For the Sake Of Argument

LET'S DO THIS

2009-03-01T04:14:00.003-05:00

I can write anything. Most things I can write better than anyone else in the world. I just can't come up with ideas for what to write. Give me them. I will do them. I will do them better than anyone else in the world.

Had a close call a second ago. Eating soup after TCBing it. Didn't know what was on my finger. Almost just licked it. Instead, I wiped it off with a tissue. Better safe than sorry.

And yet...I wish I'd found out what it was.

I think if I were a domestic abuser I would like listening to The Band while I got drunk before throwing a few backhands. It's not angry music. It's just down-home, backwoods, get excited music. Pound a few Bud+Jack boilermakers to "Up On Cripple Creek," get pissed off at Levon Helm for winning a bet at the race tracks, and take it out on my own lil' Bessie.

I swear I would never do this.

Nobody's Fault But Mine

2009-02-24T20:59:00.002-05:00

Another Philly cop was killed about a week and a half ago. It's gotten to the point where Philly just feels like Gotham City, like you're not surprised by any act of violence, corruption, or lack of human decency anymore. Anything could happen and it wouldn't faze me at this point. (I'm not sure if this is related, but I've had a couple dreams where I was Batman in the past few months. Just sayin'.)

The craziest thing about this, though, is that people's attitudes toward this violence have seemed to change. It's like Philadelphians' brains are so fried by what's happened that they can't properly process the awful level our city has sunk to, morally, politically or economically. Today, as a couple friends and I made fun of the "Even works on drug addicts!" testimonial on a package of Mace in a Chinese convenience store, I read off the next quip, "Because the streets just aren't safe anymore!" The weird-looking lady(?) in front of me, who was excessively excited about her lottery tickets, responded to no one in particular, "Ain't that the truth." I kind of thought that was a little harsh, since I safely travel through some rough neighborhoods on the car ride home from work everyday without incident.

But it's that kind of attitude that's run rampant across this city's society, the feeling that "you'd be crazy to go outside after dusk." In Coatesville, there's now a citywide curfew because stupid-ass teenagers can't stop setting people's houses on fucking fire. You know how you stop kids from setting houses on fire? Tell parents to stop letting their asshole kids leave the house on a goddamn school night. Is that so hard?

And yet, it is, for some reason. Everyone wants to pass the buck on this societal disorder right now, like we're all victims and have nothing to do with the cause. But when that officer was killed not two weeks ago, you know what people were saying? They were talking about how he probably fucked up and put himself in the position to get shot.

Really? We've come to the point where we're blaming a police officer for getting shot by some crazy fuck with a gun and a death wish?

Yeah, sometimes cops make mistakes. They're humans, just like us. But there's a difference between an asshole who writes you a bullshit ticket because he's having a bad day and a guy who's responding to a 911 call from a frantic taxi driver who thinks he's about to die.

I don't know, call me crazy on this one, but I'd rather blame the dude who committed murder. And, maybe, the guy in charge of the city who's talking about laying off police personnel. Great plan there, Nutter. Wasn't crime supposed to be the main focus of your mayorship?

It's funny, about that Batman/Gotham City thing. You know when Batman was created? 1939, on the heels of the Great Depression. Seems like we could use a superhero right now.

'93

2008-01-23T01:40:00.000-05:00

I wanted to preface this entry by saying that as soon as I finished writing it, I became convinced of my own insanity. I then wondered if there are insane people who are perfectly aware of their insanity, or if every insane person lives in a world where everyone else is crazy and they're the only sane ones. I could be the first self-aware insane person. I'm a pioneer of the movement. It's time for the world to go mad.

For the sake of argument: Let's say that our perception of the world around us is very closely related to our memory. If I remember a moment in the past differently than it happened, it doesn't matter: My memory is the only record. Therefore, in a way, memory is reality.

With that in mind, I will now prove that every moment in time in the history of the universe is defined by its relation with the year 1993 A.D.

1993 is the year everything became real to me, the year I developed critical thinking and a greater handle on the infinity of the universe. I attribute this to being raised Roman Catholic.

Therefore, everything (based on my memory — which is, in my life, the only true record of reality) that came before 1993 is old, and everything that came after 1993 is new. 1993 is the exact midpoint of the universe. So what exactly does that mean?

Well, if we know how many years the universe existed before 1993, we can figure out how many years it has remaining. Given that the Big Bang model estimates the universe to be about 13.7 billion years old, we can assume that we only have about 13.7 billion years left.

The reason I know it's 1993 is that in 1993, the Phillies went to the World Series and I entered my formative years during the same summer. The Marlins and Rockies, though having been part of Major League Baseball for 15 years at this point, were new in '93. Because of that, they will always be new. The Minnesota Twins won the World Series in 1991. It seems like a million years ago. But the 49ers won the Super Bowl in 1995 and it feels like it happened yesterday.

For similar reasons: The Baltimore Ravens, Tennessee Titans, Carolina Hurricanes, Colorado Avalanche, Washington Nationals, Washington Wizards, Phoenix Coyotes, Los Angeles Angels, Dallas Stars and Oakland Raiders will always be THE FORMER (insert team name here): Cleveland Browns, Houston Oilers, Hartford Whalers, Quebec Nordiques, Montreal Expos, Washington Bullets, Winnipeg Jets, California Angels, Minnesota North Stars and Los Angeles Raiders.

The Detroit Tigers and Kansas City Royals are formerly AL East teams. The Milwaukee Brewers are newcomers to the National League, recently coming over from the American League. The Seattle Seahawks are new to the NFC, the Arizona (formerly Phoenix) Cardinals are new to the West, and the Indianapolis Colts are new to the AFC Central (before the very recent 8-division alignment change) after coming from the East.

This is how my memory is organized. If that's how my memory works, that's how my universe must work. Because of the permanence of 1993, this explains Pearl Jam's prolonged success and the Phillies' eternal misery. It had to be you, Mitch Williams. It had to be you.

There Can Be Only One

2008-01-14T12:24:00.000-05:00

In my musical youth, my favorite radio segment was a nightly head-to-head battle of the bands called The Cage Match on Philly's now-defunct modern rock station, Y-100. The battle would pit two new, unheralded songs against each other. After playing both songs, the DJ would take votes from listeners before announcing the champion that would continue to the next night. If a champion carried on for two weeks, it would be retired into the Cage Match Hall of Fame and might get some decent airplay during the day.

But the thing I remember most fondly about the Cage Match was the sound clip they'd play to introduce it, "There can be only one." I never knew what it was from, but it sounded cool as hell.

Two months ago, I heard the clip in context for the first time ever when I watched Highlander, a movie whose mere existence is inexplicable. But more on that later. Today's assumption is a ridiculous one, but if it's true, I'm faithful that I've unlocked many secrets of the universe.

For the sake of argument: Let's assume Master Shake, a character from Aqua Teen Hunger Force, is a credible one, that his statements are meant to be taken seriously.

When he says, "The Highlander was a documentary...and the events happened in real time," clearly he cannot be speaking literally. This is evident because the film itself does not take place in direct sequence, at times jumping from forward centuries at a time, or even jumping from nighttime to the next day's events. Thus, the movie could not have happened in real time. Since Shake's statement would be partly untrue literally, let's assume he is not speaking literally.

Now: Think of the statement figuratively. Highlander was a documentary, a film designed to capture a true-to-life story without scripting or staging. It has a message. If Highlander is a documentary on a figurative level, it's by definition not the same as, say, Bowling For Columbine. But what does that make it?

It could, theoretically, be a mockumentary. But it's not a funny movie, so that's probably not true. So what else is like a documentary but not a documentary?

Reality television.

Shake is saying that Highlander is on the same level of truth as The Real World, or Survivor, or The Apprentice. The story is framed in such a way that, with the use of a staged plot, heavy editing, and real-life average joes starring as themselves on TV, a very slightly fictionalized version of reality is portrayed.

Now, apply those qualities to Highlander. First of all, the plot was not historically accurate. Okay, I can accept that. Maybe they fudged some details. No biggie; we do that every Thanksgiving Day.

Second of all, the film stock was heavily edited. This is an easy concession, as life (unfortunately) does not come with a live soundtrack recorded by Queen. Sorry, but Freddie Mercury is dead.

Finally, since points one and two are clearly true, we move to a big one: Real-life average joes play themselves. Do you understand what this means? It means that Christopher Lambert wasn't just playing MacLeod. Christopher Lambert IS THE HIGHLANDER. Sean Connery was just making extra cash when he was playing James Bond, because he was actually an immortal, Egyptian-born Spanish warrior named Juan-Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, who fought with a Japanese blade and spoke with a Scottish accent. Why am I speaking in the past tense? Because Sean Connery is fucking dead. He was beheaded by The Kurgan. The Sean Connery who said "Losers always whine about their best; winners go home and fuck the prom queen" in The Rock and starred in The Hunt For Red October — he's an impostor, in the same way Paul McCartney died and was replaced back in the middle of Beatlemania.

More importantly, it is now clear that Christopher Lambert is a brutal serial killer who must be stopped. He can only be killed by decapitation, so this could be difficult.

Since we've established that Highlander was unscripted, heavily edited reality entertainment, its message doesn't necessarily have to be as clear as a typical documentary. But it does have to say something about society, as shows like The Hills and The Real World do in a more roundabout way. What is Highlander trying to tell us about ourselves?

The answer to that question could be left up to personal interpretation. But my interpretation is that Highlander's overarching conceit is revealed in the first scene featuring present-day NYC Christopher Lambert. He stands in a sold-out arena of fans shouting wildly, watching a pro wrestling match in the ring below. But The Highlander does not cheer. He watches in silence and leaves before the evening's matches are complete.

The message, to me, is clear. The Highlander's world is a lifelong series of wrestling matches. He wins them, one by one, until he is the last man standing. There can be only one. The world's mortals find this life exciting from a distant view. But The Highlander does not enjoy this lifestyle. He is unhappy. He just wants it to be over. Why? There can be only one, the movie's mantra. Immortality is a lonely life, one mortals could never understand. Eternal life is not heaven. It's hell. You love someone, and the next thing you know they're being raped by The Kurgan after the decapitation of your mentor. They later die, and you only find out about it a thousand years later when The Kurgan lets it slip in a Roman Catholic church. I'll take mortality.

But we, the mortal society, do not understand. That's why Western religion is so popular. Perhaps Christopher Lambert hates God, because he knows better than to love some asshole who screws you into a life of eternal emotional anguish.

That's what Highlander tells us about ourselves. We ignorant mortals want eternal life, but we don't understand how painful eternal life can be. The Highlander understands.

Now that we've looked at the first half of Master Shake's statement, we can look at the second part: "The events happened in real time."

The events didn't literally happen in real time, but metaphorically, Highlander takes the saga of an immortal tribal Scotsman (a Highlander, MacLeod) and over the span of two hours reveals through flashback how he became the greatest warrior in the history of the world. He kills The Kurgan in present day NYC to become the only immortal left. There can be only one.

Think about that. The movie lasts two hours in real time, but it encapsulates a worldwide epic tournament of champions that lasts over 600 years. Probably more.

Symbolically, Highlander is saying something very bold about immortality: A) It doesn't exist for just anyone, as The Kurgan found out; B) It's dissatisfying, as MacLeod and Ramirez can attest; and most importantly, C) Human existence at its peak of glory can be portrayed in its entirety in a two-hour film.

Humanity is nothing compared to everything else out there. Sure, MacLeod has killed The Kurgan to win "the prize," but what if there are more immortals not of this earth? What if "the prize" is hell compared to what lies behind the decapitations of extraterrestrial immortals?

When Master Shake says Highlander's events happened in real time, what he's actually doing is making a statement on the insignificance of human existence.

Want a real mindfuck? Master Shake is a character on a TV show that was created, produced and distributed by humans. If humans are insignificant, Master Shake is even less significant because he is a slave of humanity. And thus, his metaphoric statement about Highlander should carry little to no significance whatsoever.

Or maybe, just maybe, for those reasons, it's the most significant thing anyone's ever said.

Right Back Atcha

2008-01-13T21:33:00.000-05:00

Heads up. I'm not working for The Daily Collegian this semester, so I'll be writing more. Checkitout checkitout checkitout. I'm going to be experimenting with a feature I'm going to call "For the Sake Of Argument" in which I will make a few assumptions, some real, some made up, and then make my argument. The first one involves the film Highlander and the TV show Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The second one is about the construct of memory, the history of the universe, and the year 1993. That's all I've got now, but I'll have more every week. Stay tuned.

Control

2007-04-17T00:19:00.001-04:00

I woke up in the morning only to hear the news: no school today. KYW 1060 said the magic words: "All Philadelphia public and parochial schools are off." Cardinal Bevilacqua was a stingy bastard with those snow days, but he gave in that day.

But the excitement of my snow day was short-lived. I had to go to the dentist. The fucking dentist. My mom and I took off in our old Ford truck. I found later that my dad was mad at her for taking me through the inclement weather. It was just the dentist, and the weather was bad enough for Bevilacqua to cancel school. This was not the best day to get my teeth cleaned.

But we forged on, trekking across the frozen tundra of Northeast Philly. We safely arrived on the street of Dr. Solomon’s office. But, my mom at the wheel, we passed the office. She's not the best at driving in pressure situations. My mom turned the big wheel of the truck to make a U-turn and we spun out of control — driving up a hill. Another car coming down the hill slammed on the brakes, but it the street was too slick to stop. We got slammed and the big Ford truck met its ultimate fate. My mom took me to the hospital because I’d jammed my little feet into the floor of the truck when we were hit. I turned out fine, and better yet, I got to ride around the hospital in a wheelchair for a bit. (I’ve always secretly wished that I could have a wheelchair. They’re so damn convenient.)

But for that one moment when the truck spun out and the approaching car struggled to stop, time seemed to move in slow motion. It was the first time I’d experienced a complete loss of control. Our fate was in limbo for a few fleeting seconds. It was simultaneously strangely exhilarating and crushingly terrifying. But in the end, everything turned out fine.

Yesterday, that was not the case. I had no control over anything. Nobody did. And nothing turned out fine. I sat at my computer, constantly refreshing CNN.com, Fox News, ABC News, and Yahoo! News, just searching for answers that never came. The death toll just grew and grew. 20, 21, 22, 28, 31, 32, 33. I was confused and angry. It was unfair. My generation's already had its national tragedy. I can't handle another day like this.

But yesterday was different. It wasn’t like 9/11. On 9/11, I had no understanding of who was behind it all, what the implications were, or what it meant for our country. Yesterday, I knew that there was one man who just fucked with the lives of a bunch of anonymous college kids and their families. And I had no idea why.

College kids. On the cusp of greatness, their potential was taken away. As more details came out, I just got angrier and more frustrated at the whole situation. Why were these kids in class? Why weren’t they in the safety of their rooms? Why was a murderer able to roam the campus of Virginia Tech for two hours before finding another chance to strike? Why did Virginia Tech allow a man to kill 30 more people before taking his own life?

This wasn’t like that one day in high school when the only immediate result was that none of my classes involved anything more than watching TV or talking it over. I remember my 8th period class, in which my physics teacher Mr. Cipolla just had everyone sit down for 40 minutes. We just talked about it. On a superficial level, it did nothing. But it was comforting that he treated us like adults, and that in doing so we knew that he was probably more than a bit shaken by the whole situation too. But Cipolla remained cool, and we finished the school day without worries.

Yesterday, I knew that there was no realistic way we could have stopped what was coming. Basically, some lunatic with a couple guns had a bad day, the worst day ever. But the shootings were preventable, and I had no control over it. I like to think that people in a position of authority, no matter how incompetent, would never do anything to cause the senseless death of someone they look after. Even President Bush, in sending troops to Iraq, has a reason for causing soldiers to die. But there was no mission behind sending a class full of future engineers to die. They never had a chance. The image stuck in my head — 30 defenseless people trapped in a room with no exit, left to face a lunatic with two handguns. The last few killed had to sit and watch as 29 others died in front of their own eyes, not more than yards away from them.

There will be no FDNY or NYPD in the aftermath of the Virginia Tech Massacre. There’s no hope, no opportunity to salvage the lives of the 32 innocent people who were left to die. And to make things worse, there’s no enemy left. There can be no justice. The coward who put that classroom full of people into a living hell is dead, but there’s no vengeance. There’s no redemption. There are no answers. All we have is a body count and a university’s administration that refuses to take responsibility. In a struggle to find an enemy, the finger must be pointed at Virginia Tech.

We have no control over homicidal maniacs. They’re essentially random in our society. The people we depend on to protect us from these lunatics are our everyday heroes — the police officers, firefighters, philanthropists. Just three days after an unanswered bomb threat, Virginia Tech decided it was more important to get 30 engineers to their morning class than to save their lives. As many people spun out of control yesterday like that old Ford truck on the icy hill, Virginia Tech stood by and refused to use its control. They originally put the campus on lockdown, but lifted the lockdown soon after. Whether that first shooting was a domestic disputer or not, you can't let a campus run free with a murderer on the loose. The most frustrating thing about the whole situation is that it seems clear as day to me that those 30 people should not have been at class yesterday. And while I'm not convicting Virginia Tech of pulling those triggers, it's their fault the gunman had a target.

Hope Springs Eternal

2007-04-09T01:45:00.000-04:00

I was home this past weekend, partially for Easter but mostly to partake in the world premiere of my silver screen debut in The Paper, a documentary about the 2004-2005 school year at the Daily Collegian. In case you're wondering, I'm on screen for up to five whole seconds. I have no speaking lines, but thanks to director Aaron Matthews, the glorious mane of hair I had that fall will be passed down to generations to come.

Though I was home to see the film, the most consequential news of the weekend came on Friday. Seemingly, it shouldn't have been consequential news, but it was. My mother told me that she thinks my beloved fox terrier, Scout, may be diabetic. I always hate it when people grieve over a pet; I love my dog and all, but crying about a pet's death always seemed so juvenile to me. After all, how much emotional attachment can you have with a being that can't speak to you or even comprehend half the feelings you have?

When my mom told me, I was just kind of shocked. Apparently, the dog drinks water like a camel, and as a consequence, constantly wants to go outside to relieve himself. I imagine it's an inconvenience, but beyond that, it doesn't seem like a big deal.

But later that night, I came home from DJ's house and my parents had gone to bed. I watched TV for a bit, and just before I went to bed, I looked over at Scout lying on the couch. I broke down. It's not so much that he might die, or get sicker, or anything like that. It's the possibility that this might happen while I'm away at school, and I won't be able to see him one last time before he goes. It's the complete helplessness of the situation, that I can't possibly do anything to change his fate, make him better, or keep him around just until I get home from school in May.

Seemingly, I should be more upset about the possibility that this could happen to my grandmother. Her health has rapidly declined in the past year, and the thought of the insane coincidence involved (one I've written about before — I've lost grandparents in 1995, 1999, and 2003, and it's now 2007) is mainly just eerie. But since I've been through this with grandparents three times now, and that the last time around, it was almost a foregone conclusion, perhaps I'm more ready for it. I'm not saying my Mom-Mom is going to die this year, but it seems odd to me that the thought of Scout dying is more devastating to me than losing her.

When I chose to attend Penn State, there were a number of reasons: it was a great campus, it had a real journalism program, and my then-girlfriend was going there. But the simplest reason was location, location, location. It was close enough that I could come home for a weekend if I wanted, but it was far enough that my parents wouldn't swing by for any surprise visits. In my fourth year up here, that's the reason that has held strongest. But there's a sacrifice to go along with that, one which I hadn't really considered back in 2003. I rarely see my life-long friends (or my high school friends, for that matter), I miss all the good shows in Philly, and I'm completely helpless in any grave situation at home. I don't know if this factors into my adamant insistence of staying in Philly for as long as possible after college, but it certainly bolsters that feeling.

If you take away the idea that my failure to graduate this spring is partially (if not wholly) my fault, I shouldn't feel any guilt over being away while my grandmother and dog decline in health. But I can't take that away. If I'd chosen a different school, if I'd made a clean break with Erin before college, if I'd gotten my shit together (or never gotten my shit separated), etc. There are plenty of reasons to blame myself, and now I'm just hoping Scout and Mom-Mom can hold out for another year. It's a lot to ask.

Well, fuck it. I can't do anything but ask. Not even Apples in Stereo and Wild Cherry Pepsi can cheer me up. Here's to eternal life.

We Just Want To Emote 'Til We're Dead

2007-03-12T02:24:00.000-04:00

Back in the summer of '98, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were in the midst of a race to beat Roger Maris's home run record. The St. Louis Cardinals' McGwire and the Chicago Cubs' Sosa kept things entertaining, helping to take the pressure off each other with their great meshing personalities. McGwire was also my favorite baseball player, so for me, the summer was a great one.

My long-time friend Sean asked me one day if I wanted to go with he and his family to see a Mets game at Shea Stadium. He and his dad went to a different away stadium every summer for a few years, and this year Shea was on the list. It just so happened that the day we went, there was a doubleheader scheduled against the St. Louis Cardinals, and McGwire was at homer number 49. 50 would be a huge milestone on his way to history. Well, McGwire delivered, hitting a homer in each of the games that day.

That was the first, last, and only time I'd been to New York. Living in Philadelphia, you'd think I'd have gone at least once: it's only a three-hour ride away and it's the biggest city in the country. There's really no good reason I'd never gone, but every time I thought about going, it fell through somehow.

Then, a few months ago, Of Montreal announced their tour dates. I was stoked; I'd wanted to see the band for a while, but I missed out the last time they were in Philly. Since that last tour, they'd basically become my favorite band. All the others were either broken up (Neutral Milk Hotel) or dead (The Beatles) or had gone shitty (Weezer). Of Montreal's been making great albums for years and they're still going strong.

There was a problem, though, when they announced their dates. I was initially okay with missing the one class I had the day before spring break so that I could come home Thursday night to see the band at the Trocadero, but then I found out I had an Econ test scheduled for that night. I was crushed. But when I brought up the predicament to my Collegian colleague Adam Clair, he said he had an extra ticket for the New York show two nights later. The stage was set for my first real trip to New York City.

***

We got off the train at Penn Station. I turned to Adam and asked, "So is this where I start being an asshole?" New York was noticeably different. I think it's true that New Yorkers are indeed assholes, but they are merely products of their environment. When there are that many people in that small an area all the time, you're going to learn to hate people very quickly. It's hard to walk anywhere; you have to dodge everyone if you want to get anywhere on time. So what I'm saying is that: a) yes, New Yorkers are assholes; b) no, they didn't do anything to get that way; and c) it's not cool that they're assholes because it's expected of them. Being an asshole in NYC is the easy way out. It's the lazy thing to do.

The city has its advantages, though. Since there are more people, there are, by the law of averages, more women. Thus, there are more attractive women. There are also more interesting people. It's science. There's always something going on, and there are always more things going on than anywhere else in the world. You can't really be bored in New York.

But that said, there are also a lot more reasons to hate life in New York. Citing Adam's friend (and our tour guide/innkeeper for the night) Tom, there are indeed lots of attractive girls in New York. However, all the hot ones want to date older guys. All the older guys are boring because their lives suck, or they're cliche and lame because they're rich (but artistic!) sons and daughters of those boring older guys.

Another note on the women: I've decided that the girls in New York are really no different than any other city. Philadelphia has its fair share of trashy girls, but New York's got them in droves. Philly's got its attractive girls, too, but a lot of them just want to be sorority chicks or New Yorkers (who are mostly Mary Kate and Ashley fashionistas).

And back to the whole concept of being an asshole: it's funny sometimes, but it's not really attractive. I like to laugh at assholes, but being an asshole on a regular basis is just annoying. It's a shtick. I know I've got shtick, probably, but I'm a nice guy, too. Assholes are funny because it's fun to laugh at them. Case in point: as Adam, Tom and I began to cross a street, a girl walked right into me and then said "I hate everyone." Okay, cool. I got in your way, so you're gonna be a bitch about it. That's funny to me, but mostly because you walked into me and not the other way around. Also, her sunglasses, like everyone else's in New York, were 500 times larger than any sunglasses I'd ever seen. Then there was the girl on the train ride home who said "Cool" sarcastically when the three of us took up six seats on a not-quite-full train.

