsport – and the tragic end of a young racer’s life is going to turn into the Dwayne Pafko Follies.
Monday, March 27, 2006
My goal is not for her to be shoeless and with child at all times. Really.
Ugh. It's another one of those weeks again, in which Wife gets up even earlier than the middle of the night and works until sometime in the late morning or early afternoon. I hate it for her, and I hate it for our son, whose poor little sleep pattern becomes disrupted beyond belief. I hate it hate it hate it. He was sleeping so well when we took him out to her vehicle. I just looked at her with tears welling up in my eyes and telling her over and over, "It's not right. It's not right for you, and it's not right for him."
I almost feel apologetic for her having to drag herself out in the middle of the night because I don't make enough money to where she can stay home with him. (Is that sexist? Probably. So?) I imagined that I'd be making six figures at age 31. I'm actually a seven-figure man now, if you count the cents ... most of us are, I reckon.
These nights are lonely ol', so sayeth The Coog. It's nights like these that I drink more (as opposed to other nights, when I drink zero) and stay up till 1, 2, 3 in the morning. Like tonight, for instance. I'm on Beer 1 right now, and I remember the good old days when I'd already be lit by this time of evening. I swear up and down - here at 10:13 in the evening - that I'm going to stop drinking by 11 and hit the sack.
It will be 11:45 before I notice the clock again. And roughly 2 o'clock before I drag my ass to bed.
Oh well. It's only Monday night, so it's not like the rest of my week will be ruined. Except it tends to be after nights like this.
Went to the store with Son tonight. Son is a chick magnet. Having a toddler far outweighs owning any dog as far as attracting girls goes. So, I'm all, "Yeah, it's really hard being a single dad" and gave my most mournful look.
No, not really. I just smiled and told Son to say things like "yes," "no," "thank you," and "bye-bye," which ... well, he waved "bye-bye" anyway. He did really well at the store - wasn't a complete and total terror - so I bought him a Hot Wheels car. It was a '69 Corvette, I believe. Having never been very enamored with Corvettes, I then told Son, "Hey, it's a Corvette! Can you say 'whoop-te-shit'?"
One of these days, he will, and I will kick myself very hard.
I almost feel apologetic for her having to drag herself out in the middle of the night because I don't make enough money to where she can stay home with him. (Is that sexist? Probably. So?) I imagined that I'd be making six figures at age 31. I'm actually a seven-figure man now, if you count the cents ... most of us are, I reckon.
These nights are lonely ol', so sayeth The Coog. It's nights like these that I drink more (as opposed to other nights, when I drink zero) and stay up till 1, 2, 3 in the morning. Like tonight, for instance. I'm on Beer 1 right now, and I remember the good old days when I'd already be lit by this time of evening. I swear up and down - here at 10:13 in the evening - that I'm going to stop drinking by 11 and hit the sack.
It will be 11:45 before I notice the clock again. And roughly 2 o'clock before I drag my ass to bed.
Oh well. It's only Monday night, so it's not like the rest of my week will be ruined. Except it tends to be after nights like this.
Went to the store with Son tonight. Son is a chick magnet. Having a toddler far outweighs owning any dog as far as attracting girls goes. So, I'm all, "Yeah, it's really hard being a single dad" and gave my most mournful look.
No, not really. I just smiled and told Son to say things like "yes," "no," "thank you," and "bye-bye," which ... well, he waved "bye-bye" anyway. He did really well at the store - wasn't a complete and total terror - so I bought him a Hot Wheels car. It was a '69 Corvette, I believe. Having never been very enamored with Corvettes, I then told Son, "Hey, it's a Corvette! Can you say 'whoop-te-shit'?"
One of these days, he will, and I will kick myself very hard.
The greatest upset in tournament history since last week!
My buddy Captain (not Captain Morgan, not Captain Jack, and not Roger Penske) asked me if I had any thoughts about what he heard someone call the Greatest Upset in Tournament History (i.e., George Mason over UConn on Sunday).
In sports and in elections, the public has a senility that irritates those of us who pay attention. Hey, people are given to hyperbole, and I'm guilty of it too at times - I try to avoid it, but sometimes I just get carried away.
But, really, there needs to be a little bit of perspective. Was it a great win? Yes. Was I jumping up and down? Yes. Was I happy they won? Hell, who wasn't, aside from UConn alumni and asshats who had UConn in their bracket?
But consider who GM beat to get to this point. They beat a pretty good Michigan State team in the first round despite their awful free throw shooting that could have iced it a lot sooner. Then they beat a North Carolina team that, admittedly, wasn't the best to come out of Chapel Hill, but for all intents and purposes, still should have beaten what was assumed to be the 31st or 32nd best at-large team. Then they beat the Wichita Linemen, who didn't have exactly an awful year. The Patriots have been a hot team, and hot teams excel in playoff situations - look at all of the Stanley Cups that otherwise average teams have won thanks to having a hot goalie - but their run has been legitimate. They've not really benefited from questionable calls, and it's not like they stand out on the wing and jack up 3s all game like they're channeling Bracey Wright - they're playing good, solid basketball. What's not to appreciate about that?
Then, consider UConn. They're a team that really should have lost in the first round to an Albany team that played way over its head for 30 minutes. If not Albany, then the Washington game in the Sweet 16 should have been their end; it took a guy hitting a 3 with two Washington defenders on him merely to send it into overtime. In other words, they've not played their best in the tournament, but did have luck on their side throughout. And luck in a single-elimination format means a lot.
So, long story short - was it an upset? Sure. The greatest upset in tournament history? Mmmmm ... give me #15 Hampton over #2 Iowa State in the first round a few years ago, or really, any #15 or #14 over a #2 or #3 (Richmond comes to mind here - was it Syracuse that they beat some years back?), especially since those 14s and 15s almost invariably go on to lose in the next round. GM has proven that it belongs in the tournament, that this run to the Final Four is no fluke, and if anything, they were underrated at an 11. (Hindsight is 20/20, of course.)
Anyway, good for them - it's good to see someone outside the major conference axis do well. I'm rooting for them next weekend, and I can't imagine that there will be many who don't. Of course, win or lose, there will be Mason fatigue by this point next week - every journalist will want to be looking for some angle, any angle, to cover the Final Four from the GM perspective, and there will be approximately 7,000 stories filed about the school and the team.
I still think it'd be awesome if the history books end up reading: "2001 - Duke; 2002 - Maryland; 2003 - Syracuse; 2004 - Connecticut; 2005 - North Carolina; 2006 - George Mason." And I think they've got as good a shot as anybody to take it all; the tournament is truly wide-open now. I'm just sad that the media is going to take this wonderful story and shove it down a willing public's collective throat. Perhaps it'd be best if I stayed away from all media for a week, because quite frankly, I don't want this truly grand story ruined for me.
In sports and in elections, the public has a senility that irritates those of us who pay attention. Hey, people are given to hyperbole, and I'm guilty of it too at times - I try to avoid it, but sometimes I just get carried away.
But, really, there needs to be a little bit of perspective. Was it a great win? Yes. Was I jumping up and down? Yes. Was I happy they won? Hell, who wasn't, aside from UConn alumni and asshats who had UConn in their bracket?
But consider who GM beat to get to this point. They beat a pretty good Michigan State team in the first round despite their awful free throw shooting that could have iced it a lot sooner. Then they beat a North Carolina team that, admittedly, wasn't the best to come out of Chapel Hill, but for all intents and purposes, still should have beaten what was assumed to be the 31st or 32nd best at-large team. Then they beat the Wichita Linemen, who didn't have exactly an awful year. The Patriots have been a hot team, and hot teams excel in playoff situations - look at all of the Stanley Cups that otherwise average teams have won thanks to having a hot goalie - but their run has been legitimate. They've not really benefited from questionable calls, and it's not like they stand out on the wing and jack up 3s all game like they're channeling Bracey Wright - they're playing good, solid basketball. What's not to appreciate about that?
Then, consider UConn. They're a team that really should have lost in the first round to an Albany team that played way over its head for 30 minutes. If not Albany, then the Washington game in the Sweet 16 should have been their end; it took a guy hitting a 3 with two Washington defenders on him merely to send it into overtime. In other words, they've not played their best in the tournament, but did have luck on their side throughout. And luck in a single-elimination format means a lot.
So, long story short - was it an upset? Sure. The greatest upset in tournament history? Mmmmm ... give me #15 Hampton over #2 Iowa State in the first round a few years ago, or really, any #15 or #14 over a #2 or #3 (Richmond comes to mind here - was it Syracuse that they beat some years back?), especially since those 14s and 15s almost invariably go on to lose in the next round. GM has proven that it belongs in the tournament, that this run to the Final Four is no fluke, and if anything, they were underrated at an 11. (Hindsight is 20/20, of course.)
Anyway, good for them - it's good to see someone outside the major conference axis do well. I'm rooting for them next weekend, and I can't imagine that there will be many who don't. Of course, win or lose, there will be Mason fatigue by this point next week - every journalist will want to be looking for some angle, any angle, to cover the Final Four from the GM perspective, and there will be approximately 7,000 stories filed about the school and the team.
I still think it'd be awesome if the history books end up reading: "2001 - Duke; 2002 - Maryland; 2003 - Syracuse; 2004 - Connecticut; 2005 - North Carolina; 2006 - George Mason." And I think they've got as good a shot as anybody to take it all; the tournament is truly wide-open now. I'm just sad that the media is going to take this wonderful story and shove it down a willing public's collective throat. Perhaps it'd be best if I stayed away from all media for a week, because quite frankly, I don't want this truly grand story ruined for me.
Seymour P.D.: Ready to start keeping the brothers down
Doesn't anyone who makes decisions about these things think this was an awkward choice of headline?
Wouldn't that be like opening a combination day care and rug cleaning place, and saying, "Beatings ready to begin at day care"?
Wouldn't that be like opening a combination day care and rug cleaning place, and saying, "Beatings ready to begin at day care"?
More stating the obvious ...
... in the form of this headline from the Bedford Times-Mail.
I would have thought that they would offer quickie lube jobs and dog perms. I don't know what they're doing, busting the mold like that and not offering services that you would expect.
I guess that's what they call "thinking outside of the box."
I would have thought that they would offer quickie lube jobs and dog perms. I don't know what they're doing, busting the mold like that and not offering services that you would expect.
I guess that's what they call "thinking outside of the box."
More racing tragedy ...
It was just one of those things where you hope – you pray - that it wasn’t driver error.
IndyCar driver Paul Dana’s fatal accident in practice at Homestead-Miami Speedway on Sunday was one of the most horrific crashes I’ve ever seen, topping even Alex Zanardi’s accident at the Lausitzring the weekend after 9/11, Kenny Brack’s accident at Texas Motor Speedway a couple of seasons ago, or Tom Sneva’s car’s disintegration at Indy in the 1970s.
For those who missed it, final practice for the IndyCar season opener started at 10am on Sunday morning, about 4 hours before the race. About three minutes into the session, Ed Carpenter’s car spun in one of the turns (“lazily,” many reports say), hit the wall, skidded along the wall, then slid back down the track to the apron. Roughly 7 seconds after the accident, in which most cars had slowed to a safer speed in response to a spotter’s instructions, the caution lights in their vehicles or on the track.
Paul Dana’s car, however, did not.
As the cameras were focused on Carpenter’s car, this blur inexplicably comes into the picture from the right and hits Carpenter’s disabled car head-on. Dana’s car was estimated to be traveling at around 176 mph when the collision occurred.
Carpenter and Dana were airlifted to a local trauma center; Carpenter was listed in stable condition with, amazingly, no broken bones, but Dana passed away in surgery.
Dana was slated to make his fourth career IndyCar start that afternoon, and his first for Rahal Letterman Racing as a teammate to Buddy Rice and Danica Patrick. He raced part of last year for Hemelgarn before breaking his back in practice for the Indy 500.
It was just one of those things where you hope – you pray – that it wasn’t driver error. We already know from Rahal Letterman’s statement that the spotter was communicating to Dana, and we know that the yellow caution lights in the cars and on the track were in working order. So, you hope that the black box telemetry will show that the throttle was stuck open or the brakes failed or something else went wrong on the car; you’d hate to think that a rookie mistake turned out to be a fatal error. I’ll reserve judgment until after we have more information.
Unfortunately, Dana’s passing has sparked a completely dumbass debate on the Indianapolis Star’s message boards. One idiot wrote, “NASCAR and IRL should be outlawed.” Others have taken the opportunity to use Dana’s death as a justification for a merger between rival racing organizations Indy Racing League and Champ Car.
The body’s not even cold yet. Ye gods.
Incidentally … be wary of anyone who says or writes about this or any other tragic passing: “At least he died doing what he loved.”
This should not be used as a mark of admiration or an acknowledgement of any sort of individualistic superiority. It’s probably the most trite, hackneyed tribute one could give. Consider:
A 400-pound guy who strokes out on the couch with a bag of potato chips in one hand and a box of Krispy Kremes in the other also died doing what he loved.
A john who’s in bed with a hooker when the pimp comes busting in and shoots him in the back of the head also died doing what he loved.
Len Bias died doing what he loved, too.
I’m just saying.
IndyCar driver Paul Dana’s fatal accident in practice at Homestead-Miami Speedway on Sunday was one of the most horrific crashes I’ve ever seen, topping even Alex Zanardi’s accident at the Lausitzring the weekend after 9/11, Kenny Brack’s accident at Texas Motor Speedway a couple of seasons ago, or Tom Sneva’s car’s disintegration at Indy in the 1970s.
For those who missed it, final practice for the IndyCar season opener started at 10am on Sunday morning, about 4 hours before the race. About three minutes into the session, Ed Carpenter’s car spun in one of the turns (“lazily,” many reports say), hit the wall, skidded along the wall, then slid back down the track to the apron. Roughly 7 seconds after the accident, in which most cars had slowed to a safer speed in response to a spotter’s instructions, the caution lights in their vehicles or on the track.
Paul Dana’s car, however, did not.
As the cameras were focused on Carpenter’s car, this blur inexplicably comes into the picture from the right and hits Carpenter’s disabled car head-on. Dana’s car was estimated to be traveling at around 176 mph when the collision occurred.
Carpenter and Dana were airlifted to a local trauma center; Carpenter was listed in stable condition with, amazingly, no broken bones, but Dana passed away in surgery.
Dana was slated to make his fourth career IndyCar start that afternoon, and his first for Rahal Letterman Racing as a teammate to Buddy Rice and Danica Patrick. He raced part of last year for Hemelgarn before breaking his back in practice for the Indy 500.
It was just one of those things where you hope – you pray – that it wasn’t driver error. We already know from Rahal Letterman’s statement that the spotter was communicating to Dana, and we know that the yellow caution lights in the cars and on the track were in working order. So, you hope that the black box telemetry will show that the throttle was stuck open or the brakes failed or something else went wrong on the car; you’d hate to think that a rookie mistake turned out to be a fatal error. I’ll reserve judgment until after we have more information.
Unfortunately, Dana’s passing has sparked a completely dumbass debate on the Indianapolis Star’s message boards. One idiot wrote, “NASCAR and IRL should be outlawed.” Others have taken the opportunity to use Dana’s death as a justification for a merger between rival racing organizations Indy Racing League and Champ Car.
The body’s not even cold yet. Ye gods.
Incidentally … be wary of anyone who says or writes about this or any other tragic passing: “At least he died doing what he loved.”
This should not be used as a mark of admiration or an acknowledgement of any sort of individualistic superiority. It’s probably the most trite, hackneyed tribute one could give. Consider:
A 400-pound guy who strokes out on the couch with a bag of potato chips in one hand and a box of Krispy Kremes in the other also died doing what he loved.
A john who’s in bed with a hooker when the pimp comes busting in and shoots him in the back of the head also died doing what he loved.
Len Bias died doing what he loved, too.
I’m just saying.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Formerly George and Sam's Masonry, until George bought out Sam's half
Congratulations go out to George's Masonry, who earned a spot in the prestigious NCAA Final Four by defeating the powerful UConn Huskies in overtime this afternoon in Washington, D.C. The Masoneers got into the tournament by defeating the Schenectady Knights of Columbus.
Ahhh, I kid. Just been waiting to use that joke all weekend, and didn't think I'd get the opportunity. Seriously, I shouldn't make light of it - the Patriots' run to the Final Four is probably the biggest "holy crap!" moment in sports in years.
Who was George Mason? Only the father of our Bill of Rights! Hey, who knew?
And enough of your fancy-schmancy old-money institutions of higher education - the school has only been around since 1972!
Here's a piece of unsolicited advice for GMU as it journeys to the RCA Dome for next weekend's Final Four: In Indianapolis, the distance from floor to rim is exactly 10 feet.
I think they can take it from there.
Ahhh, I kid. Just been waiting to use that joke all weekend, and didn't think I'd get the opportunity. Seriously, I shouldn't make light of it - the Patriots' run to the Final Four is probably the biggest "holy crap!" moment in sports in years.
Who was George Mason? Only the father of our Bill of Rights! Hey, who knew?
And enough of your fancy-schmancy old-money institutions of higher education - the school has only been around since 1972!
Here's a piece of unsolicited advice for GMU as it journeys to the RCA Dome for next weekend's Final Four: In Indianapolis, the distance from floor to rim is exactly 10 feet.
I think they can take it from there.
He was just trying to have women he's never had.
Hank Williams Jr.'s recent twin brushes with negative publicity - from the recent harassment allegations by a Memphis waitress to the allegation that he said he wanted only white medical personnel attending to his daughters (who were injured in an automobile accident a couple of weekends ago) - reminds me of two satirical pieces I wrote for my old website some years ago, around the time that Jett Williams' claims that she was Hank Jr.'s half-sister were coming to light.
I, of course, was confused and thought that the claim was that she was Hank Jr.'s daughter, which would have made the below writings a little bit more relevant, and maybe even funny. But they are neither. With apologies, the referenced pieces are reposted below in their entirety.
****
More illegitimate Williams children revealed
CULLMAN, AL (AP) - In a press conference Friday, British poofter Robbie Williams donned a cowboy hat and claimed that, like Hank Williams III and Jett Williams before him, he is also the offspring of country music legend Hank Williams Jr.
The former Take That member made his announcement in Hank Williams Jr.'s hometown of Cullman, Alabama. Flanked by his half-brother and half-sister, Robbie Williams said that he was conceived by the son of Hall of Famer Hank Williams when the singer was on tour in England in the early 1970s.
Robbie Williams recounted the story his mother told him as a child:
"When the 'Monsters of Country' tour stopped in Manchester for a gig at the Evening News Arena, Hank, Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings went to a pub after the show," Williams said. "Me mum was a barmaid there, and Hank took a bit of a shine to her.
"After closing time, Merle and Waylon went back to their hotel, while Hank and me mum went to her flat. They consummated their new friendship that evening, and he left in the morning for the next show in Leeds," Williams said. "She said that he wasn't exactly the best sex she ever had - he was really quite drunk, I reckon - but nine months later, there I was."
Robbie Williams said that as far as he knows, his mother's had no contact with the man who fell down a mountain, nor has he.
"I'm not bitter or anything like that," he said. "I'm not staking a claim of heirship on the Williams estate or anything; I've got enough money to buy and sell all of you twice. I just wanted to set the record straight."
Hank Williams Jr., who is not famous for the song "Hot to Trot" on his Lone Wolf record, was incredulous.
"I'm getting really sick of all this shit," Bocephus said. "Just because I had Little Bocephus out rather inappropriately on a few occasions doesn't mean that all of these kids who are claiming to be my kids are actually mine.