Oh, I guess I was the asshole in those cases. Whoops.

So anyway, onto New York. We left Penn Station and walked past Madison Square Garden (which is pretty awesome from the outside; I only wish I'd gotten to see the inside) to get to the subway. New York subways are incredibly efficient, but I could probably blow 10 bucks in one day traveling around the city. It's two bucks for a ride anywhere, and the city is so big that you can't possibly take one ride and be satisfied. You could always walk around everywhere you go, but I'd assume most people don't have six hours to kill every Saturday like we did yesterday.

We got off the Subway at Canal Street, which is probably one of the best streets in America (but not really). It's capitalism at its best — breaking trademark laws and selling them to girls who want to look rich but aren't. It's also fucking packed, and you can't go anywhere without having people offer you shit you will never need.

Tom's dorm building was pretty awesome. It's like an actual apartment building. His dorm was roughly twice the size of my dorm last year, which was a double room that I had to myself. Granted, it holds four people, but there are also two bedrooms, a kitchen/living room, a bathroom and a walk-in closet. Pwned, Penn State.

Tom is a huge fan of Popeye's, so we walked a few blocks to get some. Adam brings up a fine point about State College: you can absolutely not get fried chicken ANYWHERE. What the fuck? Fried chicken is amazing, and white people love it as much as black people. Last I checked, there are over 30,000 fried-chicken-loving white people at Penn State. What's our excuse?

The Popeye's filled the gaping hole in our stomachs, and then we went for a walk. During our travels, we passed by the World Trade Center memorial. I didn't understand. "Remembering September 11th"? It was only 5 years ago, and I don't think anyone's forgotten it. I don't mean to be insensitive to the people hurt by the day's events, but too soon is too soon. Now they have a sweet memorial that kids skateboard on. I personally think they should have just turned it into a skate park. Wouldn't that piss off the terrorists so much? A bunch of teenagers drinking Mountain Dew, listening to punk rock, and skateboarding? It would be such a "fuck you" to Osama bin Laden to have a mural of Tony Hawk right there. But we also have a bunch of idiots running our country, so whatever.

After World Trade Skatepark, we tried walking to the end of the island, but got lost. So instead, we just walked to NYU's campus for a while. There were a lot more places to shop there, like Canal Street, except they were all expensive stores that I'd never go to. There was a lot of cool art being sold on the street, though. Even though I kind of wanted to ruin it all just to see the looks of devastation on the artists' faces, some of it was pretty good.

We got through NYU and went to Washington Square Park where some sort of folk group was playing. They sucked, but next to them were a couple acrobats named Tic and Tac putting on a show. I won't recount the show since I attempted and failed miserably to do so at dinner with my family, but they have a web site (http://www.ticandtac.com/). The show itself was okay, but the guys were pretty funny. They interact with the crowd a lot, poking fun at everyone. At one point, just before the grand finale, they petitioned the crowd for donations, going around to everyone. After Tom threw in a fake $1,000,000 bill, Adam and I, wearing typical college student garb, stood back with our arms crossed. One of the guys came over and said, "Come on, guys! Support the show! I support your show, Dawson's Creek!" I was really hoping he'd make fun of me, and he did. So I guess New York wasn't all bad.

Actually, it was pretty great! I haven't even gotten to the concert yet! Being the 21-year-old I am, I was looking forward to buying a few drinks at the show. However, I maxed out at four because beers were five bucks and mixed drinks were 9. Eff that noise. I got a little buzzed on two Bud Lights and two whiskey and cokes anyway. I wouldn't have had any drinks if I weren't so bored by the DJ who went on at 8:45. His music was good and all, but watching a DJ spin on stage for 45 minutes just isn't entertaining. But the act which followed, Lonely, Dear, was pretty awesome. The band is from Sweden, and they're good. Their set was way too short, without a single dull moment. But I guess I couldn't have been too disappointed when they left, seeing as how Of Montreal was about to take the stage.

Of Montreal's sets this tour have all been too contemporary for my taste, only drawing from the band's last three albums. But the plus side to that is that the last three albums have been, hands down, the most energetic of their albums. They're all very good, too, so it wasn't that disappointing that they left out the older stuff.

The band's playing was almost flawless (with some very slight missteps), but the stage antics were over-the-top. They ranged from hilarious to...a bit strange. The most notable part was a man with a mustache in a white leotard-type thing. It stretched up over his head, too, leaving only his face and hands uncovered. At one point, he brought out some bananas, unzipped his leotard (a la those footie pajamas you wore as a kid) and started rubbing them on himself. It was interesting.

The only part of the set I didn't really like was "The Past Is a Grotesque Animal," which is one of my least favorite Of Montreal songs. But live, it took on a different form. The epic song was strangely hypnotic, like the band commanded your attention the entire time.

Before the show, I'd planned on making some kind of Outback Steakhouse joke during "Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games," but the band got away without playing the song. It wasn't even missed. The set was so good, so well-performed, that I didn't care. And the intimate floor of Irving Plaza suited it perfectly.

After the show, we got some drinks and I learned why every soda bottle I've ever had has that refund thing on the side. While you're supposed to be able to turn that in for five cents, the Walgreen's we visited tacked that five cent deposit onto the price of the soda. Jerks. After a long day of walking, we took the subway back to Canal Street and played basketball video games for a few hours.

New York was a nice place to visit, but I'd probably hate it if I lived there. There's a lot of pride in the city among its citizens, but it seems like there's really no reason for it other than location. There's so much culture that there's no shared culture. Whereas in Philly, where there are white neighborhoods and black neighborhoods and Italian and Irish neighborhoods, everyone celebrates those things together. We have no pride in our city outside our sports teams, and because of that, I love Philadelphia. There's really no reason to have pride in a location where you happen to live. It's like patriotism — I have no reason to love America just because I was born here. It was a completely random event over which I had no control. Likewise, New Yorkers born and raised in New York who have pride in New York are dumb. I can understand moving there and falling in love with it, but the people who do that probably never lived anywhere cool to begin with.

The city is such a clusterfuck that I can't really compare it to anything. Maybe that's the appeal. It's so chaotic that it's beautiful. It's just so big, too big, that it's cool. I don't really need that much shit in a town to enjoy it. New York's great and everything, but its greatest qualities are owed to its utter magnitude. If it weren't such a big city, it'd suck. It's got so many characters, it's got no character. It's the most convenient city in the world, I'm sure. But convenience is boring. Give me streaks of awesomeness combined with extended periods of monotony and you're giving me a city with an identity. New York is just too wrapped up in itself to be cool.

I don't mean to be so negative about the city. I'm probably completely biased by my affinity for hating NYC. I'm sure I missed out on a ton of stuff, but really, unless you absolutely LOVE art, or shopping, or fashion, there's nothing there you can't find anywhere else. And everywhere else is cheaper. But I guess I'm glad I have that train ride from Trenton as a resource — you never know when I'll need to see my favorite band.

I Think I'll Go Home And Mull This Over 'Fore I Cram It Down My Throat

2007-03-06T01:53:00.000-05:00

[Note: The opinions in this blog do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Collegian Inc.]

Reviewing albums kind of sucks sometimes. I mean, granted, you have to take the bad with the good, but here's why it sucks: while most people with opinions on albums are free to change their minds at any time, sometimes without explanation, a music reviewer can't just do that. Once that shit runs in the paper with my name attached, I'm married to those opinions. I can't write a retraction without calling my credibility into question.

And I guess that offers more motivation to make sure you get the review right, but sometimes you just can't do it. I couldn't have written a review of the Arcade Fire's new album. I have no idea how I feel about the album. I know I wouldn't have given it an A, but I also know I don't know what I'd have given it.

I gave The Shins' new album a C. I sometimes feel like I'm being the typical rockist asshole who respects artists from the '60s for being innovative when they really weren't, all the while killing new bands for being derivative and unimaginative when they're really making great music. I feel like I may have come down too hard on the Shins' new album because I felt it wasn't nearly as good as their first two albums. I still feel that way, but I don't know if it warranted a C. I had "Phantom Limb" stuck in my head all day today without even having listened to it in weeks. It's a really great song. And every time I start whistling that opening verse, there's this gigantic "C" staring me in the face.

When Rolling Stone originally reviewed Weezer's Pinkerton, it got 3 stars. It was later voted the second-worst album of the year in the Readers' Poll. Granted, most readers of Rolling Stone are idiots, but still. Every so often, Rolling Stone does these "Hall of Fame" reviews in which they'll basically re-review an old album, or review an old album they just never reviewed before. They're always either 5-star or 4.5-star albums. They did one of these for Pinkerton and gave it a glowing, cock-sucking 5-star review. Originally, they bashed "Across the Sea" for being juvenile or something, which is ridiculous since it's one of the five best Weezer songs ever. Now the old review is wiped clean from their archives. I think about this every time I look at a Rolling Stone review. Actually, I more often think about how arbitrary their star system is, but it still crosses my mind sometimes. It's a piece of shit magazine. I know this. But then I think about how I've written reviews I wish I could have back, and I just can't take them back. One of these days I'm going to throw an 86 MPH fastball to Joe Carter and I won't be able to have that one back.

You'll often hear people talk about albums being "growers." I hate this term. It's a completely subjective justification of the supposed quality of an album. When someone tells you they don't like an album, you can just say "It's a grower" without backing it up and all of a sudden they're an idiot for disliking it.

But that's one of the problems with reviewing an album. Some albums actually are growers. It's a real problem when you're trying to write a review and trying to convince yourself that yes, this album does indeed suck. Modest Mouse's new album sucks, after a few listens. But what if, after another five listens, it's awesome? Then I feel like a douche for giving it a bad review.

I realize that nobody really cares about this, I'm sure. James Mercer is not reading The Daily Collegian's Arts in Review page and saying "Hey! Fuck you, Kevin Doran!" I also just blanketly assume that nobody reads our Arts in Review page, even most people who are fans of music in general. So really, I'm just getting my panties in a bunch for no reason. And when I worry about my future as a music reporter, publications aren't going to scour the Collegian archives to find the reviews I fucked up on. They're going to look at the ones that I show them, the ones that are kickass. My predicament is a bit like committing a victimless crime. Nobody else is hurt by it, and in the end, I benefit from it, but I have to live with the knowledge of my failings for the rest of my life.

But I'm pretty sure the new Modest Mouse album sucks.

We're Floating In Space

2007-03-05T04:32:00.000-05:00

[Note: This blog entry does not necessarily represent the views of The Daily Collegian, or even the person writing it. Take it with a grain of salt. Enjoy it nonetheless.]

I hate Sublime.

I didn’t used to hate Sublime. The band’s self-titled album was once one of my favorites, probably top ten, maybe top five. I once owned a Sublime t-shirt which I adopted as my non-confrontational concert-going t-shirt. I was a faithful follower of the rule that you couldn’t wear the t-shirt of the band you were going to see, and since I had a cool Sublime t-shirt and there was never any chance of going to a Sublime show, I made it my uniform (along with a pair of cargo shorts that were really awesome too).

A Sublime song came on my friend’s computer earlier tonight and I started thinking about how god-awful their lyrics are. They’re just so fucking dumb. It makes me angry. They’re embarrassing. Yeah, I like smoking pot too. It’s not the only thing I talk about, though. It’s always obnoxious when someone talks about the “cool” stuff they do. That’s all Brad Nowell ever did.

But that’s not the reason I hate Sublime. I hate Sublime because they introduced another generation of poor, unsuspecting music listeners who don't know any better to the idea that “One good thing about music / when it hits you, you feel no pain.” Looking past the fact that this is probably the most interesting Sublime lyric there ever was, and they didn’t even write it, this lyric pisses me off. Here’s why:

Sometimes, you do feel pain when music hits you. That lyric is supposed to be profound or something, but it’s just completely false. Let me break it down:

First of all, it’s not THE one good thing about music. And I know, that’s not the lyric. There’s no “the.” But why make some random-ass observation about one thing about music? That’s lazy, first of all, and second of all, it’s pointless. One good thing about my jeans, they have a zipper. Okay? Lots of pants, lots of jeans, have zippers. My jeans are no better or worse than the majority of pants in the world because they have a zipper. Likewise, one good thing about an ice cream cone, when it hits you, you feel no pain. I can’t imagine a scenario where I’d get hit by an ice cream cone and it would cause me pain worth writing a song lyric about. In that sense, music is not unique in that it causes no pain. Therefore, saying that music does not cause pain is an inane.

Second of all, since I’ve shown that music’s ability to avoid causing pain is not very special, let me attack the implication that it’s the only good thing about music. Everybody knows this is untrue. There are tons of good things about music. “When it hits you, you feel no pain” is not a definitive statement of what music actually does; it’s merely a statement of one thing that music arguably does NOT do. Obviously, sometimes music does more than just fail to cause pain; sometimes music causes joy. There, that’s a true statement about music. Sometimes music causes joy. That statement itself is more profound than the actual lyric, and it’s actually true.

Music does cause pain. And that’s my main issue with the lyric — one good thing about music is that, when it hits you, sometimes you do feel pain. But it’s not important how you feel when music hits you; it’s important that you feel anything at all.

I thought of this when I was thinking about the Flaming Lips song “Do You Realize??” and why I fucking love that song. It’s a great song. Amazing, even. It does what music is supposed to do. It evokes emotion in a direct way. It’s not the kind of emotion that’s fabricated, like a vapid song about some person you’ve never met who does something regrettable. It’s a song that makes you think about your own life. But what’s amazing about “Do You Realize??” is not that it evokes an emotion. The amazing thing is that it doesn’t necessarily evoke the same emotion from every person who hears it. It doesn’t even evoke the same emotion from the same person every time they hear it. When I listen to “Do You Realize??”, sometimes I’m overcome with ecstasy over the beauty of life. Other times, I’m overcome by the crushing realization that my life is utterly insignificant. One good thing about “Do You Realize??”, when it hits you, you feel something. Sometimes it’s elation; sometimes it’s pain. But that pain is awe-inspiring pain, and I wouldn’t love “Do You Realize??” nearly as much if it didn’t have the potential to completely crush my soul for a few minutes.

In summary, fuck that lyric. Fuck Bob Marley. Fuck Sublime. One good thing about music, when it hits me, sometimes I feel the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

We Are

2007-01-28T12:38:00.000-05:00

I've never had a job that I liked. I mildly enjoyed working at Hollywood Video because I got free rentals and I worked with some people who were really cool back then, some of whom are still cool to me now. Since then, I've worked at a number of different jobs. I've hated them all. The only thing that is ever a saving grace for me at any job I work is the people I work with. If I don't like my environment, I hate my job and will probably quit quickly.

Some people at the Collegian call it their "job" or "work" or something. I never do that. It's not work to me. That's probably a good thing, since I don't get paid. But still, the fact that what I do is considered a "job" to some people is, frankly, kind of awesome. Everyone wants more money, but I've always put that aside in favor of doing something I enjoy. Even back when I was a little kid, before I even knew what money really meant, I felt that way. It's innate to me, to work a job that I like, no matter what I'm getting paid.

Travis and I had a great conversation last week that touched on this. He really put some faith back into me. Recently, I've just been sort of fed up with not ever having extra cash. All my money goes toward drinking. Besides being a student journalist, I'm also probably an alcoholic. They say that admitting it is the first step, but fuck if I care. But that's all besides the point (for now, anyway). The point is that Travis made me feel like I cared about being a reporter again. People care about what I do. Without that encouragement, I might be hating my "job" right now.

In all honesty, I'm a lazy shit who does very little and doesn't really exceed expectations, ever. I live up to them sometimes, but mostly I'm streaky. That's how I sort of am with everything, from beer pong to academics, but the hot streaks impress people enough that they forget about the cold ones. I'm like Allen Iverson, except white and not a basketball player.

The reason other people at the Collegian call it "work" or a "job" is that they're not all lazy shits like I am. They do their work day in and day out and they do it fucking well. College newspapers are interesting in that most of the people who are doing a specific job now and doing it fucking well will never do that job again once they graduate college. I can't guarantee that's true for specific people, but I think that's generally the case. And that's what people don't understand. The people I work with do a great job and they do it for nothing and they will never have that job again for the rest of their lives. Does that sound like fun? It sounds terrible to me. It's a good thing I like this job.

I thought about this today because Erin James, my wonderfully underappreciated Editor in Chief wrote a column Friday concerning The Phaily Phollegian, a parody newspaper created by my old colleagues in Phroth. Funny, yes. But apparently harmful, as some morons didn't get the joke. Their fault, our problem. I don't fault Phroth at all; they did do a great job. But one of the things Erin touched on in her column is that, while Phroth's parody was a great one, we at the Collegian do the same thing every weekday. We also have to report those stories. We also have to fact check those stories. We also have to edit those stories about six or seven times. It's a painstaking process that Phroth doesn't have to deal with. I'm not complaining or putting down Phroth; I'm just trying to point out what a ridiculously complex process putting out a paper is. And we do it Monday through Friday. And we also have weekly agendas, and on top of that we theoretically have to do respectably well in school. That's why, upon hearing the proposal that we have a minimum GPA requirement at the Collegian, I balked big time. I don't think I'd even pass the requirement.

I spend a lot of time at the Collegian. It's like my family, my home at this point. It's pathetic, really. But at some point, it absorbed me and now I'm stuck. Most of my friends are from the Collegian. Everyone at the Collegian makes bad decisions together. It's like The Real World, except once you make an embarrassment of yourself, you can't just leave the house after a few months. And that's kind of why I love it. I don't know how the hell we do it, but we do it. So yeah, when people bitch about the Collegian, I just kind of laugh. They have no fucking idea. It's not just some little rinky-dink pamphlet. It's one of the best college papers in the country, better than most professional ones, even. As good as the Centre Daily Times, and we're students. We've got places to go and b-dawgs to drink, baby.

My Swinging Bachelor Pad

2007-01-16T02:26:00.000-05:00

I instinctively flick the light switch every time, only to find that nothing happens. Oh yeah, the lights don't work. After I step over the corner of my obnoxiously and excessively large seating device which blocks the door, I turn the switch of my desk lamp. It lights up the left third of my desk very nicely. A look around the room yields disgust. I have two couches, another obnoxiously and excessively large seating device, a miniature refrigerator incapable of maintaining a consistent temperature, and a dresser in the closet. Suffice it to say that my room lacks feng shui.

The dresser is unreachable. The unused seating device blocks the entrance to the closet, which forces me to scale the epic heights of the device whenever I need to quickly move piles of clothes to or from the closet. The clothes do not go into the dresser because that would somehow be less convenient. Rather, my clean clothes rest on one of my two sofas. The clothes sofa is a hideous color resembling the upper crust of the earth at some archaeological dig. Somehow, it's not the worst-looking sofa in the room.

The other sofa extends from the wall at about a 10 degree angle. This is not an ideal maximization of space in my room. It's also bursting at the seams, revealing a soft yellow foam that matches the color showing through the holes in the cushions. By all measures, this should be the clothes sofa, as even the archaeological dig pattern on the clothes sofa is preferable to this monstrosity.

However, my bedroom lacks a key component. In fact, there seemingly are only two key components of a bedroom: a bed and a room. Well, it is indeed a room. The existence of a bed is debatable. The yellow foam explosion couch does indeed pull out. However, the "mattress" is roughly three inches thick, lying atop metal bars that make me feel like The Princess and the Pea every time I bother trying to sleep on it. Most nights, I crash on the sofa itself; I've always been a big fan of sleeping on couches. However, I am a firm believer that variety is the spice of life, and every once in a while my memory of the spine-twisting torture rack fades. I've never had a great memory for anything but obscure baseball players from the 1990s.

It is this desire for variety that keeps the couch at its 10 degree angle. What, you ask, does the angle of the bed have to do with pulling it out? Well, unfortunately, my sleeping cell of a bedroom lacks the proper dimensions for two sofas, two excessively large seating devices, a desk, TV stand, dresser, and volatile mini-refrigerator. Therefore, the only way to pull out the yellow foam explosion sofa is to leave it at a 10 degree angle. This allows for an awkward space between the couch and the wall, which is where I put my hamper. The only entrance to this awkward space is a six-inch gap between the two sofas. I don't have to do a lot of walking in my room. I doubt I could play Twister in here.

My television remote lacks batteries, and I don't know if you've noticed what with the uproar over gas prices, but batteries are expensive. If I watch TV before I sleep, I watch TV as soon as I wake up without the burden of walking the 10 feet to the TV to turn it on. I cannot, however, change the channel without making that painstaking marathon of a walk.

I have a rather large collection of CDs, many of which I would love to listen to. Unfortunately, a 30 GB hard drive only allows for roughly 7500 songs, less if you account for all the necessary software for running a computer; my impressive CD collection well exceeds that number. It would be cool to listen to the CDs which don't fit on my hard drive with the aid of the DVD-ROM drive, except that a couple months back, the tray decided to cease all communication with the rest of the computer. I am staring right at the drive as I type this, and yet my computer refuses to acknowledge that such a drive exists. It's kind of like on TV shows when fighting family members tell a middleman to relay a message to the opposing relative. I suppose that makes me the middleman. Unfortunately, I speak English, and as far as I know, neither my computer nor my DVD-ROM drive speak a word of it. I have yet to try my sub-par Spanish speaking skills. But both parts were likely assembled in Asia, which is very far from Spain.

I have a digital camera that I don't use enough. Before, the reason was that I'm not much of a photographer to begin with; now, the reason is that the three-year old camera suffers from an internal problem that can only be solved under warranty. I had similar issues with my 20 GB iPod earlier this year. Thankfully, my parents supplied me with an iPod nano for Christmas. It goes nicely with my massive (and awesome) headphones.

The small refrigerator is just big enough to hold my two jars of peanut butter and three jars of grape jelly. I'm almost out of bread. I'm also sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I'm not hating my room, I'm usually playing guitar or bass or video games. My favorite video game is a three-year old edition of Madden. That stopped working a while ago for some reason. It works for a little bit, but it always ceases functioning right before I can save my franchise. Trying to salvage the franchise is like assuming the role of Phil Connors in Groundhog Day. My new favorite game is NBA 2k6 because it's only one year old and it's mildly enjoyable. I also own the Grand Theft Auto double pack, but I stopped playing it because I lack the motor skills to snipe down enemies. Both GTA III and GTA Vice City are at a standstill on missions that involve sniping.

This is my room. I spend more time at the Collegian than is necessary for most people on staff, much less the senior music reporter. It is littered with unusable items, including food that I cannot cook due to a lack of cooking supplies. It also has a number of stolen items from my drunken adventures, including (but not limited to) a pair of orange star-shaped sunglasses, a (nearly empty) bottle of Everclear, a straw basket with a Burger King crown in it, assorted magazines, a white plastic stick with a red flag attached, a black cane with a white tip, and a large piece of wood.

It's come to my attention that I haven't done much hunting around for a place to live next year. I guess there's always this room.

Football Season Is Over

2007-01-14T02:35:00.000-05:00

I recently read Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Dangerous Ideas. I always thought Klosterman was sort of funny and cool in a nerdy kind of way, but I never realized how good a reporter he actually is. One of the features he shares in IV is an interview he had with the Val Kilmer, whom Klosterman calls "advanced"--which essentially details a person who constantly reinvents him or herself, but not in such an obvious way that they're just doing the complete opposite of what's expected. It's a complicated and ridiculous concept, and frankly I'm not sure why Klosterman bothered to write about it. But by his definition, Val Kilmer is in fact "advanced."

Even more ridiculous than the concept of advancement is Val Kilmer, the man himself. He is by far the most ridiculous person I've ever read about. And though he is a Christian Scientist, which is some step between Christianity and Scientology, that's not even close to touching how ridiculous a person Kilmer is.

Val Kilmer, a man whose biggest contribution to film was portraying Ice in Top Gun, claims that, as an actor who thoroughly researches the roles he assumes, he has a better understanding of what it's like to be a pilot, or a cowboy, or John Holmes, or Batman, than the people who lived through those experiences. That is to say, Val Kilmer believes he knows what it's like to be a pilot more than an actual pilot.

...

Val Kilmer.