"Hell, I didn't even go to England until the early '90s, on my Screw You Saddam World Tour. I don't even know what language they speak over there - what, are they some sort of towelhead country? Cause you can't trust those towelheads. The Persian Gulf War proved that," Williams said.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go write with Kid Rock. That kid's got some talent, and I would be proud to have him for my son."
***
Red Sox slugger's search for father finds success
WINTER HAVEN, FL (AP) - Excerpts from an upcoming biography about the life of Boston Red Sox legend Ted Williams reveal an interesting bit of genealogical data.
Joe Klein's book "I'm Teddy Fucking Ballgame Of The Major Fucking Leagues," due in stores before Christmas, makes the assertion that the Hall of Fame slugger is the son of country music superstar Hank Williams Jr., who's not famous for the song "Hank Hill Is The King" from this year's record titled Stormy.
"I thought the old bastard had lost his mind," Klein writes in the book. "I was going to slap him upside the head with one of those fish he has on his wall, but with the popularity of those singing mounted fish, I was afraid I'd put him in the hereafter if I picked a fish that was actually mechanical in nature. So I just patronized him, smiled and nodded in silence.
"Ted said, 'Don't patronize me, you little prick. You think I've lost my mind, don't you? Well, my body might be failing, but my mind's still strong, and I'll tell you again: Hank Williams Jr. is my father.'
"After I did some research on the matter, I realized that he was right - the blood I culled from his bedpan matches the blood found in some skin samples scraped from that nasty fall Hank Williams Jr. had back in the early 1970s."
Genealogical experts are astounded at the virility of the man called Bocephus.
"To think that this man could father a child who was born some 30-35 years before him speaks volumes to the sheer will of his sperm. That's, if you would excuse the bad joke, strong stuff," said Dr. William Friedman of the Atlanta Institute of Genealogy.
Hank Williams Jr., who's not famous for his cover of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" from his High Notes album, was less than thrilled at the news. He threw his arms up and expressed astonishment at the baseball star's claim.
"Ted Williams can kiss my ass," he said. "I like to have women I've never had, but I promise you, as sure as I'm standing here, I've never had his mother.
"His claims are lucridous," Williams misspoke.
I, of course, was confused and thought that the claim was that she was Hank Jr.'s daughter, which would have made the below writings a little bit more relevant, and maybe even funny. But they are neither. With apologies, the referenced pieces are reposted below in their entirety.
****
More illegitimate Williams children revealed
CULLMAN, AL (AP) - In a press conference Friday, British poofter Robbie Williams donned a cowboy hat and claimed that, like Hank Williams III and Jett Williams before him, he is also the offspring of country music legend Hank Williams Jr.
The former Take That member made his announcement in Hank Williams Jr.'s hometown of Cullman, Alabama. Flanked by his half-brother and half-sister, Robbie Williams said that he was conceived by the son of Hall of Famer Hank Williams when the singer was on tour in England in the early 1970s.
Robbie Williams recounted the story his mother told him as a child:
"When the 'Monsters of Country' tour stopped in Manchester for a gig at the Evening News Arena, Hank, Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings went to a pub after the show," Williams said. "Me mum was a barmaid there, and Hank took a bit of a shine to her.
"After closing time, Merle and Waylon went back to their hotel, while Hank and me mum went to her flat. They consummated their new friendship that evening, and he left in the morning for the next show in Leeds," Williams said. "She said that he wasn't exactly the best sex she ever had - he was really quite drunk, I reckon - but nine months later, there I was."
Robbie Williams said that as far as he knows, his mother's had no contact with the man who fell down a mountain, nor has he.
"I'm not bitter or anything like that," he said. "I'm not staking a claim of heirship on the Williams estate or anything; I've got enough money to buy and sell all of you twice. I just wanted to set the record straight."
Hank Williams Jr., who is not famous for the song "Hot to Trot" on his Lone Wolf record, was incredulous.
"I'm getting really sick of all this shit," Bocephus said. "Just because I had Little Bocephus out rather inappropriately on a few occasions doesn't mean that all of these kids who are claiming to be my kids are actually mine.
"Hell, I didn't even go to England until the early '90s, on my Screw You Saddam World Tour. I don't even know what language they speak over there - what, are they some sort of towelhead country? Cause you can't trust those towelheads. The Persian Gulf War proved that," Williams said.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go write with Kid Rock. That kid's got some talent, and I would be proud to have him for my son."
***
Red Sox slugger's search for father finds success
WINTER HAVEN, FL (AP) - Excerpts from an upcoming biography about the life of Boston Red Sox legend Ted Williams reveal an interesting bit of genealogical data.
Joe Klein's book "I'm Teddy Fucking Ballgame Of The Major Fucking Leagues," due in stores before Christmas, makes the assertion that the Hall of Fame slugger is the son of country music superstar Hank Williams Jr., who's not famous for the song "Hank Hill Is The King" from this year's record titled Stormy.
"I thought the old bastard had lost his mind," Klein writes in the book. "I was going to slap him upside the head with one of those fish he has on his wall, but with the popularity of those singing mounted fish, I was afraid I'd put him in the hereafter if I picked a fish that was actually mechanical in nature. So I just patronized him, smiled and nodded in silence.
"Ted said, 'Don't patronize me, you little prick. You think I've lost my mind, don't you? Well, my body might be failing, but my mind's still strong, and I'll tell you again: Hank Williams Jr. is my father.'
"After I did some research on the matter, I realized that he was right - the blood I culled from his bedpan matches the blood found in some skin samples scraped from that nasty fall Hank Williams Jr. had back in the early 1970s."
Genealogical experts are astounded at the virility of the man called Bocephus.
"To think that this man could father a child who was born some 30-35 years before him speaks volumes to the sheer will of his sperm. That's, if you would excuse the bad joke, strong stuff," said Dr. William Friedman of the Atlanta Institute of Genealogy.
Hank Williams Jr., who's not famous for his cover of the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" from his High Notes album, was less than thrilled at the news. He threw his arms up and expressed astonishment at the baseball star's claim.
"Ted Williams can kiss my ass," he said. "I like to have women I've never had, but I promise you, as sure as I'm standing here, I've never had his mother.
"His claims are lucridous," Williams misspoke.
It took people like us to make people like him.
Buck Owens, who passed away Saturday, had a stretch of success between from 1963 to 1972 that was rivaled only by The Beatles - one that he will not be remembered for so much as his television career. Although TV fans owe a debt to Owens - while he had nothing to do with getting the Smothers Brothers off the air (they shot their own selves in the foot on that one), it was "Hee Haw" that replaced their show on CBS - he should be also fondly remembered for more so than the hayseed character he played on that show.
Country music owes a debt to Owens, one that only a few artists today are willing to acknowledge and repay. Yet from "Act Naturally" in 1963, Owens' first #1 hit, to 1972's "Made in Japan," his final #1 hit, Buck was consistently atop the charts with a sound that ushered in a new era in country music - one that appealed to fans of pop as well as country: Buck and the Buckaroos had the flash to go with the songs. His biggest hit was "Love's Gonna Live Here," a tune that, despite the fact it didn't even break 2 minutes, spent an astounding 16 weeks atop the charts.
He was hesitant to call himself a "country" artist, though, preferring to call his music "American music." To that end, Buck even had a #1 with 1969's "Who's Gonna Mow Your Grass," on which Don Rich's fuzztone guitar gave it an almost-psychedelic feel. Buck's crossover appeal landed him gigs at the Fillmore in San Francisco at a time when there was a great divide between the anti-war, hippie movement and the part of America now known as the "red states" - his appeal was such that his name was dropped in one of CCR's biggest hits, "Lookin' Out My Back Door."
The gigs that he still played at his Crystal Palace on Friday and Saturday nights (simulcast on the Internet) were for the pure joy of playing music, not because he needed to make ends meet; Buck's business acumen during his heyday ensured that he would live the rest of his life in comfort.
Buck Owens will be missed.
Country music owes a debt to Owens, one that only a few artists today are willing to acknowledge and repay. Yet from "Act Naturally" in 1963, Owens' first #1 hit, to 1972's "Made in Japan," his final #1 hit, Buck was consistently atop the charts with a sound that ushered in a new era in country music - one that appealed to fans of pop as well as country: Buck and the Buckaroos had the flash to go with the songs. His biggest hit was "Love's Gonna Live Here," a tune that, despite the fact it didn't even break 2 minutes, spent an astounding 16 weeks atop the charts.
He was hesitant to call himself a "country" artist, though, preferring to call his music "American music." To that end, Buck even had a #1 with 1969's "Who's Gonna Mow Your Grass," on which Don Rich's fuzztone guitar gave it an almost-psychedelic feel. Buck's crossover appeal landed him gigs at the Fillmore in San Francisco at a time when there was a great divide between the anti-war, hippie movement and the part of America now known as the "red states" - his appeal was such that his name was dropped in one of CCR's biggest hits, "Lookin' Out My Back Door."
The gigs that he still played at his Crystal Palace on Friday and Saturday nights (simulcast on the Internet) were for the pure joy of playing music, not because he needed to make ends meet; Buck's business acumen during his heyday ensured that he would live the rest of his life in comfort.
Buck Owens will be missed.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Pittsnogle! Pittsnogle! Pittsnogle! ...... aw, crap.
The title of this post details my thoughts over the last 7 seconds of last night's Texas-West Virginia tournament matchup, when WV's Kevin Pittsnogle drained a 3 from about 23 feet out to tie the game with 8 seconds left, only to have Texas come right back down the court and sink a 3 to win in the final second.
One other thought about last night's tournament action: I'm kind of glad that I didn't go on record complaining about Gonzaga's 3 seed - I had them pegged as a 1, because I've been biased toward the Bulldogs for a few years now, and because I thought Memphis was too weak for a 1 seed.
"Fuh fuh fuh, strength of schedule, fuh fuh fuh," you might say.