Anyway, I think of Val Kilmer now because as an Eagles fan, I think I almost know what it's like to be the spouse of an abusive alcoholic. You're madly in love with them, you only want the best for them, and you can't bear to be without them. But at the same time, no matter how hard they try, they just can't shake the sauce. That's what being an Eagles fan is like. I love the Eagles, my mood seems to swing with the success or failure of the team, and at this point in my life I'd consider the day of a Super Bowl victory the happiest day of my life--sort of like the consummation of a marriage between a wife-beating drunk and an unconditionally supporting spouse. And in the same vein, when my wife-beating drunk of a favorite football team fucks it up year after year, I refuse to turn on them. I am simply disappointed. Sometimes, I'm broken-hearted, but broken hearts can heal.

But having said that, I'm not terribly broken up by the Eagles' loss to the Saints. If my relationship with the Eagles is akin to an abusive relationship, this season was not necessarily a heart-breaker. Last year was utterly depressing--every week, I knew the season was over, like a wife knows deep down that her husband will never kick his terminal habit. This season, I felt the same way when Donovan McNabb tore his ACL. The season is over. The Eagles will never ever win a championship. I considered divorce. But suddenly, there was a new spark. Jeff Garcia came in and didn't suck. It was a miracle. My husband was on the wagon again. Things were going great. We had a few romantic evenings and we never made a scene in public. Everyone was commenting on how happy we looked together, for the first time in what seemed like ages.

But alas, old habits die hard. The Eagles' long-time weakness, failing to stop the run, was ultimately their downfall. My husband went back to the bottle. But unlike previous years, I'm not down like I usually am. After all, just months ago, I thought our marriage was left for dead. I soon found new life, and those good memories have dulled the pain of losing yet again. I can make up all the ifs, ands, and buts I want, but I know that even had the Eagles beaten the Saints, they would have likely ran into walls with the Bears or the AFC representative in the Super Bowl. Such is the NFL. 32 will compete (or 31, if you're a Lions fan), only one will win. The Eagles just weren't that one this year.

I remain optimistic, like only a foolish battered spouse would. I live for the good times. Someday those good times will stick around for a whole off-season. I have reason to believe next year could be that year. Normally the Eagles are criticized for never making the big off-season move they need to put them over the top. Those critics have short memories, as they tried that just a couple years ago with Terrell Owens and Jevon Kearse. We know how that turned out.

Those critics also fail to realize that the Eagles' widely reported ample cap space isn't really as stingy a strategy as it seems. Every mid-season comes a deadline for teams to extend contracts and maintain the first year of that extension as part of the current year's salary cap. Recently the Eagles have done this with Trent Cole, Mike Patterson, and in past years with Lito Sheppard and Sheldon Brown and so on and so on. The Eagles lock up their young talent. They notably declined to do this with Michael Lewis, which apparently turned out to be a great decision. Generally, rookies drafted in the middle rounds of a draft get three- or four-year contracts, which means the Eagles have three or four years to evaluate their talent and decide whether they're worth keeping around. Michael Lewis didn't pass that test; Trent Cole and Mike Patterson did.

By maintaining that ample cap space into the beginning of the season, the Eagles allow themselves to lock up their young talent so they can remain contenders for seasons down the line. They don't like to take the Daniel Snyder route and constantly put all their eggs in one basket by making ill-advised free agent signings like Adam Archuleta, Brandon Lloyd, and Antwaan Randle-El. And it usually pays off; I can only think of two cases where it didn't (Todd Pinkston got an unearned extension; Derrick Burgess didn't).

My optimism extends from this philosophy. The reason? The Eagles don't have any young players that they need to keep re-sign this year. Therefore, that ample cap space can be used to make a splash in the free agency pool and bring in a stud to put them over the top. I don't have a list of the upcoming free agents in front of me, but if the Eagles can take a look at a solid strong safety or outside linebacker or fullback, they might be the front-runners in the NFC.

Of course, I could just be setting myself up for another beating. There's always next year.

Birth of the Cool

2006-12-28T19:51:00.000-05:00

Fleetwood Mac's Rumours is a great album. It's also patently uncool. If you'd bother disagreeing with either of these statemenss, I'd say that you know little to nothing about what constitutes "great" music and what constitutes "cool" music. I'd argue that Rumours is the greatest uncool album of all time.

I suspect that Rumours may have been cool when it was released, as I think it sold well among 18- to 25-year-olds, who are the coolest people in the world. In fact, I have anecdotal evidence of this--my father recalls he and his friends constantly listening to the album the week it came out.

The former coolness of Rumours is self-evident. It had mainstream appeal as well as the support of young people, and therefore it was "cool." It's entirely possible that my father and his friends were patently uncool when Rumours came out, but my father was an alcoholic at age 13 and he served in the military. He also grew his hair long when he wasn't in the military. Using deductive reasoning here, we can conclude that my father was cool until he turned 26, and so were all his friends.

Needless to say, this album is no longer cool. It has no impact on 99% of popular music today. But it is still great.

***

So what makes music "great" and what makes it "cool"? And what do these brandings imply? This is where things get confusing. We'll start with "great," as its definition is crucial to the definition of "cool."

Greatness is not a simple concept. I've written about greatness before, using an alternate definition--transcendent coolness (see: Rolling Stones, The; Davis, Miles). But greatness can also mean the best (see: Beatles, The; Davis, Miles). The latter definition is how I'm referring to Rumours, obviously, since it's such an uncool album. This is what true artists strive for--integrity and quality. That much is fairly simple.

"Cool" is slightly more complicated. The Rolling Stones will always be great because they recorded Exile on Main St. When that album came out, The Rolling Stones were the coolest men on the planet. That album is still cool because cool people still like it. The Rolling Stones are no longer cool, however, because cool people don't like old people (except those lucky few, like Evel Knievel or Bill Clinton, both of whom will always be cool).

"Cool" essentially means "popular with and/or respected by young people." This is obviously independent of greatness, as at this very moment, Fergie and Panic! at the Disco are cool. But more importantly, popularity and success are married to coolness. This is why most popular music fucking sucks. "Artists" would rather be cool than great, because cool pays the bills and great doesn't.

Now that we've done a sufficient job of explaining "cool" and "great," we can categorize the world of pop music by four quadrants:

Quadrant I: Cool + Great
These are the ones everyone agrees on, or at least the people that matter. Michael Jackson is here, Bob Dylan is here, Led Zeppelin is here, and Gnarls Barkley and Justin Timberlake are contemporary examples of this.

Quadrant II: Cool + Shitty
These are the most obnoxious people in the world. They're all very popular, but they don't deserve to be very popular. Aerosmith is at the extreme of this quadrant. Modern examples include the aforementioned Fergie, Dane Cook, and VH-1's I Love the '80s.

Quadrant III: Lame + Shitty
The consensus is that these people suck. Their strange ability to stay well-known despite drawing hatred from every corner comes partially from Generation X's unconditional love of irony, but mainly they're the world's punching bags. Some people like these cultural figures, but those people are few and everyone wonders what those people are thinking. Examples include Adult Alternative radio, Paris Hilton, Creed, and Vanilla Ice.

Quadrant IV: Lame + Great
Generally overlooked, these people deserve much more credit than they're given. Like other lame things, there are always pockets of adoring fans, but in the mainstream most people think they're "weird." This is where Rumours falls, along with Steely Dan, Sufjan Stevens, and Prince. (Note: Prince was once in the first quadrant, but his sound is now dated and somewhat embarrassing. He may very well have been the coolest motherfucker on the planet around the time of Purple Rain, but that time seems like eons ago. Coolness is a volatile mistress.)

***

This is where objectivity and subjectivity collide. Objectivity in music seems like a foreign concept to some. "I like it" is too often equated to "It's good." You might like heavy metal and dislike rap music, but that doesn't make Mudvayne better than the Wu-Tang Clan. This is like saying Kraft Macaroni and Cheese is better than Le Bec-Fin because you're not a fan of French cuisine.

The issue has now become about what "cool" is. I suppose, to some people, "cool" is not what is popular among and/or respected by 18- to 25-year-olds. To some people, I'm sure contemporary country music is cool. I can't really argue that, as coolness is generally a subjective measure.

Greatness, on the other hand, is not. "This song is great" is true or false, with only one correct answer. That is why I can say with factual, objective accuracy that Rumours is a great album.

This subjectivity is what causes discrepancies in musical taste. The Cool + Great stuff is generally well-received by both fans and critics, while the Shitty + Lame gets panned. In the other sections, excessive coolness is often used as a shield for criticism (Franz Ferdinand) and excessive lameness often keeps good art from being successful (say, Belle and Sebastian). But another contributing factor to the discrepancies is the sad fact that, despite its ubiquity, most people know exactly jack shit about music. That's their choice, but then, these people should never bother arguing with me. They have different ideas for what's "great" because they simply don't know what "great" is.

I suppose the coolness of Rumours depends on whom you ask, but realistically, the people who think Rumours is cool aren't really on the pulse of American culture. That makes it uncool.

So where does it rank as a significant piece of music? With a subjective element in the mix, that can vary. But an important component of "cool" that I want to reiterate is that it is married to popularity and success. Some albums, like the classic example Dark Side of the Moon, have prolonged success. I can't imagine that Rumours still sells very strongly, notably among the young people that do most of the record-buying.

But popularity and success, unlike tangible greatness, are often fleeting. So, when ranking old albums, it only seems right that Rumours ranks highly despite its utter lameness, while AC/DC, which judging from Hot Topic t-shirt sales is still somewhat cool, should probably rank lower.

***

I heard a radio DJ say the other day that the Foo Fighters rock "without equal," which is obviously a retarded thing to say. But what he really means is that, to him, Dave Grohl and Co. are the coolest rockers on the planet. It's come to my attention that anyone who defines his musical taste by a radio format has no idea what is "great," only a vague idea of what is "cool." I suppose people who say they like "classic rock" think "The Joker" is a cool song, but because it's so fucking terrible, those people are destroying the potential of "classic rock." These are the people responsible for the success of Journey, I think.

The reason I have TV on the Radio's Return to Cookie Mountain as my album of the year is that it is both ridiculously great and marginally cool. I think Final Fantasy's He Poos Clouds and Joanna Newsom's Ys might be better recordings, but they're both unspeakably dorky. If the Beatles had gone for the same crowd as Paul Anka, the world would be a very different place today.

But the world as it is today pays little attention to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours, despite all its musical brilliance. And you know what? I'm okay with that. Because without "cool," everyone would be raving about Canadian violinists and prepubscent-voiced harpists. All things considered, I'm more comfortable with the popularity of "SexyBack." YEAH!

Good Grief

2006-12-27T05:13:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite scenes of my favorite holiday special, Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown is when the old blockhead--whose improbable ability to survive extreme adversity I'll comment on later--goes to seek that bitch Lucy's psychiatric advice. After chucking a nickel into the greedy wench's tin can, she systematically goes through a bunch of phobias that Chuck may or may not have. Nothing seems to fit until she mentions pantophobia--

"Do you have pantophobia?"
"What's pantophobia?" Charlie Brown responds.
Lucy tells him. "The fear of everything."
...
"THAT'S IT!"

--and Chuck figures out what his problem is. Somehow, this young boy goes through life afraid of everything. Every social situation, every significant holiday, every menial task in life is a terrifying experience for Charlie Brown. He's got a terrible complex, and that's why he's such a failure. He's a god-awful pitcher, he has no sense of humor, he's got the worst Halloween costume ever made, and he lacks the cojones to tell Peppermint Patty that no, it's not fucking okay if she comes to his house for Thanksgiving dinner.

How Charlie Brown manages to keep himself from committing suicide is beyond explanation. Nobody like him, not even his dog or his sister or his best friend, Linus. Even in Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, Linus tells him with disdain that Lucy is right--"Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest." How does this kid go on with his life? He's like Rodney Dangerfield--he gets no respect from anyone, ever--except he's not funny or successful in any way.

The prime example of the world's hatred for Charlie Brown is in Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown when he brings back the timid little twig with the pine needles falling off it, his best excuse for a Christmas tree. Now, I don't blame him for going the natural route. Aluminum Christmas trees are probably the most soulless, hollow things ever created. Thank god for Charles Schulz, or we'd all have them in our living rooms right now.

But when Chuck brings back that "tree," everyone absolutely flips out on him. One of the semi-anonymous girls looks at the tree, looks at Charlie Brown, and says coldly, "Boy, are you stupid, Charlie Brown!" Right to his face! And he just stands there and takes it! Another says, "You're hopeless, Charlie Brown. Completely hopeless." Dear Lord! Has anyone reading this ever had such an embarrassing public mockery made of himself? But Charlie Brown just acts as though it's a minor setback in his life--"Rats!" he says. "Rats"? How is he not wearing a trenchcoat to school and tossing bombs at everyone?

Even when the "tree" is fixed, it's not by Charlie Brown. It's by everyone BUT Charlie Brown. Sure, he laid the basis for the tree, but when he puts a Christmas ball onto the tree and "kill[s]" it, he leaves it for dead. Only when everyone comes in and salvages the poor tree does it shine in all its glory. Everyone graciously yells "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!" for the happy ending, but what has this asshole done to deserve a happy ending? He's got no self-respect. How can anyone else respect him?

As depressing as this may come off, Charlie Brown is an inspiration to me. How he continues to suck the energy out of everything around him and somehow keep going on with his life is a testament to his determination. To steal a quote from Chris Weeden's Facebook profile, the great Dan Winklebleck once said:

"Ah, fuck money. And doing what you love. It's all about fighting and clawing just to live every last second you can, just to spite the world. I figure, every day the world kills me a little more, but I hope I'm killing it a little bit at the same time. Someone's gonna lose eventually. And with that, I'm going to bed, to continue the war tomorrow."

I think that must be Charlie Brown's motto. I don't necessarily subscribe to that credo, but the fact that Charlie Brown employs it is what keeps me going. If such a colossal failure can manage to kill the world a little bit every day, I must be doing okay. He may be completely hopeless, but he's a world-beater.

***

So, here's what inspired me to write about this: Charlie Brown has pantophobia. He's afraid of everything. And when he has that moment of realization, his energy is so excessive that it knocks that devil woman Lucy clear off her phony psychiatrist's stool. Well, I've got energy now because I know what I'm afraid of. Before tonight, I thought it was dolls. Dolls are fucking creepy, man. But I'm not afraid of them.

I'm afraid of being abandoned. This all adds up, I promise. I've never been abandoned by my parents, but when I get the feeling that I could be, it's devastating. The same goes for my friends. And I think I know why.

My best friends in kindergarten were Derrick Smyth and Tim Myers. I still have random memories with these guys, for some reason. One time in kindergarten, I told Derrick--who was running out of space on his paper to write his name--that my mom told me writing smaller would help you fit more on a page. What a fucking novel concept that was back then. I also remember playing Atari at his house, which was amazing because I'd never played Atari before, and I haven't ever since. We also played with Beetlejuice and Dick Tracy action figures. At Tim's house, we may have played the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles video game (the good one) and we most certainly had the cereal. I envied him because he had Cookie Crisp cereal, which my mom refused to buy for me because it was basically a bowl of miniature cookies. I guess that was crossing the line.

After kindergarten, I never saw Derrick again and Tim went to Prez instead of continuing at St. William's.

My best friend in first grade was Adam Rosinski. After first grade, he moved to Fox Chase and started going to St. Cecilia's.

Second grade, Bob (then Robert) Miles. He was a Cowboys fan and I hated the Cowboys. We were never in classes or on teams together after that until 8th grade, when we were again amiable. He was a cool dude.

As if trying to find a new best friend at school every year wasn't hard enough, my best childhood friends John Sours and Eric Semola, both of whom lived on Gilham Street with me, began to drift away. John's family moved off the street and he didn't go to Catholic school, so I didn't see him every day like I used to. This drift continued further when he started going to middle school and made new friends there. Once he hit high school, it was pretty much all over. Eric wasn't like that. He was a grade below me and just started hanging out with other people, so that sucked too.

After fifth grade, my friend John Higgins moved to Fox Chase and started going to St. Cecilia's. After seventh grade, my friend Steve Snyder moved to Pine Valley and started going to St. Hilary's. Once high school came around, my best friend Sean Reinsel started hanging out more with people from his school and we drifted apart. Granted, I stay in touch with Sean, but still. The same thing happened with Matt Higgins, Joe Laut, and Dave Heinz.

I made new friends in high school. But then I got a girlfriend, and after high school she got into a fight with all my friends. I chose the wrong side and lost all my friends. Then when we made new ones in college, we broke up and she kept most of the friends. The one holdover was my roommate, Josh Ferris, who I've regretfully drifted somewhat away from as well. This is how my life works. Make friends, lose friends. I think that's why I'm so good at patching up my problems--I can't hold grudges because I can't afford to.

This fear of abandonment comes out on a smaller scale, too. Last September, I was arrested for underage drinking and public drunkenness when I told my friends I wanted to sit down and proceeded to sit down on the sidewalk, Indian-style. They didn't hear me and kept walking. As I saw them walking away, I began to weep like a little baby girl. I thought my friends were ditching me, and I became an emotional wreck for the next few hours as the police officer arrested me, interrogated me, and let me go with my friend Alex (another guy I've failed to maintain contact with on a consistent basis).

The reason this fear came to my attention is that twice in the past two days I've told--or thought of telling--two of my friends to make sure they say goodbye before they leave me. I have a terrible fear that, at any given moment, one of my friends will leave me without telling me. And that's probably why, for all the times I've felt like running away from everything, I never have. If I know I can't bear the pain, I can't possibly inflict that on other people.

There's a silver lining to this, of course, as there always is with a Kevin Doran problem. Once Charlie Brown realized he had pantophobia, he was able to address it. The problem with Charlie Brown is that he's a colossal failure, and because of that he failed to fix his problem. Even after the chorus of children sang "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" as the closing credits rolled, Charlie Brown had yet to accomplish anything worthy of praise. And eventually, all those joyous children would realize that and continue despising the waste of cartoon space that was Charlie Brown.

But now, I know what ails me. I could be like Charlie Brown and fail to fix it, or I could be a success and fix it. I don't know which category I'll fall into, but at least I know what I'm fighting against. And as that catty twat Lucy put it, "The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone." And if Charlie Brown can beat the world, so can I.

Alright, Alright, Alright

2006-12-25T21:27:00.000-05:00

I think I'm going to start with the year-end thing. My memories from this year are pretty hazy due to a number of factors, so I don't think I'm going to do a full-fledged year in review type thing like I did last year and after the summer. But I'll share some of the highlights from the fall:

Me and Woytko go toe-to-toe.

The Set-Up: The Daily Collegian's beautiful news staff has a hayride in early November. We tote two kegs full of Koch's Golden Anniversary Beer along with us, and the stage is set for me and Woytko to have our long-awaited drinking showdown.

The Main Event: Both of us were a bit tipsy going into the hayride, so the terrible beer went down easily. After about a dozen (~8-10 oz.) cups, we decided to call a truce. I'd go into more detail of the hayride, but my recollection's a bit spotty from there on.

The Aftermath: We ended up having a mini-party after the hayride, but I didn't stick around too long. I met up with the usual suspects, as Jake and K-Pat were visiting for the weekend. I had a few more drinks and then dared myself to get my head shaved. I passed the dare.

The After-Aftermath: It was a really cold couple of weeks, but my hair's growing in pretty nicely nowadays. The kegs were demolished a couple weeks later when a bunch of the Collegian guys made it a personal mission to drink as many B-Dawgs as possible.

I bring sexy back--YEH.

The Set-Up: After a busy summer of previewing wagon train reunions and interviewing Death Cab For Cutie bassist Nick Harmer, I became the relatively unknown senior music reporter for the Collegian.

The Main Event: Not to toot my own horn, but this semester I wrote some of the best stuff I've ever written. I think the J-Tim review kind of put me on the map and I won story of the week for it--which, admittedly, I still feel guilty about. All I did was listen to a good pop album and make fun of Justin Timberlake for 15 inches. Some actual reporters did some actual reporting and I beat them.

The Aftermath: This was the first of many big things to happen to me as a reporter this semester. I got a ton of hate mail for concert and album reviews--both positive and negative--and got a lot of feedback in general for my stuff. It was fun as hell.

The After-Aftermath: I somehow was nominated for news reporter of the semester, which is kind of ridiculous considering I don't have to do very much actual reporting. Eh, I'm not complaining. I got arts reporter of the semester and I made a lot of really close friends, which is all I care about anyway.

I could put some more stuff in here, but nothing else (that I can write about on the Internet) would be very suitable. I had a very good fall, though.

Now, onto what I really wanted to write about: my albums of the year shit. As usual, Venues was really small in the last week of the semester, so our staff picks featuring our favorites from 2006 got cut. L@m3.

So anywho, on with the list! Drumroll, please.

Honorable Mentions:

The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America

I gave this album to my dad to listen to because it's right up his alley. It's old school, it's lively, it's a good rocking album, it's bitter, it's sarcastic, it's drunk, it's pretty much my life expressed through the majesty of Craig Finn's songs. And if it helps, I gave it to my dad because it reminds me of Bruce Springsteen, and old people love Bruce Springsteen. The Hold Steady is a young person's version of Bruce Springsteen.

Sunset Rubdown - Shut Up I Am Dreaming

Spencer Krug should probably take a break once in a while. Not that I don't like him, but he's going to burn himself out. Wolf Parade, Frog Eyes, Sunset Rubdown, Swan Lake. Sunset Rubdown is like the artsy second cousin of Wolf Parade, but not as good. But it's still interesting enough to warrant listing. Krug's got some energy in him and the songs on this album do arguably a better job of showing that than his stuff with Wolf Parade.

10. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife

A few things about this one--first, it's getting better reviews than it deserves, in my opinion. Second, it's the most accessible The Decemberists have sounded, which isn't necessarily a good thing or a bad thing. Third, it's a very good album, but it's nowhere near their best. All that said, it's a very fun listen. It took me a while to get into the Decemberists, which has to do at least partially with Colin Meloy's over-enunciated vocals. But he is truly a great songwriter, and this album is a very good showcase of his style. On top of all that, I'm a sucker for a good concept album, and this is a good concept album.

9. Clipse - Hell Hath No Fury

This is the new darling of hip-hop critics. The Neptunes really do a fantastic job with the production, and the rap duo's flow is great. But lyrically, I don't think it's strong enough. I enjoy the album a lot, but it's not going to hook me the way some of the other albums on this list do. It got great reviews, I think because hip-hop had a really down year and it was refreshing to hear something...well, fresh. Good stuff, not great stuff, but it's one of the best rap albums of the year.

8. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass

First of all, fantastic title. I can't think of an album title I like more. For Yo La Tengo, this album was pretty interesting. They're a great band, but this one shows their versatility. They go from noise pop guitar jams to poppy singalongs like it's nothing. It's a really fun listen if you've got the attention span for it.

7. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood

What can I say? Apparently I'm a real sucker for redheads. But I'm especially a sucker for redheads named Neko Case who have amazing voices. This album is stunning. She's a great songwriter, a great singer, and she's gorgeous. She's the total package. A modern day Joni Mitchell. I think I'm in love.

6. The Roots - Game Theory
I friggin' love these guys. Black Thought's at his best and the band just flat out rocks on this album. I find it difficult to go a day without listening to "Here I Come." That's my hip-hop jam of the year, or it's at least in the top two. So freaking cool.

5. Joanna Newsom - Ys
She plays a mean harp. Seriously, though, these songs are great. There's only five of them and and the shortest one is 7 minutes long, but they're all fantastic. Her vocals have been compared to Lisa Simpson, but if you don't mind that, you're in luck. I like them, personally. This is not an album to be taken lightly.

4. Final Fantasy - He Poos Clouds
Terrible band name, terrible album name. Amazing album. Owen Pallett became widely known when he played violin for Arcade Fire, but he's not too shabby a songwriter, either. This album is beautiful and brilliant. It sounds more "classical" than any pop album I've ever heard, but it works so well. I can't wait to hear more from him (which, by the way, is something I've been dying to say for this whole countdown, but I think it's more true of Final Fantasy than anyone else). I seriously think that anyone who gives this an honest listen would love it.