Yes, but a lot of those strong UNLV teams from the late '80s and early '90s played in the PCAA, which was a conference composed of UNLV, Nevada School for the Blind, California Triple Amputee Tech, Lodi ITT Institute, the Elko Sisters of the Poor, and a couple of other schools - and they still got their 1 seeding. St. Joe's, a 1 a couple of years ago, played Cannelton 3 times. And several of those DePaul teams from the early '80s (R.I.P., Ray Meyer, by the way) were top-seeded and fell in the first round (this was before the tournament went to 64 teams).
So you know what you can do with your "strength of schedule" argument.
But the 'Zags played like a 1 for about 37 minutes last night. Unfortunately, regulation college basketball games last 40 minutes. Rats. Credit UCLA (damn them) for hanging in there and not owning a dictionary so they wouldn't know the meaning of the word "quit."
Oh, and a mighty roar was heard across the land as top-seeded Duke fell. Hooray, I guess ... I don't have any animosity toward Duke. They run a clean program and win games the right way. (So let's damn their success!)
With the fall of Bradley and Gonzaga, I have approximately two teams left to root for, and they play each other tonight. You can probably guess who they are. One will lose tonight, and one will lose to UConn on Sunday. They probably don't know that yet, though. Hopefully no one will tell them.
One other thought about last night's tournament action: I'm kind of glad that I didn't go on record complaining about Gonzaga's 3 seed - I had them pegged as a 1, because I've been biased toward the Bulldogs for a few years now, and because I thought Memphis was too weak for a 1 seed.
"Fuh fuh fuh, strength of schedule, fuh fuh fuh," you might say.
Yes, but a lot of those strong UNLV teams from the late '80s and early '90s played in the PCAA, which was a conference composed of UNLV, Nevada School for the Blind, California Triple Amputee Tech, Lodi ITT Institute, the Elko Sisters of the Poor, and a couple of other schools - and they still got their 1 seeding. St. Joe's, a 1 a couple of years ago, played Cannelton 3 times. And several of those DePaul teams from the early '80s (R.I.P., Ray Meyer, by the way) were top-seeded and fell in the first round (this was before the tournament went to 64 teams).
So you know what you can do with your "strength of schedule" argument.
But the 'Zags played like a 1 for about 37 minutes last night. Unfortunately, regulation college basketball games last 40 minutes. Rats. Credit UCLA (damn them) for hanging in there and not owning a dictionary so they wouldn't know the meaning of the word "quit."
Oh, and a mighty roar was heard across the land as top-seeded Duke fell. Hooray, I guess ... I don't have any animosity toward Duke. They run a clean program and win games the right way. (So let's damn their success!)
With the fall of Bradley and Gonzaga, I have approximately two teams left to root for, and they play each other tonight. You can probably guess who they are. One will lose tonight, and one will lose to UConn on Sunday. They probably don't know that yet, though. Hopefully no one will tell them.
So, how 'bout this weather?
I am hesitant to turn this blog into anything that resembles the foibles and complaints of modern society as a whole. For instance, I’m not going to write about the awfulness of the tax code, or being behind on bills, or the latest calamity put forth by the ACLU, or how dumb my NCAA bracket turned out, or the latest bad beat I took at the poker table. I’m even less interested in writing about them than you are in reading about them, and I know that your interest level in reading such things ranks somewhere between “unanesthesized root canal” and “boiling oil enema.” Besides, there are plenty of jackasses out there who will write e-mails or post blog entries or talk around the water cooler, thinking they’ve struck a nerve by kvetching about same (or many other things). It’s all very trite, and highly irrelevant to everyone except for the person doing the bitching, who is more interested in hearing himself talk and trying to earn someone’s sympathy than in keeping anyone else’s interest. Long story short, I try to write about things that I think you’ll care about reading and keep coming back to read more about.
In adhering to this rule, I also try to avoid writing about bad bosses. Most of us have worked for someone who we thought fit to a T the dictionary’s definition of “retarded,” or at the very least, “mouth-breather.” They’re really a dime a dozen, but for the most part, they’re not as bad as we make them out to be. The Dilbertization of corporate America – that is to say, the feeling that we are smarter than and superior in all respects to our superiors – is something that really annoys me. I think there’s a reason that a lot of these genii haven’t advanced to a level somewhere above themselves, whether it’s to a supervisory position or to CFO – I’m sure you know that you can do the job better than the chimpanzee with the corner office, and you know this solely because you haven’t considered the constraints involved and all the people to whom you would have to answer, whether it’s stockholders or four other bosses that the position has a dotted line to. (This isn't the case in all situations, but I would venture that it's the case in at least one.)
Are there bad people in business? Of course there are! There are unscrupulous, unethical, unsavory, just plain awful people in business who do their best to get ahead by stepping on your head – just as there are in every walk of life. There are those types of people in business … and religion … and sports … and politics … and liberal activism … and entertainment (but I repeat myself!).
To a person, all of my bosses have been very good, or at least mildly competent in some respects, and have been generally pleasant to work for. I’ve never worked for anyone who I thought was the product of a drunken tryst between Satan, Hitler and bin Laden. No, maybe I wouldn’t want to go have a beer with some of them after work – doesn’t make them bad people.
All that being said: I need to vent for just a moment. I work for, though am not employed by, a boss with whom this conversation would not be out of the ordinary should it ever happen:
Me: “O Fearless Leader, I impaled my head on a rusty metal spike over the weekend; the wound got infected and I have tetanus in my brain. The doctors say I have 18 hours to live.”
Fearless Leader: “You think you’ve got it bad? I hit my funny bone on the coffee table this weekend, and it hurt!”
Or:
Me: “O Fearless Leader, a meteor hit my house last night while I was in town, leaving my 3 acres a steaming crater. My family’s vaporized, everything I own is gone, and I’ve dug out a hole in the side of the crater to live out the rest of my days. Oh, and it might have been radioactive, the meteor … I think I feel myself mutating right now … oh, there went my torso.”
Fearless Leader: “That’s nothing! I had a gallon of milk in my fridge a few months ago that was a couple of days past its expiration date, and before I poured it out, I took a whiff of it – man, it smelled awful!”
Yep, he’s one of those people for whom conversations with other people are a constant game of “I Can Top That,” for whom every minor incident is a personal tragedy on par with the Hindenburg disaster. Oh well – for some people, sympathy is like crack, and they ache, yearn, need to gain a sympathetic ear about something. I confess to being guilty of enabling him; I can tell a person to "suck it up!" in print, but not really in person. (Hypocrite! I know.)
My other quibble with ol’ Fearless is with the fact that the verbal jabs and snipes tend to get a little personal – specifically, with the fact that I don’t have as much hair on my head as a man my age should otherwise have. This is something I hear about on average of three times a week from him, but it’s picked up more as of late.
Hey, I'm a good sport. I don’t have a problem with it … once. Even twice. OK, I get it, ha ha, I’m losing my hair. Good stuff, sir – that’s classic! Thank God I’m not getting chemotherapy, huh? Hee. I love refined humor like that. Take my wife, please. Rectum, damn near killed ‘em. The world’s smartest man just jumped out of the plane with my knapsack, et cetera, ad infinitum, altius mobius veritas.
But the constant picking and sniping gets old. Quickly. I’m just afraid I’m going to come back one of these days with something along the lines of, “Shut up, Fatty, your son’s adopted! What’s the matter, were you shooting blanks? Or are you just incapable of an erection? They make drugs for that, you know. VIAGRA! HA! HA! HA! I said ‘Viagra’!”
So, anyone got any other “bad boss” stories? Cause I just love hearing them! Post them to the comments section, plus any stories about your three 10s getting rivered by an inside straight draw. I’ll take the best ones and ignore them.
That is all.
In adhering to this rule, I also try to avoid writing about bad bosses. Most of us have worked for someone who we thought fit to a T the dictionary’s definition of “retarded,” or at the very least, “mouth-breather.” They’re really a dime a dozen, but for the most part, they’re not as bad as we make them out to be. The Dilbertization of corporate America – that is to say, the feeling that we are smarter than and superior in all respects to our superiors – is something that really annoys me. I think there’s a reason that a lot of these genii haven’t advanced to a level somewhere above themselves, whether it’s to a supervisory position or to CFO – I’m sure you know that you can do the job better than the chimpanzee with the corner office, and you know this solely because you haven’t considered the constraints involved and all the people to whom you would have to answer, whether it’s stockholders or four other bosses that the position has a dotted line to. (This isn't the case in all situations, but I would venture that it's the case in at least one.)
Are there bad people in business? Of course there are! There are unscrupulous, unethical, unsavory, just plain awful people in business who do their best to get ahead by stepping on your head – just as there are in every walk of life. There are those types of people in business … and religion … and sports … and politics … and liberal activism … and entertainment (but I repeat myself!).
To a person, all of my bosses have been very good, or at least mildly competent in some respects, and have been generally pleasant to work for. I’ve never worked for anyone who I thought was the product of a drunken tryst between Satan, Hitler and bin Laden. No, maybe I wouldn’t want to go have a beer with some of them after work – doesn’t make them bad people.
All that being said: I need to vent for just a moment. I work for, though am not employed by, a boss with whom this conversation would not be out of the ordinary should it ever happen:
Me: “O Fearless Leader, I impaled my head on a rusty metal spike over the weekend; the wound got infected and I have tetanus in my brain. The doctors say I have 18 hours to live.”
Fearless Leader: “You think you’ve got it bad? I hit my funny bone on the coffee table this weekend, and it hurt!”
Or:
Me: “O Fearless Leader, a meteor hit my house last night while I was in town, leaving my 3 acres a steaming crater. My family’s vaporized, everything I own is gone, and I’ve dug out a hole in the side of the crater to live out the rest of my days. Oh, and it might have been radioactive, the meteor … I think I feel myself mutating right now … oh, there went my torso.”
Fearless Leader: “That’s nothing! I had a gallon of milk in my fridge a few months ago that was a couple of days past its expiration date, and before I poured it out, I took a whiff of it – man, it smelled awful!”