3. Islands - Return to the Sea
Pure pop gems on this one. From the ashes of the Unicorns came a phoenix called Islands. "Rough Gem" is fantastic, as are a ton of other songs on this album. It doesn't blow you away, but it's a very gratifying listen.

2. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
Man, thank god I started listening to more hip-hop this year, mostly thank god I started listening to Wu-Tang this year. The Iron Man is gold on this one. I love "The Champ" and I feel the need to give props to its apt paraphrasing of quotations from the Rocky series. I now regularly steal those quotations, randomly saying "He's a bulldozer with a wrecking ball attached!" a la Mick. And unlike most skits on rap albums, this one's got some humor in them.

1. TV On the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain
I've written so much about this album, I almost don't want to anymore. But god damn, this album is so good, I can't help but fawn over it for another paragraph. The band is so tight, so smooth, so powerful. I wish the album cover didn't suck; it doesn't do any justice. It kicks fucking ass and I will still be listening to it in 30 years wondering where my life has gone. But during "Wolf Like Me," I'm going to forget about all my problems and just listen to the music. That probably sounds really fucking cheesy, but I don't care. It's so good. And that's what I'm leaving you with, because nothing I can write after this will top this album. Go listen to it, and if you don't like it then fuck you. Happy 2006.

Blink

2006-12-23T05:03:00.000-05:00

As is my custom upon finishing mind-blowing books, I'm going to write about Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, which is my most recent literary undertaking.

Like The Tipping Point, which I wrote about over the summer, Blink is very thought-provoking and, to say the least, utterly shocking in ways. Gladwell is a master at taking seemingly inexaminable subjects and connecting them to the human psyche. Of course, he's not really the psychologist doing all the studies, but he can connect multiple seemingly unrelated subjects and cross-examine them. For example, Gladwell discusses an expert's ability to break down video footage of married couples talking and decide, with stunning accuracy, whether that couple will stay together for 15 years. The man does this based solely on facial expressions and phrasing. Gladwell compares this trained ability to a tennis coach who has the distinct ability to know when a player is going to double fault--before the player even swings the racquet.

This is just one example, and it's a fairly easy connection to make at first. But Gladwell takes minor examples like these and connects them to major social occurrences. He discusses the breakdown of the mighty U.S. army's tactics when put up against a long-retired war hero in a simulated war game. He discusses the split-second reactions of four New York police officers who accidentally killed a non-threatening, anonymous man. He takes all these situations and links them together through his theories on the human psyche. And in the process, he reveals some stunning mental characteristics.

How are all these events connected? Through a couple of Gladwell's buzzword concepts, including what he calls "thin-slicing." Thin-slicing is basically an extension of a first impression. We take a situation, and within a matter of seconds we analyze a situation unconsciously. That's where all our impulses stem from, from the Pepsi Challenge to racial stereotyping. In some ways, it's a bad thing, of course. But in many ways, it's what makes our brains so powerful, like a human supercomputer. Without thin-slicing, we'd spend too much time thinking about things. An example Gladwell uses is of a group of firefighters who enter a house to put out a simple kitchen fire. The kitchen is at the back of the house, so the firefighters bring the hose in through the house to extinguish the relatively small fire. But after trying to put it out for a bit, it refuses to die. A small fire in a kitchen should die very quickly. But, realizing something's not right, the captain urges all the men to get out of the house as soon as possible. He didn't know exactly what was wrong, but he knew something was wrong. As soon as they got out of the house, the floor on which they stood collapsed. As it turns out, the fire was in the basement, below the kitchen, and it was anything but a small fire. If the captain hadn't thin-sliced, the fire would have consumed them all.

The book has tons of great narratives like that, and they all show you what the thinking process is really like, in a very interesting way. I thin-slice every time I listen to new music, and since I'd consider myself something of a music expert (and a modest one, at that) I have faith that I'll be able to judge a song in a relatively short time, or judge an album after just a few songs. Expertise matters with thin-slicing. Brett Favre is a gun-slinger-style quarterback, but he was so good in the NFL for so long because he came prepared. He was an expert at quarterbacking and had a feel for the moment. He took chances, but they never really hurt him in his better years because he was ready for those pressure situations. Take away his offensive line, his run game, and reliable targets, and he's throwing 20+ interceptions a year. But in the right system, with the right tools, he was a great quarterback. Brett Favre, in his prime, was a master thin-slicer.

One of the most interesting parts of the book, to me, was the discussion of a survey conducted on Harvard's web site. Basically what the test does is gauge a person's immediate reaction to the goodness or badness of different demographics. For example, my curiosity was piqued and I tested myself on heterosexuality vs. homosexuality. I'm fairly progressive, supportive of gay rights, and I've never had a problem with gay people. But at the same time, I know I'm built to be somewhat homophobic coming from an Irish Catholic family and having gone to an all-boys' Catholic high school. But I was still surprised when the test told me I had a moderate automatic preference towards heterosexuals (which placed me between "strong" and "slight" preferences towards heterosexuals). I fell somewhere between the 29th and 53rd percentile of people preferring heterosexuals to homosexuals based on snap judgments, which sort of surprised me. If you're interested, they've got other tests too (race, age, disability, weight). Here's the link.

There isn't a whole lot of the book I find interesting to write about, but a lot of it makes for very interesting discussion, as I've found already. More than likely, if you get into an extended conversation with me over the next month, you'll hear me talk about this book in some way, shape, or form. I've already done it a number of times and I just got the book earlier this week. It's a very impactful, very thought-provoking book, and it's also a good page-turner. I highly recommend it.

The Rules

2006-12-23T04:23:00.001-05:00

A note, before you read this: I started this list back in May and somehow completely forgot about it until paging through my past entries tonight. I hate not finishing what I start, so I decided to add a bunch more to it and post it tonight. This will explain my now pre-empted hatred of the wave, which DJ commented on in his lone addition to my awesome blog (hint hint, DJ).

These are my rules for public decency. If you are a stranger who does these things, I will hate you. I don't hate people I know, but I am very judgmental of first impressions. It's hard to change a negative first impression with me, and though I may remain amiable, on the inside I'm really seething every time I see you. No pressure or anything, though. Anywho, these are your rules to live by.

While attending a concert:

Do not open up your cell phone to use as a lighter-type object, no matter what the band tells you. It's really fucking lame.
Don't push past people to the front. If you wanted to see the band so bad, you should have shown up earlier.
If you want the best sound, stand near the sound board. If you want to gawk at the spectacle onstage, prepare to be squashed as you hold your own by the front. Do not complain about being squashed; it's part of the experience.
Don't show up drunk. I'm all for getting drunk and doing irresponsible things, but have some common courtesy. Drunk people + crowded area = disaster. Buying alcohol at the concert is fine, because drinking in public makes you look cool or something.
If you're going to smoke weed, follow the rules from grade school. I hope you brought enough for the whole class.
Don't smoke cigarettes in a crowded area at all. I know, you've got an addiction or whatever, but deal with it on your own time.
Don't sing along unless it's requested. I didn't come to hear you, I came to hear the band.
Stop crowd surfing. I've got enough on my mind without worrying about some dude's foot hitting me in the back of the head.
Note: Rule 8 applies only to men. Ladies, crowd surf at your own risk. Prepare to be groped.

While attending a sporting event:

STOP DOING THE FUCKING WAVE. There is a sporting event in progress. You're not paying attention and in the process standing in people's lines of vision. Unless you're in Los Angeles, stop it. Now.
There is a cadence to chants. Da-daah da-daah *clap clap clap-clap clap* is a New York cadence. Da-da daah-daah *clap clap clap-clap clap* is a Philadelphia cadence. Hopefully you know what I mean. If not, think "Let's go Flyers." That's a Philadelphia chant. All chants in Philadelphia should share that cadence.
Slow claps should be well-organized. Two or more people must start a slow clap. REMEMBER it's called a SLOW clap. Increase the tempo very slightly. Don't blow your load. A slow clap that lasts less than 15 seconds is a failed slow clap.
Do not wear apparel for other teams not involved in the contest. An Eagles cap at a Phillies game is okay. A Yankees cap at a Phillies-Nationals game is not, you fuckface.
There is a time and a place for abusive language. A sporting event is one of them. However, the abusive language must be witty and specific. Don't say "Get off your knees, ref, you're blowing the game!" because come on, who hasn't heard that? Keep it fresh.

At a restaurant:

Always tip 20%. A) It's easy to calculate. Divide by 5. Boom. 2) It's not too much, but it's not the bare "minimum" of 15%, either. D) It's not the waitress's fault your food was late. And tips are part of their salaries, so they're counting on you.
Don't be the asshole who orders a dessert when nobody else wants dessert. They just had a meal and now they need to walk it off. Now you're turning those calories into fat and forcing them to watch you eat a ridiculously delicious treat.
When you have to give a name, try to spice things up. You know it's not your name, but the hostess doesn't. It's kind of like pretending you're another person for five minutes. My favorite is "Slimer."
Take full advantage of any and all free refills. Turn every restaurant into an all-you-can-eat, all-you-can-drink buffet. It keeps the waitresses on their feet, too.
Two words: tabasco sauce. It goes with everything. Ketchup is for pussies.

In a bathroom:

Look straight ahead. Peripheral vision is dangerous ability in public bathrooms.
Don't speak unless spoken to.
Leave a buffer when possible. If impossible, use a stall. If all stalls are occupied, maintain as much free personal space as possible and don't dilly-dally. And no, that doesn't mean what you may think it means.
If you piss in places other people will have to touch, please clean up after yourself.
For bathroom proprietors: thank you so, so much for installing those automatic towel dispensers. They are a godsend.

At the store:

When possible, leave your child far away from the general public. You're the only person who thinks knocking shit over and unknowingly walking in front of me is cute. Kidnapping is a better alternative.
When you pick shit up, put it back where it belongs. I say this for the benefit of two groups of people: A) The employees, who must go back through the store and re-organize it because of inconsiderate jerks like you, and B) The fellow customers who would probably like to find stuff in the easiest manner possible, rather than combing through shelf after shelf of Barry Manilow albums just to find the misplaced My Morning Jacket album that the clerk's computer says is "in stock."
For clothing stores--why don't you ever have the right sizes? I swear, the only people with my waist size are apparently George Costanza and Danny DeVito. Do skinny people have this problem? Is every person in the world out of proportion, or is it just fat people? And if the stores are just selling more of the proportional sizes, maybe they should re-stock proportionally as well, no?
Find the shit you want and get out. In the Internet Age, you're already wasting time by even travelling to a store. You might as well give the stores more bang for their bucks.
Coupons are gay. You barely save any money with them, and they hold up lines too long. I need to pay full price for my shit and get out as fast as possible, okay?

On AIM:

stop trying to save the english language by using proper punctuation and capitalization, no offense to anyone who does, it's just a pet peeve
Type complete thoughts before entering them. Not necessarily complete sentences, but don't you fucking dare press that enter button unless what you're saying makes complete sense on its own.
If you're going to say "hey," you better follow it with more than just "what's up?" I am not a clown. I am not here to entertain you. You initiated the conversation; now you better follow up on it. Once or twice is a mistake; regular offenses are worth dropping you on my list of friends that exists only in my head.
Away messages are overrated. Being idle is where it's at.
Those links in your Buddy Info that track who's clicking your shit? Those are bullshit. What is this, 1984? The Internet is useful for one thing, and that's spying on people. Trying to crack down on spying is abuse of Internet power, and I'm not going to stand for it.

Those are the rules. Like I said, if you don't follow them, you better be really cool or I'm probably not going to like you anymore. I'm a hard-liner on some, a bit softer on others, but in general, if you follow all these rules, I'm less likely to be annoyed by your presence. Good luck with the self-improvement.

Allen Iverson

2006-12-15T18:05:00.000-05:00

Everyone knows by now how impossible it is to be a Philadelphia sports fan. I'm going to save you the belly-aching about how futile this city's been for the past 20+ years. I'm saving it because I'm not upset, not sad, not disappointed about this city's sports team right now. I'm just fucking angry.

I've been angry before. I was angry when Scott Rolen refused to sign a contract that would have made him the richest third baseman in baseball history. I was angry when I saw that our starting goaltender for an upcoming season was to be Jeff Hackett. I was angry when Andy Reid continually refused to sign a short-yardage running back. But no team has made me more angry than the Sixers are right now.

Allen Iverson is one of the best basketball players of all time. He's done things that nobody will ever be able to do again. He has singlehandedly carried a shitty, shitty, shitty basketball team on his back and into the playoffs on a number of occasions. And now he wants to leave. And I can't blame him.

I don't want Allen to leave, ever. I want him to be a lifelong Philadelphia resident. I want to see him play here until he's 40 years old, and then I want to see him on TV when he's retired. And I want that just so I can remember all the amazing plays he's made. When he crossed over the best NBA player ever, making him look like a fool. When he exploded against the Toronto Raptors, going toe-to-toe with Vince Carter like two heavyweight prizefighters. When he made that shot right in Tyronn Lue's face, then stepped over him like Muhammad Ali.

It's funny to describe a basketball player under six feet tall like a heavyweight champion, but that's what Allen Iverson always has been. He plays harder than anyone I've ever seen, in any sport. He's Rocky Balboa. He's the perfect Philadelphia athlete. And I'm angry because he's another athlete that we've completely squandered. And on top of that, he's never gotten the complete respect he's deserved. Years down the road, people like my father will probably talk about how he was just a nigger. Fuck that.

Allen Iverson played hard every time he stepped onto the court. He was late for practice, meetings, everything. But he just wanted to play basketball, and when he did, he was always the best player out there. He elevated his game when he was going against the best. I'm going to spend the next 15 minutes punching things while I think of how things should have been. If we didn't have the dumbest motherfucker for a general manager. If Iverson had the quality big man and the reliable outside shooter that he needed to win a championship. But he never had those things, and he never won a championship. I don't want him to leave, but I guess it's inevitable at this point. And when he does leave, I hope he wins. I don't really have to hope for that to know it'll happen. He's the toughest motherfucker in the game.

Watch this and tell me you don't feel the same way:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LwTgriL29o

Goodbye and good luck, Allen.

I'm So Tired I Can't Sleep

2006-12-12T02:21:00.000-05:00

Whenever I'm falling asleep, it seems, no matter how tired or awake I was before I went into "it's time to sleep" mode, I always find myself in this in-between period right before I drift into sleep where I'm thinking of things that barely make any sense, scattered thoughts that don't go together, non-truths and altogether really wacky stuff. It's like the beginnings of a Lewis Carroll novel. But I'm also conscious of the fact that all this stuff passing through my mind is completely nonsensical, and it's always encouraging--I know that I'm about to fall asleep.

Well, tonight I'm on very little sleep, and I'm very tired. But I can't sleep. I lay in bed and I think of all these somewhat nonsensical things, but they're not that crazy. And I can't sleep. But despite my consistent insomnia, I'm really happy that I've got the chance now to start writing about some of the really cool shit (or at least it seems cool to me, at least right now) that I'm thinking about.

There are a lot of things on my mind keeping me awake. But it sort of started when I somehow got Don Maclean's "American Pie" stuck in my head. It's been in there for over a week now, I think, since I was trying to come up with an obscure holiday to dress as for Terry Casey's in-its-very-early-stages-of-planning Obscure Holiday Party. I was so broken up that both No Pants Day and Talk Like a Pirate Day were taken well before I'd even heard of this proposed party idea, so I hit the net for some ideas. And I was stumped. But I sought help from friends in the office to find me a good holiday. Devon found one that fits me so obviously that I'm almost angry I didn't figure it out. The Day the Music Died.

So anyway, since then, I've had "American Pie" stuck in my head. But I've been thinking about the song--a few years ago, I happened upon a web site that--for some godforsaken reason--completely deconstructed the lyrics, line by line, pointing out every cultural allusion Maclean made. It completely changed my outlook of the song. It's actually a very good literary piece, and musically it's not bad, either. I've also been thinking about years ago when VH-1, in the pre-I Love the '80s days, relied solely on ridiculous Top 100 (or more) list shows to garner cheap ratings. They happened to do some sort of Greatest Rock Songs of All Time list, and went with the head-scratching decision to make "American Pie" number one. I was baffled. How did it even qualify for the list? Has anyone in pop music history been the least bit influenced by Don Maclean? Seriously, how can a Beatles song not be number one on that list? Or at the very least, a Beach Boys or Bob Dylan or Led Zeppelin song or something equally typical of VH-1?

And due to all these burning questions on my mind in the past week, I've come up with what I think the problem with lists is. In any given mainstream media outlet, "greatest" has come to mean "the best good." "Great" doesn't even mean "great" anymore. "Great" is too risky for the mainstream. "Great" is Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters and Hank Williams and Chuck Berry; "great" is not Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley or Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page. Those guys are all in the "best good" category. They're safe; they're accessible; they're taking what's already been created and marketing it better. That doesn't mean they're not better than those other guys. It just means they're not greater than those other guys.

So take this theory and apply it to, say, Rolling Stone magazine's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time. What's number one? "Like a Rolling Stone" by Bob Dylan. Now, I'm not going to say Bob Dylan didn't influence anyone. He influenced the Beatles, which, if that's all you do in your musical career, is good enough to warrant legendary status. But what about "Like a Rolling Stone" is so great? It's a traditional rock song. It may be Dylan's only traditional rock song. It didn't change anyone's mind about music; it didn't spawn a musical revolution. It just happens to be a really fucking good song. Number two on the list is "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones. A three note riff, maybe the most recognizable in rock history. Vaguely angry lyrics. Lo-fi production. It's the Rolling Stones, for chris'sakes. How is this song even in the top ten, though? If this is the second greatest song of all time, what the fuck are we doing making music? It's a lost cause if that's the second best we can do. Seriously, world, stop making music. You'll never get better than a three-note riff and an unmelodic melody.

Now, you may respond by saying something along the lines of "Well, that's just Rolling Stone. You're putting too much stock in their list." Am I? Is there a better known, better selling music publication in the entire world? This is what Americans (yes, Americans, the ones who invented rock and roll) read every month. It's a piece of shit. And then they put on their VH-1 and sing along to the billions of verse-chorus-verse-chorus-verse-chorus of "American Pie" and they watch their NFL and drink their Budweiser and drive their SUVs. America, fuck yeah.

Okay, I'm coming off a bit too angry. It's okay that Rolling Stone made this list. Really, it is. This is what sells magazines. This is what even keeps people talking about music. It's the stimulation for healthy discourse. And if that list leads to five people seeing "Monkey Gone to Heaven" by the Pixies and wondering why they've never heard that song, that's five more people learning more about music. For that, I am satisfied with Rolling Stone's position in American culture.

What I am dissatisfied with, however, is this throwing around of the term "great." Pixies? Not very good. But great. Nirvana? Very good (yes, I believe this). Not great. The Velvet Underground? Should be unlistenable, really. But mind-numbingly great. Led Zeppelin, on the other hand, is a band of four incredibly talented musicians who couldn't have recorded a great song if God himself transcribed it and handed it straight down to Robert Plant.

The world is satisfied with very good. The world loves very good. The world cannot fucking stand "great." Great is new and different, great is dangerous. This doesn't just apply to music; it's an epidemic of culture. Democrats and Republicans are very good choices for political office because they're safe and they're predictable. They will do what we think they will do. They are terrible choices for utopia or dystopia. Well, who would want dystopia? I wouldn't. But dystopia is a great thing--it changes the world on a widespread level. There is not a single politician in America who will ever do that again.

But before I get too far up my own ass with cynicism, let's go back to some things I didn't fully expand on. You could make the case that "American Pie" or "Like a Rolling Stone" is the best good song ever recorded. They work within simplistic, formulaic song structures. The listener knows what to expect next and isn't scared away by something surprising and new. They have very strong lyrics that put the listener into the stories they tell. But at the same time, they are very unaffecting lyrics. Maclean's lyrics document an historical day. To the listener, it's in the past. It's very sad that we lost Buddy Holly, et. al. to a plane crash, but what are we supposed to do, bring him back to life? There's no challenge for the listener. Likewise, in "Like a Rolling Stone"--and I don't believe this was Dylan's intention at all, but this is how it turned out--we take the vivid illustration of the life of a vagrant and reflect on it. "How does it feel?" Now we think we know. But really, think about that--does anyone who's ever listened to "Like a Rolling Stone" and sincerely reflected on the lyrics have any idea whatsoever how it feels to be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone? No way. Maybe some bums have heard it in passing. I'm sure they have better things to worry about than the lyrics to a song written by a man whose social circle was based in Greenwich Village and whose hobbies consisted of writing poetry and smoking lots of weed.

That's why those songs are so very good and so frustratingly un-great. The same could be said for John Lennon's "Imagine," which found its place at number three on Rolling Stone's list. John Lennon wasn't a communist; he was anything but. But that's what "Imagine" is about. Everyone knows that damn song; everyone loves that damn song. It somehow is more recognizable than most of the Beatles' canon. But it's such a vapid, empty song. Yeah, I can imagine all that stuff. So fuckin' what? That song ain't going to change anything. It might make some people feel all warm and gooey on the inside because gee, they really wish the world was a better place and that makes them good people. Sorry people, but listening to John Lennon's hypocritical hypotheticals doesn't make you a good person.

My final thought on the Rolling Stone list comes down to a band I've already mentioned: Led Zeppelin. Poll listeners of classic and mainstream rock stations on what is and always has been the "greatest" song of all time, and the answer will ultimately be "Stairway to Heaven." Rolling Stone put it at 31. Granted, I think the magazine had some convoluted ranking system compiling the lists of editors, reporters, musicians, and other industry types, which would contribute to "Stairway" falling so far short. But I think they should have made an editorial decision, an ultimatum on "Stairway." For a song that's so widely considered to be the greatest, it must be number one--or nowhere at all. Now, I've never been into the idea of being "controversial" just to sell a product (see the music rag New Musical Express, or NME, if you need an example), but what the hell is that about? 31? What an awful number. It's either number 1 or number 501 (right behind "More Than a Feeling," which I admit I was ecstatic to see on the list).

I am not arguing that "Stairway to Heaven" is the greatest song of all time, or even the best good song of all time. I think it's a ridiculous song in many ways. It's got a pretty freaking awesome guitar solo--actually, the whole section there is awesome. Its convoluted lyrics are simultaneously breathtaking and laughable, as is Robert Plant's delivery of them. But if that's the power and the glory right there, when Plant belts out "AND AS WE WIND ON DOWN THE ROAAAAD!!!!" it's gotta be either the best or worst song ever made. This is taking a stance on rock and roll, and you put rock and roll at number 31. I don't get it. If I were on Rolling Stone's staff when that magazine came out, I'd have personally apologized to everyone I knew, just because "Stairway to Heaven" was placed at 31.

The wackiest thing I thought before I didn't fall asleep tonight was the concept of what Rolling Stone does. I pictured this blue, spherical shape. It was incomplete--just a bunch of little blue dots, some connected, some disconnected. But they were in the general, vague shape of a sphere. There is a heavier concentration towards the middle. On the outer edges, the blue dots become less concentrated and tend away from the herd a bit more. Rolling Stone takes that blue sphere and looks at it, and says, hey, that's great. Then they take a white, empty square and place it concentric with the sphere. But the square is smaller than the sphere. The dots that stray from the sphere too much get cut off by the white edges of the square, and those in the middle of the sphere are included. That's the way music, and art in general, works. The world uses a square to decide how much of that art it wants. Some people place the square in different parts of the square--maybe there's a section that focuses on screamo. Maybe there's a section for opera. The most efficient square is concentric and tiny. That's what Rolling Stone is. And that's what America is. It's efficient and superbly boring.

And that's the problem with America. America can't decide whether "Stairway to Heaven" is the best or worst thing to happen to music. America wants to play it safe. That's why Dane Cook is so insanely popular (really? this is the comedic superstar of my generation? where's Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy or Woody Allen?). That's why Bill Simmons is the most popular sports columnist in the country. I mean, seriously--I don't cover sports, but I could write a better sports column than Simmons. And yet, his relevance and hugeness has me opening every column he writes. Usually I get a few paragraphs in and become disgusted with him for writing it and myself for continuing to read it. This is America, though. Fuck yeah. Vote Democrat or Republican in '08, listen to The Eagles, drive Ford trucks. We may not be the greatest country in the world, but we certainly are the very best.