Yep, he’s one of those people for whom conversations with other people are a constant game of “I Can Top That,” for whom every minor incident is a personal tragedy on par with the Hindenburg disaster. Oh well – for some people, sympathy is like crack, and they ache, yearn, need to gain a sympathetic ear about something. I confess to being guilty of enabling him; I can tell a person to "suck it up!" in print, but not really in person. (Hypocrite! I know.)
My other quibble with ol’ Fearless is with the fact that the verbal jabs and snipes tend to get a little personal – specifically, with the fact that I don’t have as much hair on my head as a man my age should otherwise have. This is something I hear about on average of three times a week from him, but it’s picked up more as of late.
Hey, I'm a good sport. I don’t have a problem with it … once. Even twice. OK, I get it, ha ha, I’m losing my hair. Good stuff, sir – that’s classic! Thank God I’m not getting chemotherapy, huh? Hee. I love refined humor like that. Take my wife, please. Rectum, damn near killed ‘em. The world’s smartest man just jumped out of the plane with my knapsack, et cetera, ad infinitum, altius mobius veritas.
But the constant picking and sniping gets old. Quickly. I’m just afraid I’m going to come back one of these days with something along the lines of, “Shut up, Fatty, your son’s adopted! What’s the matter, were you shooting blanks? Or are you just incapable of an erection? They make drugs for that, you know. VIAGRA! HA! HA! HA! I said ‘Viagra’!”
So, anyone got any other “bad boss” stories? Cause I just love hearing them! Post them to the comments section, plus any stories about your three 10s getting rivered by an inside straight draw. I’ll take the best ones and ignore them.
That is all.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
The two funniest things I've seen this week:
I believe this is a response to the plethora - and I hate it when amateur journalists use that term, because they think it makes them sound smarter than what they really are; it's almost the first "big" word that many of them learn to use in stories - anyway, there it is - of the Coach K ads that air during the NCAA Tournament.
I'd better get in on this Bonds book bandwagon. Here's a quick and dirty press release:
"Amateur blogger Brandon G. announced today that he has read numerous news articles detailing Barry Bonds' alleged steroid use. This shocking revelation is detailed in his upcoming book, 'I Wasn't There, But I've Read That Barry Bonds Was On The Juice,' which will be released by Hyperion in July."
"You know what I'm sayin'?" "I hear ya, Hulkster."
Hulk Hogan appeared on Fox Sports' "Best Goshdanged Sports Show In The World" or whatever it's called. He was shilling the new season of his VH1 reality show, "Hogan Knows Best." It wasn't must-see TV for me; rather, I was flipping through the channels during a timeout in the Gonzaga-UCLA game, saw that Hogan was slated to appear on "BGSSITW" (or whatever it's called) and dropped in for a few minutes to see the happenings. As it turns out, Chris Rose was just introducing Hogan ... who came out wearing the biker's bandana as usual, strumming an air guitar, and just generally being Hulk.
In the first two minutes of the interview, Hogan mentioned a "booty call" and used the phrase "you know what I'm saying?" twice (with the hand gestures and everything). Duly revulsed, I turned the TV back to the Gonzaga game.
Seeing Hogan on TV, or even thinking about him, is ... I don't know ... odd for me anymore. It's easy to forget that, for a time, he was probably one of the most recognizable man in America. These days, though, there's almost a surreal quality to him, or at least to the thoughts about him. It's not something I can put my finger on, and I'm not even sure what I can liken it to. I suppose that when we see relics from our youth come back to life - not that Hogan was ever dead, per se - it brings a feeling of, "He's not really supposed to be here, is he? What was the turn of events led him to be here in this moment, on this TV show or in this particular thought?"
I don't know - I'm doing an awful job of verbalizing it - but it's just weird. You know what I'm saying?
In the first two minutes of the interview, Hogan mentioned a "booty call" and used the phrase "you know what I'm saying?" twice (with the hand gestures and everything). Duly revulsed, I turned the TV back to the Gonzaga game.
Seeing Hogan on TV, or even thinking about him, is ... I don't know ... odd for me anymore. It's easy to forget that, for a time, he was probably one of the most recognizable man in America. These days, though, there's almost a surreal quality to him, or at least to the thoughts about him. It's not something I can put my finger on, and I'm not even sure what I can liken it to. I suppose that when we see relics from our youth come back to life - not that Hogan was ever dead, per se - it brings a feeling of, "He's not really supposed to be here, is he? What was the turn of events led him to be here in this moment, on this TV show or in this particular thought?"
I don't know - I'm doing an awful job of verbalizing it - but it's just weird. You know what I'm saying?
Tater Salad Rides Again
It is with great trepidation that I will sit down with Wife on Sunday night and take in the new Ron White standup special on Comedy Central.
White was, I thought, the star of the original "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" concert film (and Larry the Cable Guy is the one with the film deal, which proves that it's futile to ask for justice in this world because there is none). I also thought that his routine on the "Blue Collar" sequel was probably the lowlight of the film, because I had such high expectations for his performance. Quite frankly, he looked like shit - his hair had grown out, and he looked like he'd put on about 60 pounds - and his routine was mostly recycled from the first film, as well as his two other Comedy Central specials.
The guy can be the funniest man on the planet when he gives a damn. But given how flat his portion of "Blue Collar Rides Again" was, and given the fact that the ad for his upcoming special already featured part of one bit that I know I've heard before, I have rather low expectations for Sunday night. Perhaps I'll be pleasantly surprised.
White was, I thought, the star of the original "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" concert film (and Larry the Cable Guy is the one with the film deal, which proves that it's futile to ask for justice in this world because there is none). I also thought that his routine on the "Blue Collar" sequel was probably the lowlight of the film, because I had such high expectations for his performance. Quite frankly, he looked like shit - his hair had grown out, and he looked like he'd put on about 60 pounds - and his routine was mostly recycled from the first film, as well as his two other Comedy Central specials.
The guy can be the funniest man on the planet when he gives a damn. But given how flat his portion of "Blue Collar Rides Again" was, and given the fact that the ad for his upcoming special already featured part of one bit that I know I've heard before, I have rather low expectations for Sunday night. Perhaps I'll be pleasantly surprised.
Another 60 minutes I'll never get back ...
"Lost" continued its eminently disappointing season last night. I don't know why I even bother.
If there was a character on a TV show that ever needed killed off, it's the unlikeable Ana-Lucia. Throughout TV history, I've tended to like the unlikeable characters - Sawyer on "Lost," J.R. Ewing on "Dallas," Bobby Heenan, etc.
But Ana-Lucia brings absolutely nothing to the show. I guess if she brought more to the table than a range of "snarl" to "grimace," I'd be a little more prone to empathize with her.
But ... she sucks.
If there was a character on a TV show that ever needed killed off, it's the unlikeable Ana-Lucia. Throughout TV history, I've tended to like the unlikeable characters - Sawyer on "Lost," J.R. Ewing on "Dallas," Bobby Heenan, etc.
But Ana-Lucia brings absolutely nothing to the show. I guess if she brought more to the table than a range of "snarl" to "grimace," I'd be a little more prone to empathize with her.
But ... she sucks.
Next thing you know, they'll get Cedric the Entertainer to play Ralph Kramden ... oh, wait ...
Lindsay Lohan is "desperate" to play the title role in the upcoming "Wonder Woman" remake.
It'd be only slightly less ridiculous than having a "Xena" movie and getting Dakota Fanning to play the title role. (Either now or when she's legal.)
Or ...
"Coming this summer ... Tim Allen in ..."
"Trust me ... I know what I'm doing."
"Sledge Hammer! This movie is not yet rated."
Which, actually, wouldn't be awful.
It'd be only slightly less ridiculous than having a "Xena" movie and getting Dakota Fanning to play the title role. (Either now or when she's legal.)
Or ...
"Coming this summer ... Tim Allen in ..."
"Trust me ... I know what I'm doing."
"Sledge Hammer! This movie is not yet rated."
Which, actually, wouldn't be awful.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
What a great move - it was just awful!
Over at foxsports.com, former champion crew chief Barry Dodson provided “instant analysis” of yesterday’s NASCAR race. While it was nearly as sleep-inducing as the race itself likely was, I did find humor in one bit of Dodsonwisdom.
Because the race was rained out on Sunday (depriving me of my Sunday afternoon nap), there was concern about tire wear, as the rain washed away all of the rubber laid down during practice, qualifying, the Busch race and the truck race. There was talk of a “competition caution” coming out around lap 30 to check tire wear. But a caution came out around lap 13, prompting this from Dodson:
But then, just a few paragraphs later, when a caution came out at lap 42, Dodson states:
Because the race was rained out on Sunday (depriving me of my Sunday afternoon nap), there was concern about tire wear, as the rain washed away all of the rubber laid down during practice, qualifying, the Busch race and the truck race. There was talk of a “competition caution” coming out around lap 30 to check tire wear. But a caution came out around lap 13, prompting this from Dodson:
They're glad to see that. This is going to be the best read that they get for tire read (sic) all day, with it being a given that it's only going to get better.(Emphasis added.)
But then, just a few paragraphs later, when a caution came out at lap 42, Dodson states:
You're going to see everybody on pit road. Everybody will take advantage and get four tires. At just 15 laps, you're just kidding yourself if you think you've got a good read on the tires.Brandon confused!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Darn you, Mark Trail and your magical talking box! (Also, cute stories about my son.)
Wife and I were awakened at 4 this morning by Craig, when the National Weather Service decided that 4 am was the optimal time to activate its warning system for a winter storm warning. This is all well and good; Mark Trail and I love our NOAA All-Hazards radios ... but here's the kicker:
The winter storm was not yet bearing down on us; it only fit the loosest definition of "imminent." The warning was issued for 1 am tonight ... which gave me about 21 hours to get the cows and chickens into the barn. If, you know, I ... had ... cows and chickens. (I don't.)
(I get the feeling that winter storms are the Dutch Elm Disease of weather phenomena ... slow to progress and ultimately full of doom.)
(Mark Trail was always one of those comics I'd read growing up and wonder, "Why isn't this funny? It's in the funny pages." Much like "Rex Morgan," or "Mary Worth," or "Nancy.")
(Does anyone even call them "the funny pages" anymore?)
So, you know, I appreciate the lead time and all, but I'm thinking that there was about 9 hours too much lead time in this case. Especially when the alarm activates at 4 in the friggin' morning. Thanks, National Weather Service!
It didn't help that Wife has been thoroughly zapped by a particularly nasty case of the flu, which set in on Friday night and thusly ruined her weekend. She intended to suck it up this morning and go to work, and even got started on the right foot (early morning wakeup call from Craig notwithstanding). Then, after her shower, she came back into our boudoir and sat on the edge of the bed for about 20 minutes, trying to find the strength to finish getting ready for work. She mustered only enough to make it to the living room and was tapped out afterwards. On top of that, she spent a physically and mentally exhausting day with Son. She says she's going to try to make a go of it again tomorrow morning, weather and stomach virus permitting. I don't really foresee it happening - not because I doubt her inner strength or her overall work ethic, but because we are slated to get about 3 inches of snow in the overnight and another 3 in the morning. It's hard enough to drive on roads covered with snow and sleet and ice at full strength.
Son has taken to learning a new thing. He knows the word "no," but he doesn't really know the word "yes." It's very sweet; it's not a petulant "no" like you'd expect out of a 4-year-old or a teenager. It's more of an innocent, sweet "no":
"Son, did you have fun at the sitter's today?"
"No." (His voice lilts up at the end.)
"Son, would you like some more milk?"
"No." ... and then he gets his empty sippie cup and hands it to one of us to go get him more milk.
"Son, do you love Mommy and Daddy?"
"No."
"Son, do you not love Mommy and Daddy?"
(silence)
Anyway, it's the sweetest thing in the world right now.
Off to bed. I've shut off the alarm function on my weather radio; I don't need to be awakened at midnight to learn that snow is imminent. I know it's going to friggin' snow. Barn up the cows and chickens.
The winter storm was not yet bearing down on us; it only fit the loosest definition of "imminent." The warning was issued for 1 am tonight ... which gave me about 21 hours to get the cows and chickens into the barn. If, you know, I ... had ... cows and chickens. (I don't.)
(I get the feeling that winter storms are the Dutch Elm Disease of weather phenomena ... slow to progress and ultimately full of doom.)
(Mark Trail was always one of those comics I'd read growing up and wonder, "Why isn't this funny? It's in the funny pages." Much like "Rex Morgan," or "Mary Worth," or "Nancy.")
(Does anyone even call them "the funny pages" anymore?)
So, you know, I appreciate the lead time and all, but I'm thinking that there was about 9 hours too much lead time in this case. Especially when the alarm activates at 4 in the friggin' morning. Thanks, National Weather Service!
It didn't help that Wife has been thoroughly zapped by a particularly nasty case of the flu, which set in on Friday night and thusly ruined her weekend. She intended to suck it up this morning and go to work, and even got started on the right foot (early morning wakeup call from Craig notwithstanding). Then, after her shower, she came back into our boudoir and sat on the edge of the bed for about 20 minutes, trying to find the strength to finish getting ready for work. She mustered only enough to make it to the living room and was tapped out afterwards. On top of that, she spent a physically and mentally exhausting day with Son. She says she's going to try to make a go of it again tomorrow morning, weather and stomach virus permitting. I don't really foresee it happening - not because I doubt her inner strength or her overall work ethic, but because we are slated to get about 3 inches of snow in the overnight and another 3 in the morning. It's hard enough to drive on roads covered with snow and sleet and ice at full strength.
Son has taken to learning a new thing. He knows the word "no," but he doesn't really know the word "yes." It's very sweet; it's not a petulant "no" like you'd expect out of a 4-year-old or a teenager. It's more of an innocent, sweet "no":
"Son, did you have fun at the sitter's today?"
"No." (His voice lilts up at the end.)
"Son, would you like some more milk?"
"No." ... and then he gets his empty sippie cup and hands it to one of us to go get him more milk.
"Son, do you love Mommy and Daddy?"
"No."
"Son, do you not love Mommy and Daddy?"
(silence)
Anyway, it's the sweetest thing in the world right now.
Off to bed. I've shut off the alarm function on my weather radio; I don't need to be awakened at midnight to learn that snow is imminent. I know it's going to friggin' snow. Barn up the cows and chickens.
Cured of NASCAR narcolepsy?
Good news: Today's NASCAR race was the first one all season that I haven't slept through!
Bad news: Of course, I was at work and didn't have access to a TV.
Still, a victory of sorts for America's Favorite Mode of Motorsport (tm).
Bad news: Of course, I was at work and didn't have access to a TV.
Still, a victory of sorts for America's Favorite Mode of Motorsport (tm).
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Of Graffin and Galt.
As a rule, on a yearly basis, I try to work in at least one re-reading of Ayn Rand's landmark novel "Atlas Shrugged." The struggle of the book's heroes - Dagny Taggart, Francisco D'Anconia, Hank Rearden, et al - against the empty, morally and ethically bankrupt mode of thinking that dominated their time - is one that is inspirational to me, and relevant to what I'm about to write:
I've noted before in this space my admiration of the punk-rock group Bad Religion. Yes, the atheistic elements of some of their songs are hard to stomach - more than 20 years into their career, it's pretty tiresome by this point - and their leftism-masquerading-as-populism runs contrary to my political beliefs.
On the other hand, their songs are often smart, tight, and incredibly catchy and melodic. It's one thing to mindlessly chant "Bush lied, kids died" without bothering yourself with the details, but it's another thing to rage so eloquently over the tight slash-and-burn nature of their songs. BR's anger - and let's face it, the house of punk rock wasn't built on sunshine and daisies - doesn't come off as blind hatred like it does for so many bands of their genre; rather, it's focused, reasoned and intelligent. We're never going to agree about the content of their message, but I'm a fan nonetheless; really, they're probably one of the five greatest rock bands of the last quarter-century. I'm probably not one of their five favorite fans, though.
All of that being said, I still take issue with an essay that lead singer Greg Graffin posted on the band's website. Now, I will grant that it was posted some eight years ago. (Pardon? It's 2006 already? OK ... the essay was posted nine years ago, in January 1997.) But, as NBC used to say when advertising their summer reruns: "If you haven't seen it, it's new to you." Besides, I imagine that the passage of nearly a decade hasn't altered Graffin's thoughts on the matter a whole lot; he's a man that, by all indications, is very steadfast in his beliefs, so the essay is probably still an accurate reflection.
The essay, "A Comment on Responsible Voting, and a Protocol on a Useful Vote," is a Bad Religion song in long form. Here's the key quote I pulled from it (it almost reads like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, so play along):
AN UNORTHODOX PROTOCOL FOR CASTING A MEANINGFUL VOTE:
1. Determine whether you care about the general well-being of society (If you do not, skip to step 7, if you do, continue on)
2. Determine whether you are a privileged citizen (If you are not, then proceed to step number 6, if you are, read steps 3, 4, and 5 only)
3. Examine not how well you will fare if a given issue is voted into law, but how poorly the under-privileged will suffer (no matter which laws pass a vote or who is voted into office, you will probably always still be better off than the people you fear you'll become, namely the under-privileged).
4. Create an ideological balance-sheet that details how much better you will fare, as a percentage of your current comfort level, versus how much worse the under-privileged will drop in their current comfort level (for instance, as a very banal example, a mere 2% drop in your current income, could provide a tremendous relative rise in an under-privileged household's income).
5. Vote for the issue or candidate that promises to balance the disparity between the privileged and the under-privileged classes, even if it doesn't make you richer or if it provides a small compromise in your day-to-day comfort.
6. Vote for the issue or the candidate who will make your life better.
7. Abstain from voting
Graffin's protocol, obviously - especially step #5 - is codespeak for "Vote Democrat" or "Vote Green" or "Vote Socialist": if you have any compassion whatsoever for your fellow man, you'll vote for the slate of candidates on the left side of the political spectrum. I suppose since I'm so familiar with their music, it's more clear to me than it would be for someone who's never heard a note of Bad Religion's songs.
I don't know that Graffin, a clearly intelligent man, paused to consider that the "selfish desire for personal gain" he spoke of elsewhere in his essay is very rarely fulfilled through the electoral process.
Take me, for instance. I consider myself a reasonably well-informed person who has, nonetheless, never voted for a Democrat in hs life. This isn't out of any sort of selfish interest - I don't know of an election yet that has made me rich beyond belief - it just happens that the things that I believe will make a better society for all (the reduction of abortions, a strong national defense, protection from terror, and a smaller, weaker federal government) are all things (on paper, anyway) espoused by the Republican Party. I know that point one - the abortion question - is one that will never be resolved in my lifetime, the hysterics of the left after the rise of Justices Roberts and Alito notwithstanding. While the evidence mounts that the philosophy of the current administration and legislature runs counter to the bulk of conservative philosophy, this would leave the only other choice for me to be the Libertarian Party. This isn't really a choice at all; the Libertarians will never be a viable choice for anything more than a protest vote until the drug-legalization and open-immigration planks of their platform fall by the wayside. Those would do as much damage to the American fabric as any Great Society plan.
(Speaking of which - why not vote Democrat? Because for all of the damage done by the current crop of Republicans to our cause, the Democratic "hand out, not a hand up" social welfare policies have created a generation of citizenry that is losing whatever tendency it might have had toward self-sufficiency. Yes - there will always be an element of society that cannot help itself, and we must never forget about those people. However, it is not my moral responsibility to assist those who won't [not can't] help themselves, and I resent the implication that it is.)