God/Allah/Xenu bless America.

By the way, I have not taken any drugs today, except for caffeine in the form of a minuscule cup of free coffee I drank at the State Theater at approximately 8:30 p.m.

Year-End List, Paul Thompson Edition

2006-12-11T03:45:00.000-05:00

In an insomnia-inspired fit of journalistically egotistical curiosity, I went a-googling tonight and found my name mentioned all across the interwebs. It's kind of creepy in some ways, but also kind of flattering. Sort of like having six billion distanced stalkers--all have the capability to hang on my every written word, yet only a few take advantage of the opportunity. But since you're reading my blog, I'll assume you're one of the few who do, and therefore you're utterly enraptured by my self-centered nature.

SO...getting on with things, here...I found my name mentioned on Paul Thompson's blog, which until tonight I was not aware existed. You learn something new every day. I could take this opportunity to gush about Paul Thompson and his wonderful contributions to the Daily Collegian over the past...oh, eight or so years, is it? But then, I'm assuming you've already moved your mouses as quickly as you can to the address bar in your browser to search the Collegian archives and do just that already. In which case you're no longer reading this blog entry, which is sort of paradoxical, in a way.

And there I go again. I'm in a wordy mood tonight. The point is that Paul's most recent entry offers a guide to writing your year-end top ten albums list in typical hip rock critic fashion. You can find a link to Mr. Thompson's blog to the right (from my blogger site, you lazy Facebookers are gonna have to go to grafsmanship.blogspot.com to check out my bland Blogger template before doing so, since I'm too lazy to simply insert a hyperlink--which I'm not certain would transfer to Facebook, anyway).

Therefore, a disclaimer--this is not my actual year-end top ten. You can see my top five in this week's Venues (that's called a teaser) and I'll likely write an extended addendum by the end of the year in this here space. This is, rather, my version of Paul's skeleton (sans blurbs--sorry, I'm not in the blurbing mood right now), and a fabulous one it is. My actual top ten will only ever-so-slightly resemble this. But if I'm gonna be a rock critic someday, I suppose I have to learn to make lists like one.

10. The Elected - Sun, Sun, Sun
9. Ali Farka Toure - Savane
8. Belle and Sebastian - The Life Pursuit
7. Thom Yorke - The Eraser
6. Bob Dylan - Modern Times
5. Neko Case - Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
4. Destroyer - Rubies
3. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
2. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale
1. TV on the Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain

And there you have it: my 75% of a true story (if that) Best of 2006 list. And dastard (that's not a typo, look it up) though I am, as I typed out that list I realized that my top 5 that will appear in this week's Venues is NOT, in fact, my honest-to-goodness top 5. I played politics; I'll be honest. I didn't want to go super-indie on State College. But, as I think about what I cut and what I kept, I'm realizing that I placed one minority above another. Being a music reporter is a lot harder than you guys think; I swear. Okay, that's a lie. But if you make it needlessly, frivolously stressful like I do, it can be!

So naturally, if you want to see what the hell I may be talking about, you can 1) Check out Paul Thompson's blog; 2) Pick up a Venues/browse the Collegian site on Thursday; and 3) Look for my Super-Official Best of 2006 List in the coming weeks. But until then, I'm gonna see you again next time for another great legend of the hidden temple!

The Outtakes, Part Two

2006-12-07T02:23:00.000-05:00

Okay, part two of the outtakes is to part one as this completely unnecessary Texas Chainsaw Massacre re-make sequel is to the terrible remake. That is, this is the prequel. I found my notes from Sean Paul's performance at the BJC back in September. As I typed them back, I found that they're very similar to the actual review published in the paper. I guess I had the foresight to try writing the review as it went along, since I'd only have about a half hour to an hour to type it out once I got back to the newsroom that night. So anyway, enjoy.

Bubba Sparxxx
The crowd erupted as the lights went out...and quieted after they came back on five minutes later, Bubba Sparxxx nowhere to be seen.

A half hour later, the show went on. The crowd bounced to Bubba's bass-heavy Dirty South hip-hop as Sparxxx half-heartedly lip-synched to a backing track. However, the energy escalated when Sparxxx invoked the crowd's hatred for Notre Dame and dedicated the upbeat, Timbaland-produced single "Deliverance" to the Penn State football team.

Sparxxx played to the crowd's wishes when he queued up "Ms. New Booty" to close out his abbreviated set. Every woman in the crowd stood and shook her moneymaker for the most inane chorus in rap. Every song in Sparxxx's set was ended with the same explosion sound effect. It was the exclamation point on a set that was more comical than musical.

In between sets, a couple uninspired DJs made the same reference to Notre Dame, and Penn State's number-two party school ranking they did before the show, then threw out free swag to the crowd. It was reminscient of some lame middle school pep rally, except I've never seen couples grinding at any of those.

Sean Paul fans got treated to an indecipherable MC who shouted out directions like a European dictator--and that was just the warm-up. Shortly thereafter, Sean da Paul was getting the crowd hyped with his upbeat hit "Like Glue" while a full band and camo-clad backup dancers did their thing behind him.

Paul's energy extended deep into his set. I'd compare him to Speedy Gonzalez, but I don't remember any episodes where Speedy sported cornrows, bling, or a Jamaican accent. Every song in the set flowed seamlessly into the next, with few breaks.

It's hard to judge the technical merit of a live show by Sean Paul, since if he forgot any words, no one would be able to tell the difference. It probably wouldn't have mattered much to last night's crowd anyway, as the Jamaican hit machine kept everyone on the floor on their dancing toes.

The authoritarian MC interjected when Paul needed a break. He apparently suffers from severe short-term memory loss, as he asked roughly 586 times where the "sexy ladies" were. Someone also needs to send a press release to Jamaica telling them that nobody does the peace sign anymore. When implored to do so during "Never Gonna Be the Same," the crowd awkwardly used the finger symbol that was last popular around the same time as bell bottoms and The Carpenters.

But Paul drove the point home, doing his best Bob Marley impression (which wasn't very good) with a slow beat and an acoustic guitar. The crowd was seemingly unenthused; they came for the hits. Paul saved his biggest ones for last, sending the audience home happy.

The Outtakes: Part One

2006-12-04T01:13:00.000-05:00

It came to my attention while typing up my review of Friday night's Godsmack concert at the Bryce Jordan Center that I have a shitload of read-worthy notes that will never see the pages of the Daily Collegian. So I'm going to take this opportunity to talk about some of the stuff I wanted to put into my articles that got cut.

[Disclaimer: This post is highly self-obsessed, as I generally thought that some of this stuff was downright hilarious but just too inappropriate/not relevant enough to fit into an article. I hope you enjoy my wit as much as I do.]

From the Toby Keith concert:

Joe Nichols, one of Keith's openers, had the fattest drummer I've ever seen. I've seen fat bass players on a number of occasions, which makes sense, since the bass is a fairly inactive instrument. At least on guitar, you're moving your arm to strum. On a bass, you essentially use only your wrists and fingers to play. But drums? Come on. Drums are a full-body exercise. Both legs, both arms, and if you're adventurous, maybe your head. There's no excuse for this guy to be so fat. But you know what? It makes sense considering how fucking repetitive and simplistic these drum beats are.

Nichols got his biggest cheers when he played covers. I can't blame the mostly middle-aged audience for enjoying the more recognizable songs, but I can throw down a few bucks at any bar in town to hear a cover band.

There was more energy in the pre-recorded video introduction/hyper-extended Ford F-150 commercial than in the opening numbers. The main hook from "Stays in Mexico" comes straight from a Las Vegas tourism commercial. He uses some stage tricks, but they serve merely as momentary bursts of excitement between bland, hookless mid-tempo cliches.

There's no continuity to the set. He switches from a more rocking, risque song to "A Little Too Late," a low-key ballad, without allowing the audience to get on the same page. It ruins any chance of maintaining momentum. Right after, he goes to a party song, "Get Drunk and Be Somebody." I'm all for mixing it up, but you have to do it with grace. Keith's got no grasp on how to transition from his campy rock numbers to the heartfelt, honest ones. You wouldn't follow up "I Will Always Love You" with "Closer" by NIN, so why would you put "A Little Too Late" and "Get Drunk and Be Somebody" back to back?

"Talk About Me"--laughable attempt at rapping, though just a half hour ago he was mocking hip-hop culture in his intro vid.

Two songs in a row, he resorts to a post-song sing-a-long, since apparently he doesn't know how to finish a song.

The biggest burst of energy came when Keith's mic malfunctioned and the crowd broke into an impromptu "We Are" chant followed by the man deferring to his Easy Money band, who can actually rock a sweet brass section when called upon. Unfortunately, the brass section was fairly neglected in favor of more generic setups.

The momentum was short-lived, though, as this was Keith's opportunity to plug his box office bomb, Broken Bridges, even going so far as to show a trailer for the film. It also served as an opportunity for Lindsey Haun to show off her pipes, which, while it seemed forced, was one of the highlights of the show.

Guitar solo--disconnected guitar wankery. More cliche with "Who's Your Daddy?"

Ode to Willie Nelson--"I'll never smoke weed with Willie again" seemed to split the crowd. The willing cheered, the uneasy sat. I guess getting drunk and getting in bar fights and having promiscuous sex with anonymous women is cool, but weed? No way, man. That's crossing the line.

"Shoulda Been a Cowboy" got them back into it. But do any of these people realize cowboys barely exist anymore? You don't hear any rock songs like "Shoulda been a gangster," or salsa songs called "Debo ser un conquistador." Well, maybe you do, but they're just as stupid.

Finally got his act together, over an hour into the set. He's lucky noboby blinked, they'd have missed the dozen entertaining minutes of the show.

"American Soldier" claims he's not doing it for the money or glory, compars himself to a soldier, and yet he stands in front of a gas-guzzling Ford truck. He touchingly brought up a few men in uniforms. Then flashes a flag up on screen, has a short National Anthem, and finishes off his jingoistic ejaculation playing "The Angry American" on an acoustic guitar with with a flag pattern on it. It excited the crowd, who paid 50 bucks for this embarrassingly over the top crap.

More to come...

Bitches Ain't Shit

2006-11-28T23:10:00.000-05:00

A friend quipped to me a long time ago that women were either directly or indirectly responsible for almost every piece of bad music ever made. I told him that they're equally responsible for every piece of good music as well.

And on top of that, they're probably just as responsible for everything else, too, from the beginning of time. Eve in the Garden of Eden. Helen of Troy. Cleopatra. Nearly every significant event in the history of the world was directly or indirectly influenced by a woman.

No, I can't explain it. Love makes people do some crazy shit, for better or for worse. You can never really blame anyone for it, either. There were plenty of reasons to assassinate Ronald Reagan in the '80s, but John Hinckley, the guy who got closest to doing it, was inspired by Jodi Foster. Jodi Foster ain't my thing, but if Hinckley had it in his head that she'd fall in love with him for killing the president, I can't really hold it against him.

The most embarrassing thing about that, I think, is that after you snap out of it, you wonder why you ever thought of that in the first place. Everybody comes to the realization that they've done some stupid shit. Case in point: a few summers back, my parents were pissed at me for one reason or another, so they wouldn't let me drive their cars anymore. I spent that summer riding my bike 20 miles round-trip to see my girlfriend every day. One night, I accidentally fell asleep at her house and had to ride the bike back home at 3 a.m. And now, I probably wouldn't walk across the street to hang out with her in most cases (no offense). I don't think I'm the only one. John Lennon took primal scream therapy and experimented with avant garde music for Yoko. Sid Vicious killed himself for Nancy. I've got no love for Kobe, but his wife's massive diamond ring was a very public apology.

Even in times of betrayal and desolation, they've got a hold on us. John Cusack's Rob Gordon says it best in High Fidelity when he finds his girlfriend cheating on him with a co-worker: "Charlie, you fucking bitch! Let's work it out!" And when something or someone's got a kung fu grip on a person, it tends to turn out as inspiration. Part of me believes that the guy who wrote about Adam and Eve was just bitter about getting dumped.

What the hell is it about them? Aside from the necessity of procreation, why are we so captured by women? I've known some of my best friends for more than half my life, but they've got no chance of keeping me around if a girl I like makes plans with me. Girls have a definite advantage over my friends. While I can still shoot the shit with a girl, I can't (or won't) make out with my friends. But then, what is it about making out that enraptures us so?

I guess it's one of those laws of nature, but being with a girl who knows what she's doing is just plain irresistible. I hate throwing around the L word, but as Betty Everett sang so eloquently in "The Shoop Shoop Song," if you want to know if he (or she) loves you so, it's in his (or her) kiss. A great kiss from a cute girl leaves me helpless, completely incapable of walking away.

There's just something women have in common with the rest of the world's inspiration. They invite passion, sometimes the most savage and primitive of feelings, or perhaps, on the other end of the spectrum, immense restraint and taste. A man would go to the ends of the earth for a woman he loves, and he'd just the same show his love through uncontrollable desire. Much like any other humanistic inspiration, the right woman can force a man to exceed his own potential. Like Lennon and McCartney, a man and a woman in love are greater than the sum of their parts. I guess those dudes were right. All you need is love, indeed.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

2006-11-26T18:08:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving break is my favorite time of year, I think. At least it would be, if it weren't so short. The reason? I'm a nostalgiaholic. And Thanksgiving break is a non-stop nostalgiathon. Also, engorging 15 pounds of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and pie is a plus. But mainly, the break serves as the best excuse for everyone to meet up with old friends.

This year, I got my fair share of old-time meetups. Wednesday night I saw Sean, Matt, and Dan, the three guys I hung out with through most of my later formative years. Drinking beers with them was like a clashing of two eras, since I never drank beer back then, and it's all I seem to do now. But it's good to know that I can leave home for any period of time and converse with old friends without a hitch.

After catching up with family on Thanksgiving and hanging out with the same old crowd as usual for Spicy Dan Ross's birthday on Friday, I spent Saturday night with my best friend from high school, Jim. Much like Wednesday, there was no awkward catching up to do. We jumped right into Jim's Wii, and spent about five hours playing video games, between Jim's Wii and Guitar Hero II.

The original name for the Wii was Nintendo Revolution. It doesn't disappoint. The game that comes with it is Wii Sports, which features tennis, baseball, boxing, and bowling, in addition to some other features. We started off playing tennis, which is kind of fun but I imagine playing a full match would get repetitive. We only really got one good volley going. Baseball also has its issues. It's much, much easier to pitch than it is to bat. And bowling is fine once you get the hang of it, but like tennis, it's repetitive.

Boxing, however, is amazing. If you weren't aware, all the Wii Sports games use a remote which moves by a sensor rather than a directional stick. When the remote moves left, so does the cursor. In boxing, the remote hooks up to the Wii Nunchuk, a controller for your left hand to go along with the remote. As you punch with the nunchuk, your character punches with the left hand. It gets quite intense, and quite fun. I went through two bottles of water from the boxing matches.

It was a brilliant move by Nintendo to package the Wii with an athletic game. They tried this with Track and Field for the NES, but for whatever reason I didn't know too many people who got that with the system (along with Super Mario Bros. and Duck Hunt). But promoting physical activity to go along with video games is a great move. Video games and sports are both very competitive, but there's obviously a large athletic difference between them. Wii closes the gap by almost forcing sedentary gamers to actually move to play the games. There is a drop-off with the graphics on the system as compared to the XBox 360 and PS3, but Nintendo's hallmark has always been gameplay and performance over graphics. They even (somewhat hilariously) promote outdoor activity with intermittent messages encouraging the gamer to "take a break," with a picture of a window looking outside to a sunny day.

Nintendo may merely be taking ammunition away from detractors of video games, but their methods are sincere. Wii Sports also comes with a physical fitness test which determines the gamer's "fitness age." Directed towards adults, the lower the fitness age, the more physically fit the gamer. It could be, at the very least, a wake-up call to those gamers who don't get enough exercise. If you're curious, my gamer age was 29. Sounds like I've got a lot of training to do.

The best games for the Wii are yet to come, but Wii Sports is a great step forward for the video game industry. All of a sudden, it's going to become acceptable for adults to play video games regularly, and perhaps even as an alternative to exercising outside, if the Wii gets developed that far. I don't know how many calories I burned playing that boxing game, but I broke as much of a sweat doing it as I did playing hockey for an hour on Friday. For 250 bucks, it's cheaper than most gym memberships. And you don't even have to leave the house.

Speaking of not leaving the house, the Wii has basically taken every useful feature from the internet and packaged it into one system. Using Wii numbers, users can add each other as friends and send messages to one another from the console. And with the Mii feature, it can seem like you're looking right at the person when you talk to them. With 15 minutes of tinkering, a Mii can be a mirror image of anyone.

The PS3 is probably going to be pretty freaking cool, but it's also 600 bucks. XBox 360s beat this generation's rush for consoles, but it doesn't have the cool factor that the Wii has. At 250 bucks, and given Nintendo's usually excellent enjoyment level, the Wii is easily the best choice for a next gen system. And you might lose some pounds with it, too.

We Ran Out of Room in the Newspaper Today

2006-10-26T08:20:00.000-04:00

So this mixtape that I made didn't get printed. Actually, I never even really submitted it, since my fabulous editor told me that we didn't have room for it. But it's (sort of) seasonal so I'm going to post it in hopes that you'll listen to it on your Halloween. The reason I say "(sort of)" is that not all of the songs may not be very creepy or Halloween-y. They just share a theme.

This Town Is Full Of Monsters
Side A
The Boy Least Likely To – Monsters
Sufjan Stevens – They Are Night Zombies!!
Smashing Pumpkins – Bullet With Butterfly Wings
Warren Zevon – Werewolves of London
Michael Jackson – Thriller
Zombies – This Will Be Our Year
Gnarls Barkley – The Boogie Monster
Neutral Milk Hotel – Ghost

Side B
Band of Horses – Monsters
Zombie Nation – Kernkraft 400
Misfits – Halloween
311 – Jackolantern's Weather
Tegan and Sara – Walking With a Ghost
Rob Zombie – Dragula
Edgar Winter – Frankenstein
Talking Heads – Psycho Killer

The Departed

2006-10-23T07:28:00.000-04:00

One of my more personally maligned tendencies in the past few years has been my lack of attention to pop culture outside of music and sports trivia. I'm okay at following celebrity gossip, but I rarely read books, I hate network television, and I rarely watch movies. Ever since I splurged to buy 24 DVDs at once with my expiring employee discount at Hollywood Video back in 2003, I've basically gone into a movie-watching drought.

The main problem, for me, is that I'm a multi-tasker. I can listen to music, browse the Internet, and watch a sporting event on TV all at the same time. When you watch a movie, you don't get anything out of it if you're not putting all your attention into it. I just can't work like that most of the time.

I've been missing out, clearly. The list of essential movies that I've never seen could be miles long. I've never seen any of The Godfather movies. I've never seen a single Quentin Tarantino flick. I've never seen any of the Alien movies. Apocalypse Now, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Twelve Monkeys, V for Vendetta, Million Dollar Baby, Snatch. All classics, all unwatched by yours truly. I somehow managed to see all the Star Wars movies, but I never got around to seeing Episode III, which you'd think would be of high priority considering it ties all the movies together. But no. I'm a bad movie watcher.

I went to see The Departed last night, directed by Martin Scorcese (who directed Goodfellas and numerous other classics). As I walked home from the theater, a stiff cold wind of change came upon me. I'm just going to say it right now--this movie may have been the best I've ever seen. It's definitely up there, in the top five, easily. It inspired me. It wasn't a very inspirational movie, but it resonated with me very clearly. It made me angry at myself that I'd been missing out on all these Scorcese movies and all these other films that are supposedly better than The Departed. If I can get that kind of connection from this movie, imagine what I'd get from some of the other classics.

Music will always be my first love, but over the next couple months I'm going to make a concerted effort to scratch as many movies off my to-watch list as possible (within reason, of course). Know why? I want to be able to write about movies. I'm even thinking of switching to the Film/TV beat next semester, all thanks to The Departed. I want to expand my horizons (and give the film/tv beat its due). But I've got to learn the ropes of cinema first. Before I do that, though, I'm going to try to learn to write about movies. Here's my first attempt.

Hollywood blockbusters can often end up in more "bust" than anything else. Part of the Hollywood formula is throwing together an ill-advised cast of leading men and ladies who can't realistically work together to make their scenes work. The hope is that the names alone will attract a large audience, and often quality scripts and direction are thrown to the wayside in favor of star power.

When you put together Jack Nicholson, Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Martin Sheen and Mark Wahlberg, you're in great danger of producing one of those ill-advised flops. Fortunately, The Departed has legendary director Martin Scorcese at the helm, and he steers the ship straight.

The film, set in Boston, details the intricate inner-working relationship between the police force and an Irish mob boss (Nicholson) and the high potential for back-stabbing in such a relationship. Nicholson is a master of his craft as always, compelling the audience in every one of his scenes. But even with a legend like Nicholson casting his shadow on the production, the shining light of the film is DiCaprio, who plays an undercover cop caught in the middle of Boston's web of crime. He is near-perfect, and when he and Nicholson share the camera, it's like Muhammad Ali trading blows with an up-and-coming George Foreman. DiCaprio shows in The Departed that he can take any role, no matter how large or how difficult, and completely knock it out of the park. He is the future of Hollywood.

The script for the film unfolds like a Shakespearean tragedy, and the stunning climax and ensuing resolution are nothing short of amazing. I literally had my mouth agape for the majority of my walk home from the theater.

Though the script was adapted from a Chinese film set in Hong Kong, Scorcese makes the Boston setting a comfortable (or, perhaps more fittingly, an uncomfortable) one for the film. The actors do their part, nailing the hard-to-handle Boston accent as well. There is a genuine feel of belonging to the surroundings with every scene. Scorcese also does a terrific job of forcing tension between his characters. Damon's cool, casual demeanor is the perfect foil for Wahlberg's over-the-top, gritty attitude. DiCaprio's towheaded yet tentative aura is perfectly matched by Nicholson's overbearing, commanding power.

For a film to combine such perfect tension with a comfortable atmosphere is an incredible rarity, especially when it seems as though so many big names can tend to cause ego overload in a film. Scorcese takes the talents of his actors and maximizes them, turning The Departed from the run-0f-the-mill star-studded crime drama to an absolute masterpiece.
Grade: A

Pink Moon

2006-10-20T01:15:00.000-04:00

It's taken me too long (as it always seems to when I listen to good music for the first time), but I'm listening to Nick Drake's Pink Moon. It's beautiful music. It's not like the music I normally prefer, with complex arrangements, orchestration, harmonizing, solos, and so on. It's just a man and his guitar, reminiscent of Joni Mitchell. As I type this, I wonder what it is about Nick Drake that makes him enjoyable, whereas I can't listen to Jack Johnson without yawning.

The problem with a guy like Jack Johnson (or whatever singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar you like) is that he's formulaic. His songs are nice to listen to, I guess, if you're not really interested in thinking about what you're listening to. But it's my job to think about what I'm listening to. Music doesn't reach its full potential if you're not being an active listener. Jack Johnson's success owes itself to the fact that most people aren't active listeners of music. He's got a soothing voice and all, but his melodies never go anywhere, his chord progressions are basic and repetitive, and his lyrics are boring as fuck.

I enjoy this Nick Drake album because it's the exact opposite of all that, except for the voice being soothing part. Drake's voice is smooth as silk. Listening to Pink Moon is like coming home from a long day and sinking into a sweet leather couch. His guitar lines are fantastic--they're only on an acoustic guitar, but they move. He fingerpicks stories. There's no repetition, ever. Even if he's maintaining just a few different chords, he uses a ton of variation to keep the harmony mixed up.

Like I said, it's my first time listening to the album, and I don't usually pick up lyrics the first time around. But I'm not picking up any stilted metaphors like "makin' banana pancakes" or "bubbly toes." Those are gimmicky and lame. They don't imply anything at all. And now I'm listening to Joni Mitchell's Blue and wondering how someone gave Jack Johnson a recording contract. This shit is gold.

The reason I wanted to write about Pink Moon is that I'm always looking for the right mood music, and I can never seem to pick it out. But Pink Moon would be perfect for a late-night drive. The next time I'm home with nothing to do late at night, I'm going to put on this album and just drive around. Preferably in the rain, but that's not a must.

So yeah, anyway...give it a listen.

Staff Blogger or Mr. Baseball?

2006-10-03T22:31:00.000-04:00

So last week I get this facebook message from Kevin. I noticed it was sent at 4:25 am--on a Thursday. Anywho, the point was that Hamburgler Doran (HBD) wanted to add some ringers to his blog. So, here I am. Think of me as Don Mattingly. The sideburns are open for interpretation.

I asked HBD what he may be looking for from me. Verdict: whatever the hell I want, though an introduction would be nice. So fancy this my introductory post. I honestly have no idea what you're going to see on here from me, or how often you'll see anything from me. (Note to Dan and Jake: let me know which way you're betting on my over/under posts per month and I'll oblige).

At first I wasn't entirely sure why I should introduce myself. But since HBD has more friends than just Jake, Murph, his sister, and myself these days, it is apparently necessary. I will give you the necessary facts in note format.

-Simple biographical information is unnecessary here, so I'll do it in a rambling style.
-I'm really not all that creative or original. Most of my jokes will probably be of the inside variety, so I suppose I'm really only writing to an audience of maybe ten people at most.
-I will probably always write in a conversational style.
-Pet peeve postings from me are inevitable. I'm pretty easy going when it comes to most things in life. On the other hand, I can get fairly aggravated at some dumb shit. You could borrow my car and crash it and I'd handle it better than people doing the wave at a Phillies game.
-I'm very good looking and very rich.
-I was probably a better writer when I was in high school three years ago.
-I take classes called "Personal Fitness and Wellness," "Principles of Coaching," and "Percussion Ensemble."
-I blame ESPN for a lot of things, but mostly hockey's lack of popularity in the States.
-My music taste is similar to HBD's. And yes, I am a complete asshole when it comes to music, just like him. No apologies here.

I figure that should give you the gist of who I am and what I have to offer. I have no idea how to finish this. I don't like gimmicks. So, I guess this is the abrupt end to my first post.

Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect

2006-10-02T08:24:00.000-04:00

I'm not a hard man to please. Really, I'm very low-maintenance. If the way to a normal man's heart is through his stomach, the way to mine is--well, still through my stomach, but also through my ears. Hey, get that chicken wing away from my hearing canal.

It's come to my attention that I could be relatively content with any job that I have as long as there is music playing and I get complete control of the music. I may be low-maintenance, but I'm still a control freak. Just give me what I need and get out of my way. This fact is evidenced by my constant need to tinker with the playlists at parties I go to, or that when other people fiddle with those playlists or make comments about the music that I happen to disagree with, I can get grumpy very quickly. I get the same feeling as when I see a girl I like dancing with another guy. It makes my blood boil.

This may or may not be why I won't be out of college until well after the four-year plan that most journalism majors succeed in completing without any trouble. I have direction, but my standards are low. I have my goals, but I'm still content if I don't reach them. I can't write about music for a living? Okay, I'll just work at a record store. Honestly, I would be perfectly okay with that. And you know what? When I started thinking about this, I was reminded of High Fidelity, when Rob Gordon names his Top 5 dream jobs. I'm laying it down, right here (in no particular order):

Editor-in-Chief of my own music review site: This is my new dream. My baby. When I get out of college, this is what I want to do, more than anything else. I'm going to get a cheap apartment in a crappy neighborhood of Philadelphia, and I'm going to start my own website. There was a little talk of doing something like this with a friend earlier this year, but we're both too busy for it right now. However, I have many friends and colleagues with both writing talent and good taste in music, and I also have a dream. There's no reason I couldn't make this happen, and I would love every second of it.
A&R Rep, any major record label: This sounds like a pretty sexy job. In reality, it would probably be frustrating as all hell. However, working closely with any up-and-coming artist would be pretty sweet. Especially if they're actually good.
Manager of a Tower Records: Yeah, that's right. CD sales are down and record stores are going bankrupt. Whatever. I'd get to control the music, I'd get to hear any CD I wanted, and I could just talk about music all day, every day. The downside is that I'd have to sell people Nickelback records.
Program Director for a radio station: Another one of those cool-sounding-yet-insanely frustrating jobs, probably. But just like the A&R job, the small things are what would make it worth it.
Musician: Well this one's pretty obvious. Why not? I figure if I quit school now and just played guitar and bass and sang all the time, I'd be good enough to be in a band within a year. And at the very least I'd probably be able to make enough money to pay the bills. And that's enough for me.

Of course, writing doesn't enter into any of those, really. But you know what? Writing isn't a job for me; it's a hobby. I just love doing it, so I do it. It will never be a job for me. I want it to stay that way, so it's staying off my list.

CHALLENGE!!!

2006-09-14T10:23:00.000-04:00

I don't take compliments well. I can't accept the fact that I've done something well, because in my mind there's always something I could have done better. I'd call myself a perfectionist, but I'm far too lazy for that. I guess I'm a nice walking contradiction that way. My dad always made me feel like I could have done better at something, and he's right. I remember he promised me something (I don't even remember what it was) if I got a 99 in all my classes in 5th grade. I wasn't the strongest science student, never have been, but I got a 90 on a test and decided to re-take it, with all the people who failed, just to improve my grade. I felt like an asshole when they asked me what I got on it that I had to re-take it, then asking me "Why are you here then?" Anyway, I got a 95 the second time around and ended up with a 92 average between the two tests. No 99 in science for me.

Sometimes people compliment me on my writing, and I really don't know what to say. I'm only a college student, still learning to write well. I figure, if I'm that good a writer, shouldn't I be getting paid to do it? I don't know, maybe that's not the way the world works. I'm still naive about this stuff. Maybe it's from watching sports for so long, assuming that the person who is best for the job is going to win out every time. Sports have almost no politics, pure meritocracy. I think it's the only industry like that. I worry for my future because I've never kissed someone's ass in my life and I can't picture ever doing it.

On the other hand, I'm so excited when I get positive feedback on something I wrote. Embarrassed, even. But I feel so proud that I've gotten that feedback that I feel the need to tell other people about it, which I always feel weird about afterwards. I can admit that I'm a fairly self-centered jerk, and when I become conscious of the fact that I'm talking about myself, I feel like more of one. Really, I don't brag on purpose unless I'm talking smack in a game or something. But I feel like I do it a lot considering how rarely I get a response to something I write.

Recently I've become conscious that I may be over-sensitive to feedback, both positive and negative. I've always felt unchallenged as a writer, worrying that any editor I had was too timid to tell me when something needed improvement. What if my writing sucks and nobody's got the balls to tell me? It'll be a nice surprise when I get out of college and can't get a job.

But for the first time since I started at the Collegian, I got a letter to the editor about something I wrote. I was ecstatic to get my first hate mail. On the one hand, I feel like I have to acknowledge my detractors and improve upon their criticisms, but on the other hand--and I do feel pretentious saying this--the girl who sent that letter didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Apparently the only criticism of my writing I've gotten to date is that I shouldn't joke around about Sean Paul's obvious negative qualities as a musician, even in the middle of a mostly positive review. Reading that letter made me wish I'd just ripped Sean Paul for being a shitty rapper, but it's too late for that now.

Anyway, I always feel like I need to challenge myself when I write, and right now I'm not satisfied with the challenges that are coming up. I think I need to get better at asking questions, but I think when I prepare well enough for an interview I come up with some really good ones. I could use some faster note-taking skills, but once I get the money for a decent digital voice recorder, I guess I won't really need them. It seems silly saying I don't have enough challenges on the same day I'm going to talk to Lupe Fiasco, Atmosphere, Akron/Family, and hopefully some guys from The Bullet Parade, but it's not something I can't handle. Honestly, it's not a hard job. I love doing it, but sometimes I wish there was more I could do with it.

I've always been an ambitious person, I think. I always think I can do more than I'm doing. I often have crazy ideas that sound great at first, but then reality sets in and I realize I can't possibly accomplish them. I credit my friends for keeping me grounded. Even with all the stupid things I've done in my life, there's a laundry list of others I would have done if not for my friends.

I'm coming up with a crazy idea right now, though. Writing for a newspaper becomes routine once you get enough practice with it. I need someting epic in my life. I'm going to write a book. It might be hard to write the book I want to write, since I have few to zero credentials whatsoever, but I can try, can't I?

My book is going to be about something I'm calling "geek rock." It's not a new term, but as far as I know there isn't a book about it. I'm talking about Buddy Holly, Elvis Costello, David Byrne, Rivers Cuomo, Ben Gibbard. There are others, but those are the guys who've inspired me to write this book. And in the past few weeks, I've learned something: if you work hard enough to find and talk to a rock star, you can find and talk to a rock star. I'm going to write this book. I have no timeframe, no time to do it really, but I'm going to do it eventually.

You're never busy enough in life that you can't take on another challenge. And if you're not challenging yourself, you're not making progress. I might have quoted him on this before, but when Pat Croce left his post as the president of the Philadelphia 76ers, he was inspiring as always. He said, "If I'm not moving forward, if I'm stagnant, I'm going backward." People are never stationary. If you're not moving forward, everything is passing you by. As much as I love Ferris Bueller, he was wrong about what he said. If you stop to look around once in a while, you're missing everything.

Highlights For Children (Or College Kids)

2006-09-11T02:08:00.000-04:00

As I said in my previous entry, I had a fan-fucking-tastic summer. But that statement means nothing if I don't qualify it with some sort of evidence. That's what I plan to do here. I'm going to recount every good night I can remember. It's going to be a muddled, jumbled mess because I have no rhyme or reason for the order, and my memory may not be up to snuff. But nonetheless, I'm going to tell you why I had such a great summer.

I've already talked about the Collegian, but I never really talked about what was so great about it. The first thing you must realize is that State College, being a college town (it's even in the name, for fuck's sake), is a ghost town in the summers. Some people stick around for work or to take a few classes, but mostly people just want to go home. Not that I don't love my family or anything, but being away from home is much better for me than living with them. I don't think I'm the only person who feels this way, which makes me wonder why more people wouldn't stay in State College for the summer.

Because of the nature of the summers here, most of the people at the Collegian had few others to hang out with. In addition to the lack of available hangout buddies, the nature of the newspaper business makes for very late nights. Some people are in the newsroom until 2 a.m., every Sunday to Thursday. But a benefit of the business is that early mornings are very optional. Also, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are always completely wide open. Here's an excerpt from an article that proves my point further, if you haven't gotten it yet:

"The line between alcoholic and journalist is nearly invisible, which makes it hard to tell if you have a substance abuse problem. Historically, the best writers have been alcoholics or drug addicts. Although no prime examples come to mind, I’ve been told this fact by many journalists—and the media doesn’t lie.

Alcohol and writing seem to be a natural fit like paper and pen. This is probably because it’s hard to hear the muse when sober. Working in media only requires one thing: a high tolerance for alcohol. And the rest will fall into place."

As I've told friends recently, this summer has spiked my tolerance level pretty well. It's a trade-off. On the one hand, it's more expensive and more lengthy getting drunk, but on the other hand, it's easier to pace myself. I'm in prime condition for a longer period of time. However, if you're trying to get irresponsible, it's a bit harder. That's when beer just doesn't cut it.

Back to my point: journalists are, by nature, alcoholics. They work in a high-stress environment, constantly juggling multiple deadlines, and relying on numerous other people to meet those deadlines. They're also nighthawks, getting off work just around the time happy hour is in full force. But you know what? I kind of love it that way. There's a lot of camaraderie in newspapers. That's why on most nights you could find a few Collegian workers kicking back and having a few drinks together.

Sometimes, a few drinks became many drinks. On one particular occasion, Terry Casey's apartment featured drinking games, lots of beer, strong jungle juice, and ska music. If you're reading this, don't ever, ever, ever put on ska music after I've been drinking. You, like Terry, will have lamps to be fixed. Also, it's probably best to stay away from Weezer, as I'm wont to air guitar along and bump into Terry's fish tank, splashing water onto electrical equipment. That was a different night, full of mixed drinks and a 12-pack of PBR to cap off the night. There's some small victory found in waking up in your own room after you've blacked out.

On the other hand, there's a sense of achievement when you wake up in a room you've never seen before, too. That's what happened the morning (afternoon?) after the summer-ending Collegian social. Fortunately for me, I was way down on the list of the sloppiest drunks that night. Many poor decisions were made, and my only fault was apparently demonstrating proper (well, no, not "proper") make-out procedure on my boss. I also had a little Ziggy Stardust spirit in me that night, but I'm not going to explain that any further.

That wasn't the only night I had some flair going for me. A few nights later, the Collegian had its last issue of the summer printed. We celebrated, obviously, with an all-nighter and breakfast in the morning, to which I wore some gigantic star-shaped sunglasses. I was on fire. After leaving breakfast, we marvelled at the sight of 30 or so people in white shirts, black ties, and black pants walking down the other side of the street, two by two. I got excited. All of a sudden, I was running in between each pair of uniformed men, without a care in the world. If my celebration of chaos amidst a sea of order didn't sum up my entire summer, I don't know what did.

It wasn't all a drunken haze, though. Sometimes I was really high instead. Like the time Terry, Dan Winklebleck and I left Kayur's house very hungry and in search of food. Kayur and I had gone on one of these pilgrimages before, to The Diner, only to find that they don't keep their 24/7 schedule during the summer. This time, we would not be denied. We made the trek to Canyon Pizza, the best drunk pizza/worst sober pizza in the world, hoping they hadn't closed early. We arrived at 3:15 to find the lights off and the back door closed. But to our glee, a girl was still behind the counter. All we wanted was a couple slices apiece, but the girl quite frankly made us an offer we couldn't refuse. After we placed our order, she turned halfway around and said, "How about I give you all that for ten bucks?" Six slices of plain pizza, two slices of pepperoni, two slices of pepper and onion, and three breadsticks--for ten bucks. We'd have been crazy not to do it. We took our food out front of the establishment and ate it in silence. We came nowhere close to finishing it all, and Terry took it back to his apartment where his roommates finished it the next day. I will talk about this night for the rest of my life.

A lot of the stories I'll tell from this summer aren't about me; they're about the people I hung out with. However, I'm a bit tentative to write about other people in a blog that's going on Facebook for all to see. Also, I'm self-centered and there's no way I'm writing about other people in MY blog. Just kidding. Well, half-kidding.

I've been pretty broke the past few weeks because I can't conserve my own money, so the Drink of the Day thing is pretty useless since I've probably already written about everything I've drank recently. However, Unimart is trying to ruin my life by putting sugar-filled drinks on sale every so often. This summer, I lived on their one dollar liter bottles of Pepsi products. Now, I'm afraid I'm going to spend all my spare change on dollar-fifty gallons of iced tea. Seriously, Unimart, stop trying to straight up murder my ass.

In closing, listen to Pavement and the Pixies. That is all.

Somebody That I Used to Know

2006-09-02T11:04:00.000-04:00

New title, new blog. Sorta. Not really, but we'll pretend it is.

This was a very eventful summer in my life. Basically, it all started when my parents were reminded of what a fraud, coward, waste I am. Or was. Hopefully was. Another year passed by without much progress made in my growth as a person. I sucked at college again, and again I was too much of a pussy to tell my parents. They found out when a letter was sent home notifying me that because of my lack of academic progress I'd been placed on non-degree conditional status, which basically means I'm on a slow road back to the middle. I'm limited in how many credits I can take, and if I don't get my GPA up this semester, I'm out. My back is against the wall now.

When I returned home to my parents, relations were strained to say the least. We had the same argument every single day. I can't say I didn't deserve to lose their last ounce of trust. Unsure of my immediate future, I tried to get a job. When my attempts proved fruitless for a few days, my dad grew frustrated and blamed me. But without the use of their cars, my prospects were limited. Eventually, my grandmother, who just wanted to see me back on the right track, lent me her car so I could get to and from UPS. Though I worked for the same company last summer, this time the hours and position were different. I quickly grew to hate the job for a number of reasons. In the meantime, my dad wasn't satisfied with my inability to get a second job on top of the UPS one. Frankly, getting a second job would be nearly impossible due to a lack of reliable transportation, but my parents were dissatisfied nonetheless.

Tensions came to a head when I decided I wanted to quit UPS in favor of another (less reliable but more interesting) job offer. My mom wanted to kick me out of the house. My dad convinced her to let me stay, but under the condition that I pay $100/week rent, which is ridiculous. They essentially forced me to move back to State College. Doing so would be the best thing I did all summer.

The summer of 2006 was the best of my life. Unfortunately, I didn't get to spend much time with my old friends back home, or even with people from Phroth. I was keeping myself busy for the first time in years, and I was enjoying it. I made new friends at the Daily Collegian, meanwhile writing about music every week and getting opportunities I've never had. I interviewed members of three national acts: Nick Harmer, the bassist for Death Cab for Cutie; Jason Hammel, the drummer for Mates of State; and Sam Sanford, a guitarist for Sound Team. I had three front-page stories for the paper: one, a review of the concert featuring those bands; another, the story of the last day of Arboria Records, a long-standing record store in State College; and another, a last-minute breaking story about the announcing of a Sean Paul concert. Most of the stories weren't very big; even the ones I just mentioned mostly weren't much. But hell, I had a lot of fun writing them.

This fall, I'm only taking my maximum of 12 credits. However, I'm also assuming the duties of Features Editor for Phroth, Senior Music Reporter for the Daily Collegian, and working at The Deli. It would seem this could very well be my last semester at Penn State. However, I think back to high school. In my sophomore year, I scheduled the maximum number of credits. I had no lunch period and only two free periods per cycle. I did pep band for football games in the fall, concert band, and I was on the wrestling team in the winter. That spring, I had my best semester ever in high school. I don't know what it is about me, but I very rarely stress out. I'm ready to take this coming semester head-on.

There are a handful of reasons I changed the name of the blog. First of all, as I mentioned before, I'm no longer twenty years old and therefore calling myself a "twentynothing," while self-deprecating, no longer has a double entendre. Secondly, as I decided to start writing, I was listening to the Elliott Smith song of the same title, and the lyrics connected with me. The song is written to someone else, most likely. But like John Lennon's "Nowhere Man," the lyrics could also be directed towards the speaker himself, if you stretch them enough. The object of the lyrics is a person who once needed a friend's help as a guide. Now, the person is flourishing and is "somebody that I used to know." Here's hoping that I'm somebody that I used to know.

Different Names For the Same Thing

2006-08-19T12:54:00.000-04:00

It's been a few weeks since I turned 21, essentially rendering the name of this blog obsolete. Between this post and the next one, I'll have to come up with a new (and hopefully witty--what a change) name.

But speaking of being 21, my fear of becoming an alcoholic was not realized, thankfully. I'm a social drinker to the extreme. Actually, I'm just a social anything. I don't do anything when I'm by myself; I must have the company of others. That's basically why I spent every possible waking hour at the Collegian this summer. I get lonely very easily.

The difference between being 20 and being 21 is very bizarre to think about. It's kind of like joining a club. Before you join the club, you have no access to the benefits unless you get someone in the club to help you out. Now I'm in the club, and I can do things I was never able to do before. And it just happened almost magically--at 11:59 p.m. on July 29th, I wasn't in the club. At 12 midnight on the 30th, I was in.

There's something about age limits that inherently makes no fucking sense. In the matter of one day, a person goes from immature to mature? I don't get it. We have so much red tape with bureaucracy in this country as is--why not add some more? How hard would it be to hold psychological testing for teens to see if they're ready for their license, or to smoke cigarettes, or to buy alcohol? That's one more government department we don't have, and that would create more jobs.

Despite instantaneously passing through this imaginary barrier of time on July 30th, however, I haven't been doing what I thought I'd be doing with my newfound legal privilege--that is, spending every night at the bars, pissing away cash, drinking too much, making an embarrassment of myself, being carried home to pass out by myself.

Fortunately, I guess I've never really shown the signs of alcoholism that some of my peers have. I think Penn State trained me to learn how to drink. I can pace myself, I enjoy the slow build of a drunken buzz moreso than the end result. I always feel at the top of my game after a few drinks and not much more.

But nobody cares about any of that. Know what everyone cares about? I'm introducing a new feature for the blog. With every entry, I'm going to throw in a blurb about my favorite alcoholic beverages of the moment. To the Drink of the Day section!

Drink of the Day

Liquor
Last night I had 99 Oranges for the first time. I'd had 99 Bananas and 99 Berries before, and they're all fantastic. Very strong (99 Proof, hence the name), but very good for mixing due to the hint of fruity flavor. Last night, I mixed 99 Oranges with Lemon-Lime Gatorade and it was perfect. Vinny and I then watched Dawn of the Dead and House of Wax. DOTD was fucking awesome. I love zombie movies, and I can't wait for the day a zombie tries to attack me. Now I know how to attack them, thanks to DOTD and one of my favorite movies, Shaun of the Dead. I'm prepared to endure the next zombie attack.

Beer(?)
As the son/nephew/cousin of several avid beer geeks, I assumed I'd be a pretentious beer drinker myself when I had the opportunity. Luckily for me, Zeno's bottle shop has an awesome selection of local brews with lots of variety. Ales, stouts, wheat beers, they've got them all. I have yet to buy any of these fancy-schmancy beers. The last time I was at Zeno's, I bought four 40s of Colt 45. After two, I was in great shape. Colt 45 is an efficient malt liquor. Previously, I had been going the cheaper route with Hurricane. Hurricane's great because it's got absolutely zero flavor, which means no bad taste. It also has a lower volume of alcohol. I'm switching to Colt 45 when I want to get drunk like any normal homeless man.

I'm going to comment further on Zeno's, because it's my blog and I can. The last two times I've been there, there have been really cute girls working the counter (two different ones) and they're very friendly. It's stuff like this that gives me incentive to stop there after work when I'm going to buy alcohol. The dude at Brewsky's is nice too, but he's a dude. He's got nothing on the Zeno's girls. Seriously, when I walked out with my four Colt 45s, the girl said "Happy drinking." A little snarky politeness goes a long way, people.

On a related note: counter girls who wear Beatles shirts or comment on my music t-shirts are my new favorite thing in the world. At Bell's Greek Pizza the other night, the girl was wearing a brown Let It Be t-shirt. When I complimented her on it, she gave me one right back on my White Stripes shirt. I then enjoyed my pizza. Oh, college.

It's Hard Out Here for an Atheist

2006-07-29T15:03:00.000-04:00

A couple years ago, I decided that it was impossible for me to have faith. I'm a believer, but I'm a skeptic.

I call myself a "believer" because I'm an optimist. I want to believe good things are true, but I can't believe them until I have evidence. I blame the Phillies and the U.S. government.

Anyway, that's not to say I don't think there's proof for the existence of a higher power. There's plenty. However, there's just as much proof that there isn't a high power, or at least enough to keep myself and countless others from being sure there is one. And for me, even the slightest contradiction of God's existence makes me skeptical.

That's the difference between faith and belief. I believe that there is a possibility of a God existing, but I don't have faith in that possibility.

That's why I'm neither Christian (or Jewish, Muslim, etc.) nor Atheist. Atheists, in my opinion, are no different from any other religious people. That's why I'm agnostic.

It's hard to think about how this affects my life. I'm Irish, raised Catholic, and everyone on both sides of my family is the same. On a superficial level, my agnosticism could make some waves in the Doran and Walsh circles. Will I marry in a church? Will my kids be baptized? How "wrong" is it that I still accept communion at mass?

Honestly, I'm afraid to even discuss it. When I was having a hard time with everything in my life a couple months ago, my mother consistently suggested going to God with my problems. That's where Agnosticism hits me on a deeper level. In my life, I've always had prayer and spirituality to comfort myself or distract me from my problems. Now I can't bring myself to do it. To me, talking to God would be akin to creating an imaginary friend.

In that sense, I envy religious people for their abilities to have unconditional faith. They have a therapist whom I don't and will never be able to have. It's a lifestyle that is part of my identity just as much as my hair color or shoe size. Maybe something could have changed my mind along the way, but I know my friends reading this will remember how stubborn Dorans are. I'm the prodigal son who's never coming back.