But it blows my mind, Graffin's assertion that I, as a middle-class "privileged" citizen, should be expected to reduce my "current comfort level" for the sake of propping up the underclass. This is socialism in its purest form, and it's frightening to consider that there is an element of people who believe this to be a perfectly plausible course of action.
The underlying tenet of Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" was best put forth in a speech by the character John Galt:
I swear - by my life and my love for it - that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.
This is an oath that ran counter to the philosophy of those who dominated the ruling class in the book - a class that was populated by people who thought like Graffin: that equality of opportunity was not sufficient or otherwise did not exist - therefore, equality of outcome must be guaranteed.
John Galt's morality and Greg Graffin's morality would not appear, on the surface, to oppose one another so diametrically, and in fact, the atheistic components of their respective psyches are very much in agreement with one another. And Galt's landmark 60-page speech in the latter pages of "Atlas Shrugged" deals heavily with reason and rationality, which is something that Graffin prides himself on as well. But consider the fact that Graffin aims to have me essentially throw away my precious vote in support of a lower class that as often as not has only itself to blame for where it is, and then weigh that fact against a key quote from Galt's speech:
Do you ask what moral obligation I owe to my fellow men? None - except the obligation I owe to myself, to material objects and to all of existence: rationality. I deal with men as my nature and theirs demands: by means of reason. I seek or desire nothing from them except such relations as they care to enter of their own voluntary choice. It is only with their mind that I can deal and only for my own self-interest, when they see that my interest coincides with theirs. When they don't, I enter no relationship; I let dissenters go their way and I do not swerve from mine.
Which philosophy is more attractive to you?
I've noted before in this space my admiration of the punk-rock group Bad Religion. Yes, the atheistic elements of some of their songs are hard to stomach - more than 20 years into their career, it's pretty tiresome by this point - and their leftism-masquerading-as-populism runs contrary to my political beliefs.
On the other hand, their songs are often smart, tight, and incredibly catchy and melodic. It's one thing to mindlessly chant "Bush lied, kids died" without bothering yourself with the details, but it's another thing to rage so eloquently over the tight slash-and-burn nature of their songs. BR's anger - and let's face it, the house of punk rock wasn't built on sunshine and daisies - doesn't come off as blind hatred like it does for so many bands of their genre; rather, it's focused, reasoned and intelligent. We're never going to agree about the content of their message, but I'm a fan nonetheless; really, they're probably one of the five greatest rock bands of the last quarter-century. I'm probably not one of their five favorite fans, though.
All of that being said, I still take issue with an essay that lead singer Greg Graffin posted on the band's website. Now, I will grant that it was posted some eight years ago. (Pardon? It's 2006 already? OK ... the essay was posted nine years ago, in January 1997.) But, as NBC used to say when advertising their summer reruns: "If you haven't seen it, it's new to you." Besides, I imagine that the passage of nearly a decade hasn't altered Graffin's thoughts on the matter a whole lot; he's a man that, by all indications, is very steadfast in his beliefs, so the essay is probably still an accurate reflection.
The essay, "A Comment on Responsible Voting, and a Protocol on a Useful Vote," is a Bad Religion song in long form. Here's the key quote I pulled from it (it almost reads like a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, so play along):
AN UNORTHODOX PROTOCOL FOR CASTING A MEANINGFUL VOTE:
1. Determine whether you care about the general well-being of society (If you do not, skip to step 7, if you do, continue on)
2. Determine whether you are a privileged citizen (If you are not, then proceed to step number 6, if you are, read steps 3, 4, and 5 only)
3. Examine not how well you will fare if a given issue is voted into law, but how poorly the under-privileged will suffer (no matter which laws pass a vote or who is voted into office, you will probably always still be better off than the people you fear you'll become, namely the under-privileged).
4. Create an ideological balance-sheet that details how much better you will fare, as a percentage of your current comfort level, versus how much worse the under-privileged will drop in their current comfort level (for instance, as a very banal example, a mere 2% drop in your current income, could provide a tremendous relative rise in an under-privileged household's income).
5. Vote for the issue or candidate that promises to balance the disparity between the privileged and the under-privileged classes, even if it doesn't make you richer or if it provides a small compromise in your day-to-day comfort.
6. Vote for the issue or the candidate who will make your life better.
7. Abstain from voting
Graffin's protocol, obviously - especially step #5 - is codespeak for "Vote Democrat" or "Vote Green" or "Vote Socialist": if you have any compassion whatsoever for your fellow man, you'll vote for the slate of candidates on the left side of the political spectrum. I suppose since I'm so familiar with their music, it's more clear to me than it would be for someone who's never heard a note of Bad Religion's songs.
I don't know that Graffin, a clearly intelligent man, paused to consider that the "selfish desire for personal gain" he spoke of elsewhere in his essay is very rarely fulfilled through the electoral process.
Take me, for instance. I consider myself a reasonably well-informed person who has, nonetheless, never voted for a Democrat in hs life. This isn't out of any sort of selfish interest - I don't know of an election yet that has made me rich beyond belief - it just happens that the things that I believe will make a better society for all (the reduction of abortions, a strong national defense, protection from terror, and a smaller, weaker federal government) are all things (on paper, anyway) espoused by the Republican Party. I know that point one - the abortion question - is one that will never be resolved in my lifetime, the hysterics of the left after the rise of Justices Roberts and Alito notwithstanding. While the evidence mounts that the philosophy of the current administration and legislature runs counter to the bulk of conservative philosophy, this would leave the only other choice for me to be the Libertarian Party. This isn't really a choice at all; the Libertarians will never be a viable choice for anything more than a protest vote until the drug-legalization and open-immigration planks of their platform fall by the wayside. Those would do as much damage to the American fabric as any Great Society plan.
(Speaking of which - why not vote Democrat? Because for all of the damage done by the current crop of Republicans to our cause, the Democratic "hand out, not a hand up" social welfare policies have created a generation of citizenry that is losing whatever tendency it might have had toward self-sufficiency. Yes - there will always be an element of society that cannot help itself, and we must never forget about those people. However, it is not my moral responsibility to assist those who won't [not can't] help themselves, and I resent the implication that it is.)
But it blows my mind, Graffin's assertion that I, as a middle-class "privileged" citizen, should be expected to reduce my "current comfort level" for the sake of propping up the underclass. This is socialism in its purest form, and it's frightening to consider that there is an element of people who believe this to be a perfectly plausible course of action.
The underlying tenet of Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" was best put forth in a speech by the character John Galt:
I swear - by my life and my love for it - that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.
This is an oath that ran counter to the philosophy of those who dominated the ruling class in the book - a class that was populated by people who thought like Graffin: that equality of opportunity was not sufficient or otherwise did not exist - therefore, equality of outcome must be guaranteed.
John Galt's morality and Greg Graffin's morality would not appear, on the surface, to oppose one another so diametrically, and in fact, the atheistic components of their respective psyches are very much in agreement with one another. And Galt's landmark 60-page speech in the latter pages of "Atlas Shrugged" deals heavily with reason and rationality, which is something that Graffin prides himself on as well. But consider the fact that Graffin aims to have me essentially throw away my precious vote in support of a lower class that as often as not has only itself to blame for where it is, and then weigh that fact against a key quote from Galt's speech:
Do you ask what moral obligation I owe to my fellow men? None - except the obligation I owe to myself, to material objects and to all of existence: rationality. I deal with men as my nature and theirs demands: by means of reason. I seek or desire nothing from them except such relations as they care to enter of their own voluntary choice. It is only with their mind that I can deal and only for my own self-interest, when they see that my interest coincides with theirs. When they don't, I enter no relationship; I let dissenters go their way and I do not swerve from mine.
Which philosophy is more attractive to you?
LL, part II
Incidentally, in addition to the greatest rap hit in history in "Mama Said Knock You Out," LL Cool J also has the greatest song about infidelity, ever. "Big Ol' Butt," from 1988's "Walking With A Panther" album, finds LL rapping about messing around on his girlfriend, then rationalizing it as follows:
Tina got a big ol' butt
I know I told you I'd be true
But Brenda got a big ol' butt
So I'm leaving you
If it's good enough for LL, it's good enough for me. Kidding! But things go on in this vein for three verses - he cheated on his original (unnamed) girl with Tina, then he cheated on Tina with Brenda, and then on Brenda with Lisa, who was apparently a co-worker of Brenda's at Red Lobster, but LL forgot.
That's three infidelities in one song. LL set the bar high, didn't he?
Tina got a big ol' butt
I know I told you I'd be true
But Brenda got a big ol' butt
So I'm leaving you
If it's good enough for LL, it's good enough for me. Kidding! But things go on in this vein for three verses - he cheated on his original (unnamed) girl with Tina, then he cheated on Tina with Brenda, and then on Brenda with Lisa, who was apparently a co-worker of Brenda's at Red Lobster, but LL forgot.
That's three infidelities in one song. LL set the bar high, didn't he?
The case against Alford.
Don't count me among those hollering for Rick Greenspan to bring Steve Alford in as the next IU coach.
It's sacrilege! It's heresy! (No, not hearsay! Heresy!) Why wouldn't I, a recovering IU basketball addict, want to see its favorite son return to take over the helm after Mike Davis makes his exit from the Hoosiers' coach's chair?
Why would I rather see Jack Butcher come out of retirement to coach IU than see Steve Alford make the move from Iowa to Indiana? Hell, why would I rather see them pull a Gerry Faust and pull someone from the high school ranks?
OK, I'm overstating it a little bit. But I'm not entirely sure that Alford is the answer for IU, and I'm a little wary of the thought process that states that the prodigal son's return will go a long way toward restoring IU's past glory.
1. Alford's record, especially in "big games" and conference games is ... eh. Two Big Ten tourney championships says a lot; I recall the first one, in which Iowa won four games in four days with a team that wasn't very good, which says a lot about the coach. Conversely, his overall record at Iowa is a hair over 59%, while Mike Davis' record at IU was comparable. His conference record is much worse - a 52-60 record, which is around .465. Yikes!