Good News!

2006-07-11T11:13:00.000-04:00

(No, not about Francisco Liriano.)

Because I'll be in State College for just about 90% of my time over the next couple years, this news doesn't affect me much. It still makes me happy, however.

A little background: since I lost my favorite childhood radio station, Y-100, when its format was flipped to an urban station in February 2005, I've struggled with finding a replacement in Philadelphia. Rather than having one go-to station, I tended to flip around, mostly with WMMR and some classic rock stations. Recently, however, I took a liking to WXPN, which is essentially an adult alternative station with a nice eclectic touch. I eventually signed up for XPN's mailing list so I could receive updates on the new music that I liked. But something was still missing. There wasn't that "cutting-edge" feel to XPN. It always seemed a bit too relaxed for me. Sometimes I just need to rock the fuck out, and that's not really XPN's specialty.

As it turns out, I rarely opened the e-mails I would get from XPN. They just seemed like ordinary junk mail because I never really found anything I was looking for them. That is, until today, when the Subject line caught my eye: "YRock On XPN & XPoNential."

My first thought was "What the fuck is XPoNential?" Then my eyes wandered to "YRock." That looked mysteriously like Y-100's post-mortem internet reincarnation, Y100Rocks.com. I was intrigued. So for the first time in a long time, I opened my WXPN Newsletter. I was not disappointed.

According to the e-mail from Roger LaMay, the GM of XPN, Y-100 will be returning to the airwaves, both radio and Internet. The historic radio station will return (though in a limited capacity) on August 1 at XPoNentialMusic.org, and then over the wireless telephony on August 30.

Now, before you get love mayonnaise all over your pants, remember that I said "in a limited capacity." We will get our Y-100 back, thanks to XPN and ever-faithful Y-100 Program Manager Jim McGuinn. Though the Y-Rock will be brought in full force via the interweb, the radio show will only take place on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. The Wednesday and Thursday shows will start at 8 p.m. while the Friday shows start at 7 p.m. All the shows will run until 11 p.m.

In my opinion, the path that Y-100 took after its demise couldn't have worked out better. While the station was faithful to its former modern rock format, it definitely branched out, playing more up-and-coming independent artists along with the established greats. The Y-Rock radio show on XPN will be replacing an indie-rock show due to its time slot, but according to the FAQ page for XPoNential, the Y-Rock show will incorporate some of that music into its program. Sounds good to me, baby.

In addition to the radio program, the FAQ hints that Sonic Sessions will continue. Does it get any better? I submit that it does not.

It's been said that rock is dead. While it appears that it may be dying, it certainly is still showing signs of life, at least in Philadelphia. Perhaps this surge from Y-100 can resuscitate the rock.

Finally

2006-07-10T21:28:00.000-04:00

Francisco Liriano, the best pitcher in baseball, got picked to replace Jose Contreras (a White Sox pitcher) because Contreras pitched on Sunday and therefore will be unavailable for the All-Star Game. Not that he really deserves to be an All-Star, anyway.

At any rate, justice has been served--though it shouldn't have happened this way, and the MLB still needs to change its retarded All-Star selection process.

Update

2006-07-07T23:37:00.000-04:00

Today, Manny Ramirez announced he would not be playing in the All-Star Game due to injury. As a replacement, Ozzie Guillen chose Magglio Ordonez, an outfielder for the Tigers.

I don't know what the rules are on replacements; i.e. I don't know if you have to replace an outfielder with an outfielder, but as it stands there are seven outfielders available to play for the A.L. team. One less wouldn't hurt, would it? I guess four innings is too much to ask from an All-Star.

Baseball Justice

2006-07-06T20:00:00.000-04:00

The general point of an All-Star Game is to feature the game's best and most popular players. Different sports have different methods of choosing their All-Stars. In all of them, there is some part of the selection which involves fan voting. This helps the fans show who their favorite players are; although they may not be the best, they're the exciting players that fans like to watch. In the NHL, NBA, and MLB, fans have complete control over who starts in the All-Star Game.

After the starters are chosen, each league has its own method of choosing the reserves for the game. In the NBA, players are selected by the league's coaches. In the MLB, the players vote on most of the reserves, while some are left to the manager for each All-Star team.

This year, Ozzie Guillen will manage the American League All-Stars, because his White Sox won the American League last year (and eventually the World Series). I personally like Guillen's coaching style. He's not afraid to say what he thinks (see his comments about Chicago sports reporter Jay Mariotti) and he can light a fire under his players' asses when they need it. He's old-school.

However, this year, it became painfully obvious that Ozzie might be the worst-ever manager of an All-Star team. After zero of his White Sox were voted as starters by the fans, three were voted in by the players. Then, Ozzie named three more of his players to the team. Look, Ozzie, if neither the fans nor the players want to see your guys in the game, why are you putting them in there? If anything, the World Series champs should have more players voted in than deserved. Three guys on an All-Star team is above average. Since there are 30 players on an All-Star roster, that averages to about 2 players per team. Obviously not every team is going to have 2 players on the team, but the White Sox had 3! That's plenty!

But now, thanks to Ozzie, there are SIX White Sox on the team when there should only be three. That's a problem. Yet another problem is that Ozzie left off one very important player: Francisco Liriano, a pitcher for the Twins who thus far this season has posted a 9-1 win-loss record and a 1.99 ERA in the American League. He also has 94 strikeouts in 81 1/3 innings. Those are unbelievable numbers. In fact, they're the best of any pitcher in the major leagues. By most statistical accounts, Liriano should be the starting pitcher for the American League. However, he's not even on the roster.

In an effort to get the fans more interested in the ASG, Bud Selig instituted a rule a few years back where the fans get to vote on the last player to make the team. I personally think it's a great system because there is often a big argument over some players who got snubbed from the game. This system gives the fans a chance to speak up over who they want in the game, often including pitchers, for whom fans don't normally get to vote. This absolves the managers from some criticism every year.

This was going to be Francisco Liriano's saving grace. Baseball fans worldwide would realize what an outrage it was that the best, most electric pitcher in the game right now, the guy who defeated Roger Clemens in his first game back in the majors this year, had not made the All-Star squad.

Then, the nominees for the Final Vote were announced. Liriano joined the stellar Cleveland Indians designated hitter Travis Hafner, Baltimore Orioles catcher Ramon Hernandez, and upstart Detroit Tigers pitcher Justin Verlander as a candidate for the Final Vote. But there was one more candidate eligible for the All-Star Game: Chicago White Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski.

Now, Pierzynski is having a good season. His numbers are certainly of an All-Star caliber. But there are a number of glaring fucking issues with his inclusion on the ballot:

He's a total asshole. Everybody in the major leagues hates him pretty much, including a lot of his own teammates.
Ramon Hernandez, the other catcher on the ballot, is having a better season both offensively and defensively. It's not fair to Hernandez to include another catcher on the ballot, especially an inferior one. Even if the other catcher doesn't get voted in, he's taking away votes that could potentially go to Hernandez just because they're both catchers.
If you wanted to argue for Pierzynski's offensive numbers, then just look at Travis Hafner's alongside them. Hafner is a better offensive player in every single aspect of the game. Again, it's unfair to include Pierzynski on the ballot with both Hernandez and Hafner.
While Pierzynski is the least popular character-wise and most inferior talent-wise of the five candidates, he plays in the largest metropolitan area of any of the five candidates. You're giving the worst player the best chance to win.
THERE ARE ALREADY SIX FUCKING WHITE SOX ON THE ALL-STAR TEAM.

See the problem here? Whoever was responsible for putting Pierzynski on the ballot is a fucking douchebag. I'm sure White Sox fans are happy, but that's at the expense of the rest of the country. This Final Vote competition, which seemed like a good idea at first, has turned into a battle of the biggest markets. If there's a Yankee in it, he wins. It's almost automatic. A Minnesota Twin has no chance to win it because of where he plays, no matter how much better or how much more popular he is than the other four players.

So now, thanks to Ozzie Guillen and Bud Selig, the best pitcher in the major leagues has been left out of the All-Star Game. How preposterous is that? Would this happen in any other sport? No fucking way!

To be fair to the All-Star system, the fans have gotten smarter with voting. Thanks to the power of the internet and the glory that emanates from 24/7 sports networks, the average American knows much more about baseball than he or she did, say, 15 years ago. Even as recently as 1997, when two of the National League starters were injured at the time of the All-Star break, the fans were responsible. But now, fan voting is finally paying dividends. Even an up-and-coming player in a small market like Jason Bay of the Pittsburgh Pirates got voted in as a starter.

The main problem with the All-Star game is that ONE PERSON has the right to name whomever he wants to the team, no questions asked. One person cannot speak for an entire country. Even the president has checks and balances. But Ozzie Guillen doesn't.

He also gets to name the starting pitcher. I'm going to just pray that he doesn't pick Mark Buehrle over another deserving Minnesota Twin, Johan Santana. Santana's the second-best pitcher in the majors right now, but judging from Guillen's selection process, any White Sox player takes precedent over the best player available.

A big part of me hopes the White Sox make it to the World Series this year. I hope they sweep through the division series and ALCS. I hope their spirits are riding high going into the World Series, when they finally run into a challenge. And I hope the series goes down to Game 7, a Game 7 played outside of Chicago because the National League won the All-Star game on a walk-off home run off White Sox closer Bobby Jenks, one of the three players Guillen named to the team with his ultimate power.

And I hope the final out is made when A.J. Pierzynski comes to the plate, down one run in the top of the 9th with one runner on base, and he sends a long fly ball to deep outfield...and the outfielder catches a ball that would have been out of the park in Chicago.

And we'll look at Bud Selig and smile, because for the first, last, and only time in the hopefully short history of the "This One Counts" policy, this one actually counted. And this time, a nice big plate of baseball justice was served.

Double Dose

2006-07-02T21:34:00.000-04:00

Hey, I have two things that I want to write about tonight, so if you don't like the first entry, scroll down to the second one and maybe you'll like that one.

***

Having never imbibed alcohol in an American bar, I have yet to enter the world of drunken karaoke. I've taken part in a few sessions while sober (and young and stupid, obviously), mostly at Jake's block parties. Karaoke is a memory maker. I will never listen to "It's the End Of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" again without hearing the line "birthday party cheesecake" and remembering Jake joyously telling us "I knew he said 'cheescake'!"

Now, memories or not, that song is not a particularly great one for karaoke unless you know you can nail all the words--a feat which not many who grace this planet can do. Unless you've got the bombastic attitude of Bill Murray doing "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding" or the sultry movements of Scarlett Johansson crooning "Brass in Pocket" in Lost in Translation, pulling off your karaoke cover could become a disaster. The key is winning over the crowd, and the only way to do that is to be confident and comfortable.

Of course, certain songs lend themselves to this attitude much better than others. That's why I'm going to point out some of the best karaoke songs in the world. Note that, as an underage drunk, the success of these songs is purely theoretical, and that they may not actually be great songs for karaoke. But if my solo sing-alongs have steered me wrong, I might have to re-evaluate my whole life.

So, without further ado, here are my perfect karaoke selections:

(P.S.--There will be NO Journey songs or Meatloaf songs included, because all of their songs are cheesy as a Milwaukee resident's shit.)

David Bowie, "Suffragette City"

I thought this was just me. But in a moment of weakness the other night, I watched more than 5 seconds of David Spade's The Showbiz Show. It's not my fault Jessica Alba was on. Anywho, Spade closed out the show by singing this song with Scott Weiland and some random band. And even though Spade was terrible and Weiland not much better with their treatment of Mr. Stardust's classic, it still rocked. I will most likely break my karaoginity with this selection.

It's got everything you need--the cool "Hey man!", the great tone of voice with which Bowie rocks it out, and the key--a great climax with the "Ohhhhhhhhh, wham bam thank you ma'am!" followed by a kickass finish. If you can't kick ass with this song, you shouldn't be allowed near a microphone.

Talking Heads, "Burning Down the House"

This one would be a bit riskier than Bowie, but if you can get the swagger down, it's a real winner. The staccato delivery is a real key. Plus, shouting "Burning down the house!" is just a fun thing to do. I imagine if you're drunk, it could be hard to remember the shifting melodies, but if you know your shit, you could get it right. This one's really a sink-or-swim number, but if you do it right, you could hit it out of the park.

Kelly Clarkson, "Since U Been Gone"

I don't think I've been to a party at college since this song was released where I haven't heard it played. EVERYBODY likes this song, from the fratboys to the jocks to the nerds to the art freaks. It's got a hook that nobody can resist. And if you can hit the "Again and again and again and again!", you're a better man that I. But if you can get it, just like with "Burning Down the House," you'll be the hero of the day.

The Beatles, "Oh! Darling"

I think "Hey Jude" is probably the fan favorite among Beatles songs, but honestly, it's probably really boring. Those "na na na na na na na"s must get old after a while. But this one is a real motherfucker. If you can get through this song without singing along to it, you're inhuman. It's such a great wailer that John Lennon begged Paul McCartney to let him sing it--and when he refused to budge, Lennon held a grudge against him forever. Sure, some say Yoko was the reason the Beatles broke up, but if you're a Beatlemaniac, you know "Oh! Darling" was the real scourge.

R.E.M., "Everybody Hurts"

This one sort of has that "Hey Jude" ability to drag on, I think, but it's a heartbreaker if you do it right. Just a really pretty song. Dedicate it to your dead fiancee or something and you're probably going to earn some tearjerking points.

The Rolling Stones, "Get Off of My Cloud," "Honky Tonk Women," "Brown Sugar," "Miss You," and "Beast of Burden"

The Stones might be the best karaoke band of all time. I think it's that Mick Jagger frontman attitude that does it. I couldn't pick just one of these, because they're all great for singing and strutting along to. But if you can't pull off the Jagger stage moves, don't even bother. The trouble is that everyone thinks they can do the Jagger stage moves, when really there are a chosen few who can. Anyway, practice your strut, then tackle one of these. Tight pants and corresponding cucumber a must.

Squeeze, "Pulling Mussels From the Shell"

Squeeze is one of those bands that everybody knows, but nobody knows they know. They're kind of like a new wave version of the Beatles, except, you know, not as good. But they're still good. Anyway, they're pretty irresistible at times, and this song is one of those times. And pull it out during a karaoke sesh and you'll have people falling in love with the song--and in turn, you.

***

ONTO PART TWO!!!!

Something insane almost happened last week. It's not often that an amendment gets to the Senate floor, but it happened. There was a vote to create an amendment that would ban flag burning. This movement originally started in the Bush I era, when a state (Texas, I believe) banned flag burning. The case went to the Supreme Court, at which point it was ruled that such a law was a violation of the First Amendment and therefore unconstitutional. This is why, for flag burning to be banned, Congress must pass an amendment doing so (followed by the amendment being ratified by 3/4 of the states).

The potential amendment came within one vote of passing. The final tally in the Senate was 66-34. It takes a 2/3 vote to pass an amendment, which means 67 out of 100 senators must vote to pass it. Obviously, that means the amendment must be fairly widely accepted. The current Senate is dominated by Republicans with 55/100 old white dudes representing the GOP. There are, in turn, 44 Democrats and one Independent (who, I believe, is a Socialist from Vermont).

Yet even with the conservative-dominated Senate, that would require at least 12 Democrats, or about 25%, to cross their party line. That's a high percentage to ask. That's why we haven't had a new amendment since 1992.

Anywho, more to the point--we were about one vote away from having flag burning banned. I'm going to tell you the reasons why this is a really stupid amendment. And here they come:

1) You're supposed to burn flags. When a flag becomes tattered, you're no longer supposed to fly it. The proper way to dispose of an American flag is by burning it. Making an amendment to ban this is just contrary to proper flag etiquette.

2) What's dangerous about burning a flag? How does it in any way affect anyone else? It might be offensive to real bleeding-heart patriots, but then so is saying "Fuck the president," isn't it? And the very reason we have the First Amendment is that the founding fathers (and every sensible American since) has wanted us to have the right to say stuff like "Fuck the president." Without that ability, this country becomes a dangerous place. It becomes no better than, say, pre-war Iraq, or Communist China.

3) This amendment probably only reached the floor because, hey! guess what's coming up in November? That's right, mid-term elections! This is another one of those nation-splitting issues, like gay marriage in 2004, that everyone is either wholeheartedly for or against. This sets up future speeches involving platitudes like "This guy voted to burn flags! He's a terrorist!" and "This guy voted to take away our First Amendment right! Big government's got to go!" It's all just a bunch of politicians wasting our time and money on frivolous bills without even offering a reach-around.

If this bill had passed, it would have taken years to get through the ratification process anyway. It's not something that would have affected anything but a political race. It's a stupid waste of time.

But if it had passed, I read a nice way to counteract it: by burning a flag. I've never burned a flag and never found a reason why I should, but if flag-burning had been banned, I think I'd have found my reason.

***

My colleague at the Collegian, Travis, said something today that I thought was pretty funny, and if I ever write a book, I'm going to include it in there somewhere. So I need to document it here before I forget it.

"They never tell you beforehand that all you're really going to be doing is stalking people all day."

A Friend Indeed

2006-06-23T06:23:00.000-04:00

In my quest to read thirty-six thousand books this summer, I've recently begun on Malcom Gladwell's The Tipping Point. The book is about what Gladwell calls "the tipping point" (duh), which describes how certain phenomenal events (or combinations of a few) make the status quo change very quickly. The running example in the book is about how Hush Puppies, after being ridiculously lame for many years, suddenly made a gigantic comeback. It must have started somewhere--and he places the credit (or blame?) with three types of people--connectors, mavens, and salesmen.

You probably know someone of each type, if you think about it hard enough. Salesmen have a natural charisma that allows them to convince you to do something you may not want to do, without you knowing they even changed your mind. The example he gives is that during the '88 presidential race, for some reason or another Peter Jennings always smiled when he talked about Ronald Reagan (even though independent observers said that ABC's news coverage was anti-Reagan if anything). In turn, it was found that viewers of ABC were remarkably more likely to vote for Reagan in '88.

The second type of person, a maven, is the one I found hard to place. I have maven-ish qualities, but mavens are completely un-snobby, according to Gladwell--so obviously, I'm not a maven. A maven is an information gather and supplier. Mavens notice stuff like where to find the cheapest deals everywhere, and they tell you--sometimes even without you asking. I found that it's hard for me to find a maven among my friends because I generally either ignore mavens' advice or don't converse with them because they annoy me. They're not snobby, and 9 out of 10 times I didn't know the information they were telling me, but I don't like being told things like I didn't already know them. Anyway, mavens do this because they want to help people.

When I read about connectors, there was one person on my mind the whole time...who I'll reveal later. A connector is a person who knows people. Lots of people. They make friends easily, and this helps them make more friends. They're the Kevin Bacon in our Six Degrees of Separation.

Now, maybe it's because I've known him for almost my entire life, but I owe pretty much everything to Jake Kurz. He's my connector. He might not fit all the qualities of the ideal connector perfectly, but I've never met a more lovable, friendly guy, and those are the two most important qualities.

Jake told me the other day that DJ's going to start calling him Jack. I told him he's going to have to start driving a Corvette and smoking Marlboros, which he was fine with. I can't see Jake being that kind of cool. Jake's not prototypically cool, mostly because he's not an asshole. I've never known any cool kids to take time out of their lives to do stuff like Best Buddies, much less wanting to make a career out of it. He's always looking out for his friends.

I remember one night I couldn't hang out with Jake, and I was disappointed. There was a party at one of his friend's houses, but it was a small thing, and I respected that. About a half hour later, I found out my sister had been invited to the party at the last minute, and I went from disappointed to pissed. Jake proceeded to rip the responsible party a new asshole.

Jake's got class and loyalty. He's honest and clever. Every time someone I know meets him for the first time, they tell me how hilarious he is afterwards. I have so many memories that would have left my mind a long time ago if Jake wasn't there to make them worth remembering.

I think I'm going to start trying to call him Jack, too, maybe for selfish interests. I've never had a friend named Jack and I've always wanted to. I can't guarantee it'll catch on, though. For me, the name "Jake" is defined by all the things I admire about him. I couldn't imagine him having another name.

This is Kevin Doran, signing off.

The Passion of the Zeitgeist

2006-06-21T03:50:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading another book. That makes three in the past month, which I think is a personal record last achieved when I was pwning bedwetting 4-year-olds in pre-school. Man, even then being a nerd seemed to repel the ladies.

Anyway, the book is called How Soon Is Never? The title is a play on the Smiths' hit "How Soon Is Now," which pretty much everyone ages 18-45 has heard. They probably don't know it, though, which is why most people ages 18-45 have no idea who the Smiths are. The book is about the utterly depressing life of Joe Green, a JAP-turned-punk-turned-New Waver-turned-rock journalist. Basically, it's about me if I were Jewish and born in 1969. As it is, I'll probably end up writing the same exact book in 12 years, except it'll be entitled Say It Ain't Not So.

Essentially, Joe Green's mission for most of the book is trying to get the Smiths (who broke up in 1987) back together. In the process, he's also trying to get the woman (who has a boyfriend) he's in love with to love him back. It's got something for everyone. By the end of the book, his mission is an unsuccessful one. Sorry to ruin the ending, but as of now the Smiths have yet to reunite anyway, so it shouldn't be a surprise. He realizes at the end that getting the Smiths back together wouldn't make him happy, since he can't be with the woman he loves.

But the whole book is so passionate. There are a couple gaping plot holes, but it doesn't really matter if you've ever loved some band (or any collective group of strangers) the way Joe loves the Smiths. It's books like this that make me wonder why I ever wane on my dreams of being a rock journalist. Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.

It got me thinking about my goals. What happens when you reach a goal? You can't be satisfied for long, because there are other goals to achieve. Life's a real bitch that way. But everyone has one or two things that they want more than anything else in their lives. For me, that involves having kids I love with a woman I love. It may or may not also involve career goals. But I'll get to that later.

My high school physics teacher, Mr. Cipolla, gave our class some very wise words before the end of the school year. Most of the class were seniors (I was a junior) so it was fitting. He told us that we should always have a goal in mind, and that we should make sure everything we do in life is directed towards reaching that goal.

Now, how does one concentrate on finding a woman to marry? I mean, the starting point of every relationship, romantic or otherwise, is, as the immortal band Deep Blue Something once said, "common ground to start from." So basically, I have to find a woman who wants to get married and have kids with me somewhere around 5-10 years from now and who is a snobby bitch about her taste in pop music. No problem.

Unfortunately, we live in a very real world, a world where you can't survive without money. That means I have to concentrate on college until I graduate and get a job I can survive on. So in between maintaining a positive outward appearance and a social life, I have to be a student, too. And in the short-term, I may or may not have to work for a very paltry salary.

Before I come off as too bitchy, trust me--I have no grounds on which I can bitch. This is a normal lifestyle, if not just a little bit unfocused. At least my dad would think it's unfocused. But my point is that, wise words that they were, my beloved Mr. Cipolla's advice was not meant to be taken as literally as he made it seem. I guess that's where common sense comes into play. Obviously, this was a misjudgment of character on his part, since nobody has any business giving me advice that involves adjusting for common sense. Unless they want to put themselves and everyone they know in grave danger.

Obviously, in life, you can't focus all your energy on just one or two things. If you do, you're going to miss out on a lot. I think that's something that I share in common with Joe Green. When he focuses on his two missions, he invests a lot of time and energy in them--and neither of them work out. I'm not saying people should worry about missing their goals, but you gotta have something else in your life to keep you afloat.

Personally, if I have a problem with my goals in any way, it's the opposite. I think I stretch myself too thin. I want to listen to music, but I also want to play music. I want to write for the humor magazine, but I also want to be a rock writer. I want to run my own music site, but I also want to graduate college. I want to have a social life, but I also want to have money. It's a life of Catch-22s.

There are so many damned distractions in this life that it's hard to maintain the passion for the most important things. It's the reason relationships don't last, in a lot of cases. There's no passion left because the two people are busy trying to maintain a lifestyle and fulfill their other goals. It's the reason bands like the Smiths don't stay together. Maybe there's still passion for music, but if that passion isn't all channelled towards the same thing, there are creative differences.