Alford's 135-92 overall record at Iowa isn't awful. But, like Mike Davis has learned, it's great to beat Purdue and Kentucky (though it would have served him well to beat the latter more than once), but you've also got to beat the Indiana States and Connecticuts on your schedule, and that hasn't really happened with Alford. You need to win the games you're supposed to win, and find a way to occasionally win the games you're not supposed to.
In the NCAA Tournament, here is a list of teams that Alford's Hawkeyes have defeated in his six years there:
Creighton
Meanwhile, in a game that they had no business losing, Iowa fell to Northwestern State in the first round of the tournament this week. (That's correct - it's not even Northwestern, but Northwestern State!)
I will grant that the Indiana name carries a certain cachet with it, more so than Iowa does, and Alford would be able to recruit better in Bloomington than he ever could in Iowa City. (Iowans would be offended by that statement, but it's true.) But the man has not yet proven that he can win with lesser talent in the Big Ten. Sure, he turned Division III Manchester into a winner with Division III players, and he snuck what was then Missouri State into the Sweet 16 with mid-major-caliber players the year before he took the Iowa gig ... but Iowa is not Manchester or Missouri State, and Indiana is not Iowa.
2. The Pierre Pierce debacle called into question Alford's ability to recruit players of good character - which is surprising, to say the least. (Pierce, incidentally, has put his NBA aspirations on hold while he serves jail time.) I don't mind a coach sticking up for his players, but Alford carried it too far with Pierce; he cut his losses way too late.
OK - what does Alford have going for him?
1. He's not Mike Davis. Then again, who really is?
2. The Bob Knight link. (Not sure this carries the weight it used to. Dave Bliss was a Knight disciple, and look at the shambles he left the Baylor program in.)
Long story short, I'll watch IU with renewed interest should the school and Alford decide that theirs would be a match made in heaven. Don't count on me dragging my IU apparel out of the closet for a couple of years, though, until he proves that he can be successful there. Besides, as long as Bob Knight is still coaching, any other team - yes, even my formerly-beloved IU - would only rank a distant second. Probably even a third, behind Texas Tech and Gonzaga. (And, just to head *that* one off at the pass, I'm not sure Mark Few is the answer either, but he'd probably be a better choice than Alford.)
(Hey, did you know that there's a firestevealford.com? Funny, huh?)
It's sacrilege! It's heresy! (No, not hearsay! Heresy!) Why wouldn't I, a recovering IU basketball addict, want to see its favorite son return to take over the helm after Mike Davis makes his exit from the Hoosiers' coach's chair?
Why would I rather see Jack Butcher come out of retirement to coach IU than see Steve Alford make the move from Iowa to Indiana? Hell, why would I rather see them pull a Gerry Faust and pull someone from the high school ranks?
OK, I'm overstating it a little bit. But I'm not entirely sure that Alford is the answer for IU, and I'm a little wary of the thought process that states that the prodigal son's return will go a long way toward restoring IU's past glory.
1. Alford's record, especially in "big games" and conference games is ... eh. Two Big Ten tourney championships says a lot; I recall the first one, in which Iowa won four games in four days with a team that wasn't very good, which says a lot about the coach. Conversely, his overall record at Iowa is a hair over 59%, while Mike Davis' record at IU was comparable. His conference record is much worse - a 52-60 record, which is around .465. Yikes!
Alford's 135-92 overall record at Iowa isn't awful. But, like Mike Davis has learned, it's great to beat Purdue and Kentucky (though it would have served him well to beat the latter more than once), but you've also got to beat the Indiana States and Connecticuts on your schedule, and that hasn't really happened with Alford. You need to win the games you're supposed to win, and find a way to occasionally win the games you're not supposed to.
In the NCAA Tournament, here is a list of teams that Alford's Hawkeyes have defeated in his six years there:
Meanwhile, in a game that they had no business losing, Iowa fell to Northwestern State in the first round of the tournament this week. (That's correct - it's not even Northwestern, but Northwestern State!)
I will grant that the Indiana name carries a certain cachet with it, more so than Iowa does, and Alford would be able to recruit better in Bloomington than he ever could in Iowa City. (Iowans would be offended by that statement, but it's true.) But the man has not yet proven that he can win with lesser talent in the Big Ten. Sure, he turned Division III Manchester into a winner with Division III players, and he snuck what was then Missouri State into the Sweet 16 with mid-major-caliber players the year before he took the Iowa gig ... but Iowa is not Manchester or Missouri State, and Indiana is not Iowa.
2. The Pierre Pierce debacle called into question Alford's ability to recruit players of good character - which is surprising, to say the least. (Pierce, incidentally, has put his NBA aspirations on hold while he serves jail time.) I don't mind a coach sticking up for his players, but Alford carried it too far with Pierce; he cut his losses way too late.
OK - what does Alford have going for him?
1. He's not Mike Davis. Then again, who really is?
2. The Bob Knight link. (Not sure this carries the weight it used to. Dave Bliss was a Knight disciple, and look at the shambles he left the Baylor program in.)
Long story short, I'll watch IU with renewed interest should the school and Alford decide that theirs would be a match made in heaven. Don't count on me dragging my IU apparel out of the closet for a couple of years, though, until he proves that he can be successful there. Besides, as long as Bob Knight is still coaching, any other team - yes, even my formerly-beloved IU - would only rank a distant second. Probably even a third, behind Texas Tech and Gonzaga. (And, just to head *that* one off at the pass, I'm not sure Mark Few is the answer either, but he'd probably be a better choice than Alford.)
(Hey, did you know that there's a firestevealford.com? Funny, huh?)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
"You know what I'm sayin'?" "I hear ya, LL."
I noticed tonight (after Gonzaga's victory over IU - yay!) when flipping through the channels that my old fave LL Cool J was performing in concert on the Oxygen Channel. "Huh," I thought. "LL, hard as hell, and all that."
(Because, when you think of old-school rappers - and LL's been around long enough that you can call him "old school" - you think of the Oxygen Channel.)
Anyway, because he was my favorite rapper back when I still liked the stuff, I stopped and took a gander. He was yelling about something over thump-thump-thump, as is his wont - I didn't know the song, because he dropped off my radar after "Mama Said Knock You Out," about a hundred years ago. (It's the greatest rap crossover hit ever, and there was no way he or anyone could ever top it. And they still haven't.)
But here's the thing: He was dressed in a red T-shirt with some art on it, black pants, and - I swear this is true - a Texas Tech hat.
I couldn't believe it. My respect for him all those years ago has finally paid off.
I don't *think* it's one of the signs of the Apocalypse - I need to brush up on my theology - but just in case, we'd all better stock up on bottled water.
Update: P.S. Some of you might ask, "Was LL representing?"
Yes. Yes, he was.
(Because, when you think of old-school rappers - and LL's been around long enough that you can call him "old school" - you think of the Oxygen Channel.)
Anyway, because he was my favorite rapper back when I still liked the stuff, I stopped and took a gander. He was yelling about something over thump-thump-thump, as is his wont - I didn't know the song, because he dropped off my radar after "Mama Said Knock You Out," about a hundred years ago. (It's the greatest rap crossover hit ever, and there was no way he or anyone could ever top it. And they still haven't.)
But here's the thing: He was dressed in a red T-shirt with some art on it, black pants, and - I swear this is true - a Texas Tech hat.
I couldn't believe it. My respect for him all those years ago has finally paid off.
I don't *think* it's one of the signs of the Apocalypse - I need to brush up on my theology - but just in case, we'd all better stock up on bottled water.
Update: P.S. Some of you might ask, "Was LL representing?"
Yes. Yes, he was.
Rebuilding plan for the Pacers:
The last couple of seasons haven't exactly gone as well for the Pacers as one might have hoped. Now that the Artest circus has left town and the team is still hovering around .500, I think it's time for the team to begin a rebuilding process that, if followed as below, shouldn't take as long as rebuilding, say, the Atlanta Hawks:
1. Trade whoever you need to, with the exception of Danny Granger, to the team that gets the top pick in the draft lottery. Spare no expense in making sure that you have the number one pick.
2. Draft Adam Morrison. I know that the Larry Bird comparisons have been done to death, but I really believe that he'll have a Bird-like impact on the next level. Aside from Texas Tech, Gonzaga has been my favorite team ever since their original run to the Elite Eight some years ago (which probably goes a long way toward explaining why they haven't been back since). As such, I've watched them play enough this year to say with certainty that Morrison is the type of player who will make any team better - think the 'Zags would have won 27 games this year without him? There were games that they had no business winning if it weren't for the team jumping on Morrison's back. I'd take him over Duke's J.J. Redick or anyone else.
3. Win.
If you follow my plan, Donnie Walsh, you will have much success. Trade the petulant Jermaine O'Neal, ditch Jamaal Tinsley, do whatever you need to do. The first year may be rough, but there will be enough talented free agents who would want to play with this once-in-a-decade talent.
1. Trade whoever you need to, with the exception of Danny Granger, to the team that gets the top pick in the draft lottery. Spare no expense in making sure that you have the number one pick.
2. Draft Adam Morrison. I know that the Larry Bird comparisons have been done to death, but I really believe that he'll have a Bird-like impact on the next level. Aside from Texas Tech, Gonzaga has been my favorite team ever since their original run to the Elite Eight some years ago (which probably goes a long way toward explaining why they haven't been back since). As such, I've watched them play enough this year to say with certainty that Morrison is the type of player who will make any team better - think the 'Zags would have won 27 games this year without him? There were games that they had no business winning if it weren't for the team jumping on Morrison's back. I'd take him over Duke's J.J. Redick or anyone else.
3. Win.
If you follow my plan, Donnie Walsh, you will have much success. Trade the petulant Jermaine O'Neal, ditch Jamaal Tinsley, do whatever you need to do. The first year may be rough, but there will be enough talented free agents who would want to play with this once-in-a-decade talent.
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