The real trouble comes along when you're an individual, and you're having creative differences with yourself. I hope it's easier to reunite two (or more) sides of myself than it is to get Morrissey and Johnny Marr back together.

No Offense

2006-06-19T08:42:00.000-04:00

Ann Coulter is a big fucking bitch.

(Stop the presses!)

Actually, I bet if you knew her well enough, she wouldn't be so bad. But that public personality of hers...god dammit, I just want to punch her in the ovaries.

What most people probably don't realize about Ann Coulter is that her public political views are probably not what she really thinks. Like every famous person in the political sphere, she does whatever she can to make an extra buck. What's scary about that, though, is that she's making lots of bucks off that exaggerated right-wing personality of hers. That means she's got a market.

Like the KKK, or the Black Panthers, or Neo-Nazis, or al-Qaeda, Ann Coulter's flock are a bunch of extremists. They have their right to free speech like everyone else in America. Like my high school political science teacher always said, opinions are like assholes--everybody's got one. So for every pot-smoking vegan Green party hippie, there's a militant right-winger who thought Pat Buchanan's call for a public, government-sponsored assassination was a good call. I'm sure of it.

With every right in America, however, comes a responsibility. Thursday on Glenn Beck's CNN show, the bespectacled talking head had a discussion with an ACLU attorney about the rights vs. the responsibilities of the first amendment. Both agreed that freedom of speech should be damn near unconditional. They also agreed that people who take their freedom of expression to the extremes are irresponsible and dangerous. The ACLU attorney said that, though he may not agree with group of people who may have experimented with electrical outlets at an early age, on principle he feels obligated to defend them. And under U.S. constitutional law, he's right to do that (to a degree).

[One of the prominent modern interpretations of the first amendment guarantees the right to freedom of speech, expression, assembly, etc. as long as the exercising of that right does not breach the "clear and present danger" clause. This is why, though the KKK is still at large, you rarely see the white supremacists rallying on, say, Capitol Hill. Besides the fact that no one would take them seriously, there's the issue of causing a riot--a very likely scenario on that stage. See, originalists? Sometimes it's okay to have a loose interpretation of the Constitution.]

So besides raging cunts like Ann Coulter, you have a shitload of people with these crackpot opinions coming out of left, right, and center field. And you know what? Maybe that's okay. Maybe we need a reality check once in a while. Not everything is red and blue. Sometimes it's green. Or turquoise. Or black as Dick Cheney's heart.

But along with the reality check, there's also the side effect of psychological numbing, a widespread cynicism across America. Then, to counter the cynicism is a widespread sensitivity which causes things like Janet Jackson's nipple to force freedom of speech out the window. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Or a free tit, if you will.

The widespread sensitivity is a more obvious sign to us. You have people lashing out against the Patriot Act and all its sequels, even though the resolution was essentially a rallying cry after 9/11 that redundantly passed laws which were already in place. You have Howard Stern making a big fucking deal about getting out of terrestrial radio and onto his own channel on Sirius. You get the picture.

***

While sensitivity is the obvious issue, cynicism is arguably a more dangerous one. It's the silent killer in this case. There are no more lines to be crossed. The internet has destroyed them all through stuff like child porn, sensationalized violence, and the aforementioned psycho extremism.

Nothing is offensive anymore. And because nothing is offensive, no one knows where the line is. Are racist jokes okay when a person of the minority in question holds no grudge against them? Who knows anymore?

One of the most startling trends I've noticed, as the poor, powerless white middle-class young male, is that in television commercials, it's perfectly okay to portray men as stupid. The only time you might see a woman shown as dumb is if she's an airheaded teenage girl. But men of all ages are picked on. Dads don't know how to use cleaning supplies or new pieces of technology, or how to buy gifts for their wives. Twenty-something ex-fratboys pay attention to nothing but food, chicks, and beer. It's not okay for women to be stereotyped anymore, which is fine. But it's perfectly okay to stereotype men as blithering idiots?

That's just one example. Have you ever seen a gay man on TV who isn't flamboyant? Sure, there are tendencies all the time in real life, but there are a fair share of perfectly normal guys who happen to be gay. I guess convention doesn't sell products, though. Why don't we just wheel out ol' Mammy and Sambo and Liberace while we're at it?

This kind of stuff just slides right under our noses most of the time, and thereby becomes imbedded in our subconscious. Our worldviews become skewed towards these stereotypes. Sure, it's the natural thing to do, and it's our right to have any opinion we want, justified or not. But is it responsible? Fuck no.

Humans are naturally ethnocentric. It's the reason 9/11 happened. There were a bunch of misguided glue-sniffers who took an idea with a foundation and perverted it until it turned into a full-scale terrorist attack. They're still out there.

It's also the reason the U.S. is in Iraq right now. The people running our government have their misguided (but not unfounded) opinions of what Iraq should be like, and Iraqis have their misguided (but not unfounded) opinions of what the U.S. is trying to do to them. Every opinion is based on some fact, somewhere down the line. When the opinion strays too far down that line, however, you get conflicts. When both sides are as far apart as the U.S. and al-Qaeda are right now, well, you get a lot of people who are very pissed off.

The major problem in all of this is that people who agree with Ann Coulter are holding the Middle East wholly responsible for all the bad stuff that is happening. What the fuck, people? Haven't you seen Spider-Man? Do not tell me you didn't, because it made, like, 3 trillion dollars. "With great power comes great responsibility." What power does the Middle East have, compared to the United States? We're the richest country in the world. We're the most highly populated liberated state in the world. We have all the responsibility here. And instead of holding ourselves accountable for all this shit, we're pushing it on Iraq and Afghanistan and Iran and North Korea and al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden and anyone else who so much as gives us a second thought.

I'm not sympathizing with the people who mean us harm. I'm asking for some accountability on both sides. And since we have 99% of the power in this case, we have 99% of the responsibility. It's not fuzzy math. It's an opinion based in fact, something the extremists lost a long time ago.

***

"You'll meet them all again on their long journey to the middle," Philip Seymour Hoffman's Lester Bangs says to William Miller in Almost Famous. I'd like to hope that this holds true for extremism--that they'll all meet up in the middle. The middle's where the compromise is, the idea of consensus without which we wouldn't have a concept of modern democracy. It might not be right all the time, but it's rational and responsible most of the time. It's where even accountability brings us. It's safe.

But hey, maybe "safe" isn't what people want. I guess that's why we have extremism. Without it, we'd have no rock and roll, or jazz, or monotheism, or atheism, or democracy, or communism. With every middle, there's a circle of extremes. The mission, should we humans choose to accept it, is to tighten up that circle. Extremes are like most women: good to have around at the right times, but mostly just really obnoxious.

(I'm sorry, was that offensive?)

Great Expectations

2006-06-06T00:20:00.000-04:00

In the Flaming Lips' song "What Is the Light? (An Untested Hypothesis Suggesting That the Chemical [In Our Brains] By Which We Are Able To Experience the Sensation Of Being In Love Is the Same Chemical That Caused the 'Big Bang' That Was the Birth Of the Accelerating Universe)," Wayne Coyne croons, "'Cause if it's natural / Something glowing from inside / Shining all around you / Its potential has arrived."

Anyway, that last line got me thinking: does anything arrive at its potential? In the human mind, I don't think it does. People always have expectations for other people or other things, whether they're fair or not. When you see a movie trailer and think, "Hey, that looks good; I'm going to see it," you're disappointed when it turns out the movie sucks complete ass like most Hollywood movies. Back when Forrest Gump came out, my friend Sean hated it. This movie won the Academy Award for Best Picture, and my friend Sean hated it. He might be the only person I know who feels that way. But he had (somewhat) good reason--the commercials marketed the movie as something of a comedy, or at least a film with a humorous edge to it. The catch phrase for the movie was popularized in trailers before it even hit screens: "Life is like a box of chocolates...you never know what you're gonna get." The combination of Tom Hanks' comical attempt at an Alabama accent and his mouth full of chocolate made light of a cautionary statement.

When Sean saw the movie, being a 9-year-old boy, he didn't find it funny. Therefore, he was ultimately disappointed by the expectations he had for the movie and grew to dislike it. It's the same thing that happened with me and Wedding Crashers. It got great reviews from critics and my peers alike, but when I saw it I found it underwhelming. I thought that--outside a stunning cameo from the amazing Will Ferrell--after the crashers decide to stay with the Cleary family for a weekend, the jokes become predictable and forced. I like the movie, but I don't love it like everyone else seems to.

But expectations can go the other way, too. Somehow, despite all the hype surrounding it, Sufjan Stevens's 2004 release Illinois absolutely blew me away. I discover something new to fall in love with every time I listen to it. But ask me what I think of Sufjan's next album when it comes out, and at first listen I'll probably be disappointed. The only way I can be genuinely overwhelmed by an artist's greatness is if I've never been to exposed to them. Once I fall in love with a past work, nothing can live up to my (or anyone else's, I think) expectations.

So what happens when people reach or outdo their expectations? They're rewarded by getting higher and harder expectations heaped onto them. Believe me--as a life-long Philly sports fan, I know. It's been said that Julius Erving is the only Philadelphia athlete never to get booed, thanks to his MVP, high-flying performances and bringing an NBA title to the city. On the other hand, Hall of Fame third baseman Mike Schmidt is famously quoted as saying "Philadelphia is the only city where you can experience the thrill of victory and the agony of reading about it the next day." Schmidty was the best third baseman in baseball history, a three-time National League MVP, and the 1980 World Series MVP--but his memory of Philadelphia is tainted because he was not protected from to the boo-birds. Another former Phillie, Del Ennis, was said to be booed more than any Phillie ever, perhaps because he was born and raised in Philadelphia. Ennis wasn't the same caliber of a ballplayer as Schmidt by any means, but it just goes to show you that Philadelphians hold nothing back when it comes to players who fall short of expectations. Aaron Rowand has already made a name for himself by running into the centerfield fence just to catch a ball--but if he swoons this summer, watch how fast Phils fans turn on their new favorite player.

In Cameron Crowe's classic Say Anything, Lloyd Dobler (played by John Cusack) is an underachieving high school graduate who isn't expected by anyone around him to amount to anything. His passion is kickboxing, which is enough information to confirm that public sentiment. His sister (played by real-life sister Joan Cusack) doesn't think much of him, even though he's pretty much the coolest uncle in the world to her son. His girlfriend's father (John Mahoney) certainly doesn't think much of him, since Diane Court (Ione Skye) is too good for him in pretty much every way. She's beautiful, she's the valedictorian, and her father would do anything in the world for her. It's a fitting juxtaposition that Lloyd's parents are never mentioned or seen in the movie.

Not even Lloyd's friends have much faith in him, evidenced by their response when they find out he's got a thing for Diane. His friend Corey (Lili Taylor) tells him that "Brains stick with brains." In other words, "Lloyd, don't even think about it." But most importantly of all, Lloyd decides that he has no expectations even for himself. By the end of the movie, his only passion outside of kickboxing is loving Diane. He has no goals other than to be the best boyfriend he can be, which obviously doesn't go over well with Mr. Court. But the telling line of the movie is not one from Lloyd to Diane, but one philosophical line that Lloyd learns from Corey: "If you start out depressed everything's kind of a pleasant surprise."

So is that the secret? Can you really only be satisfied if you have zero expectations for something? If you have expectations, and they're not reached, that's a letdown. But if you have low expectations and they're exceeded, man, that's great. But boy, is it depressing.

I'm at a crossroads in my life, or at least I will be this fall. I guess the old cliche is "three strikes and you're out." I have a full count. I think it's partly (or mostly) because of expectations that have been made for me. Don't get me wrong; I'm not making excuses for myself. But it's kind of tough being Del Ennis and living in a house with 40,000 frustrated Phillies fans.

Facebook Has Ruined Me

2006-05-23T06:07:00.000-04:00

I'm in love with a 17-year-old soon to be graduating senior in high school. I've never met her, and now she's going to college in New York. This is how Can't Hardly Wait started, right?

For a person as disorganized as I am, I'm very systematic. I do things in segments. I micromanage. I analyze the most efficient way of doing something, and I do it that way. If I'm walking somewhere, I try to walk diagonally as much as possible to save myself mere seconds.

The Internet features lots of methods for systematically matching yourself with a person of the opposite sex. Usually involved in the proceedings are some questions about religion, politics, sense of humor, physical attributes, and so on. They never ask about your favorite bands, which is fucking stupid. The only thing I look for in a woman is how good her taste in music is. I'm dead serious. Must Love Beatles. Must Love Weezer. Must Love Lamp.

Generally, I've found I'm smitten with any girl who can talk to me about music, regardless of what she looks like. Generally, she looks amazing and I want to marry her. Also, she is either a good dancer or doesn't care that she can't dance and dances anyway.

Why is this so damned important? Well, for starters, if you can't talk to me about music or football or baseball, you're going to find me boring. I can ramble about stuff like it ain't no thang, but usually my rambling is a sign that I don't know shit. I talk until I get some look of recognition from my counterpart(s), taking that as a signal that I actually do know what I'm talking about. Then I get out while I can, leaving on a high note.

Secondly, all relationships, romantic or otherwise, are based on communication. If two people can't talk to each other, they're not going to continue that relationship exclusively. Therefore, since my life revolves around music--I relate everything to it--a potential (new) best friend or girlfriend has to know something about it.

Is this shallow? Probably. I don't even know what shallow means, really. If you're not shallow, you have zero standards. I don't get it. People have priorities, things they look for, are attracted to, in another person. Some people go for big tits, I go for music aptitude. Un-shallow people by definition go for living creatures.

I'm shallow, because I'm going for this girl that I've never met with the "Martha My Dear" away message and the Anchorman references in her Facebook profile. Also, she is stunning.

I wonder if she likes brown sugar and cinnamon Pop-Tarts.

Random Thoughts While Standing in the Wonder of Astral Weeks for the 1349th Time

2006-05-22T14:07:00.000-04:00

Channels that need to exist, or if they do exist, Comcast needs to pick them up, or if Comcast already features them, my dad needs to begin subscribing to them:

A 24-hour Poker channel.

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, "Who would want to watch all that poker?" The answer is "Me." If there is poker on TV, I will watch it. And I know I'm not the only one, because I am friends with a lot of compulsive gamblers.

In a media studies class I took this past semester, we learned about "high density" vs. "low density" advertising. High density advertising appeals to a very limited amount of people, while low density appeals to many many people. For example, The Golf Channel has a lot of high density ads, because very few people watch the Golf Channel. However, the people who DO watch the Golf Channel spend lots of money on the products advertised on the channel. An example of low density, on the other hand, for example, would be a Pepsi commercial or something. However, you can see higher density commercials from big companies going on now, too. Like, those fucking stupid McDonald's commercials with the terrible rapping about eating McDonald's, the whole "I'm Lovin' It" thing, or with that "Brown and Bubbly" song in the Diet Pepsi commercial. Those are all appealing to young people, people who like hip-hop, and mostly black people.

Anywho, a poker network would be very high density. And people with gambling problems spend lots of money. What's the issue here?

An indie-rock music channel.

Same idea here, except that this channel would probably be a failure since indie rock fans only spend lots of money on old Lou Reed records and stuff like that. But the idea is that you play music videos all the time. It's so crazy, it just might work.

A TV Land-type channel that only shows old Nickelodeon shows (or other shows from that era that appealed to kids).

Featured: Ren and Stimpy, Pete and Pete, Salute Your Shorts, Alex Mack, You Can't Do That On Television, and Saved By the Bell. I'm sure this will happen soon if it hasn't already. As it is, we have SBTB on Adult Swim now, and there's that Nick GAS channel that shows kids' game shows (and is fantastic, by the way).

A "so bad it's good" movie channel.

This would feature AWFUL movies. Generally, it's the same idea as Mystery Science Theater 3000, except without the commentary. It's MST3K: The Home Game. You have a few cocktails or bong hits, sit down with your friends, and voila--instant entertainment. They could have Jean-Claude Van Damme marathons every so often, and so on. This is a brilliant idea. I'm so proud of myself for inventing this channel.

Okay, basically I'm wondering why I'm not a network executive already right now. So I'm going to consider this for the next two hours while I waste my afternoon playing video games. Until next time, my t-t-tongue gets tiiiiiieeed...every--every--every time I tryyyyy to speak.

Ice Ice Baby

2006-04-29T03:10:00.000-04:00

i went to the vending machine, put in my 12 dimes and a nickel, and got a Wild Cherry Pepsi. I get back to my room, crack it open, and take a sip...and it's not liquid.

I look at the bottle, and there's a giant chunk of iced over WC Pepsi. I checked the "Drink by date on bottle" date and it's July 16th of this year, so I'm in the clear. That was a close one.

The Movement

2006-04-21T15:32:00.000-04:00

Wednesday was Penn State's annual "Take Back the Night" march, in which hundreds of women gather and walk around the campus as a protest to the fear of sexual assault that they have to endure. Ironically, the march began at 6 p.m., which is still daylight. But that's besides the point.

In advertising for this march, the TBTN crew did a common thing and tied balloons to posts on the Pattee Mall. Accompanying these ballons were intermittent flyers taped to lamp posts. The headline on the flyers read, "MEN ARE PREDATORS. PROVE ME WRONG."

I'm not going to argue the nature of men's sexual energy, but I can say for sure--and I know feminists everywhere who strive for equality between the sexes would be forced to agree with me--that women have just as much sexual energy as men do. Scientists and doctors would back me up on this. While they obviously deal with their sexuality in different ways, women are just as sexually rabid as men. That's not to say that all women are predators, but some definitely are. And while some men may be predators, to say "Men are predators" is blatantly sexist.

***

When Jackie Robinson broke the color line in baseball in 1947, he did the unexpected. What he did took courage that no other baseball player has ever shown. A large part of the credit that goes to Robinson, however, should go to the Brooklyn Dodgers' owner, Branch Rickey. Without Rickey's willingness to break a standard cultural norm in a positive way, Robinson would have never seen the major leagues, and neither would any of the other Negro League players. Rickey integrated the sport of baseball on his own terms, as a man involved with baseball for most of his life. That's something that is rarely seen today--self-policing.

Under the Lyndon B. Johnson presidency, the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed. This, along with other legislation, gave blacks the full right to vote once and for all. Further advances in the civil rights movement would soon call for de-segregation, not just of schools, but of every public venture. Without LBJ's determination and leadership, this might not have happened for who knows how much longer.

Surprisingly, when LBJ proposed all this legislation for the civil rights movement, Jackie Robinson was a fierce opponent. Why would the first man to break the color line in America's biggest sport be against legislation to force further advancement? Well, look back at what happened when Robinson broke in with the Brooklyn Dodgers. He experienced jeering, death threats, and everything else imaginable. America was founded on racist beliefs, and they somehow lived through almost 200 years of our history. Robinson, a man in the spotlight, received the brunt of this racism.

But also, remember what happened with baseball: Branch Rickey brought in a black player on his own terms. He decided that Robinson was far too talented for him not to take advantage. He wasn't forced by the MLB or the United States government to sign a black player to his team, and neither were any of the other teams in baseball. In fact, the Philadelphia Phillies didn't have a black player until 1971, a whole 24 years after Robinson joined the league. The Boston Red Sox went even longer without a black player.

Look at baseball now. Look at America now. Baseball tends to be some sort of microcosm of society, since, after all, it is America's pastime. Baseball is a melting pot of every race, perhaps best shown by the recent World Baseball Classic. Teams like Cuba and South Korea shocked everyone and made it farther than most people expected. The United States performed below expectations and missed the finals. While surely at least 90% of players in 1947 were American-born, now the percentage is down to 25%. Now, look at American society. Like baseball, there has been a recent boom in the Latino population. In 1947, the country was very racially charged, much like baseball.

However, the similarities end there when it comes to race. This could be due to the way baseball and the U.S. went about de-segregation. Baseball policed itself, and now there is little to no racism in the sport. Language barriers are almost non-existent because players and team staff members either already know foreign languages or the team supplies a translator. America, on the other hand, is in the midst of a public debate on immigration laws, with opinions ranging from "Let them stay and use our resources" to "Kill the motherfuckers." There is zero consensus when it comes to race issues in American society. None.

When LBJ forced de-segregation, he may have meant well, but the negative effects still linger today. There is still resentment among different races. Rather than let America police itself, he forced the citizens to cope with a situation they may have not been ready for. I'm not saying that he made the wrong decision, since maybe blacks would have endured overt racism in the public sphere for any number of years afterward, but his decision does affect race relations today very greatly.

***

Whenever there is a movement to give more civil rights to a minority, there are generally two camps that break out. The first is the militant, aggressive camp. The second is the peaceful, harmonious camp. Sometimes the first camp brings about quicker and more drastic action, but generally when the second camp wins out, the results are for the better in the long-term. Though LBJ's action wasn't militant, it was very aggressive. Robinson's willingness to let things work themselves out showed patience and wisdom.

What the TBTN people don't understand is that they're not making any friends by putting out rash, aggressive message designed to get people's attention. While they're certainly getting attention, it's going to be negative attention if they turn this into reverse sexism. I'm all for equality of the sexes, but making the "All men are pigs" argument is certainly not the way to go about things. On top of the posters, there is a certain smugness about the feminists at Penn State. You'd think feminists would be open-minded, but no, anyone who doesn't want to support them is automatically a sexist asshole. Ignorance is never the right way to go about things, and the TBTN's unwillingness to compromise or accept others' viewpoints on the subject will never help them make advances. Instead, if their strategies force change, the change will be a superficial one causing further rifts between men and women.

Project

2006-04-16T09:40:00.000-04:00

I've wasted a lot of useful time over the past year and a half. I procrastinate every chance I get, I skip class every chance I get, and I spend the extra time either playing video games or watching crappy TV shows. But most of my spare time is spent surfing the information superhighway (bet you never thought you'd hear that phrase ever again). And most of my time spent surfing the information superhighway is on a Weezer fansite message board.

I'd say it's a negative affliction, my addiction with this board, because it is. I spend far too much time on this board. However, it does serve its positive purposes. It fills many needs, whether it be supplying me with new music through the FTP, keeping me up to speed with big news stories as well as the funny "believe it or not" stories, and finally it gives me people to sort of hang out with when I don't have anyone else around. To use a Weezer song as a comparison, the board is my "garage," where I feel safe. Hey, give me a break; I don't have a roommate and I'm a huge geek. Plus, I like to multi-task, so I can watch TV, listen to music, or play the guitar while I post on the message board AND talk to my real life friends on AIM or feed my Facebook addiction.

It's safe to say that while there are negative side effects to this message board addiction, I'm definitely getting a lot out of it, even the intellectual stimulation of arguing whether OK Computer is a better album than Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea (it isn't, by the way). But the one positive side effect I want to mention is the personal relationships developed on the board. It's hard to explain to someone who's not familiar with message boards that you have friends all across the country (and the world, for that matter), but I kinda do. And they're not 45-year-old men looking to cop a feel (well some are, but they're fairly easily identifiable). Most of them are fellow [ex-(?)]Weezer fans like me. Some of them are ridiculously cute girls. Some are dorky guys like me. Basically it's a nerd's wet dream, which pretty much explains perfectly why I'm there.

The most recent personal development I've gained from the message board is with a friend of mine, Keith. He's from Atlanta and is a Braves fan. He knows a shitload about music, both classical and pop. When I talk to a normal person about music, I'm 99.9% sure that I know more about music than them. But I'm 99.9% sure that Keith knows more about music that I do.

Anyway, the other day, Keith pitched the idea of starting up a music review site. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before. I guess I was never really committed enough to the idea of writing solely about music, which must be why I was so goddamned lazy with the music reviews in this here blog. But in this case, it's like when I go (or don't go) to the gym: when I have someone to go with, it makes it so much easier to go. When I have a commitment to another person as well as myself, I'm a lot more likely to go through with it. That's the benefit of having Keith with me on this. I know he'll be dedicated to it, so I'm more likely to put my best effort forward.

Why am I doing this? For starters, all I've wanted to do for the past four years is write about music for a living. This could be my start. It would also be a nice feather in my cap to go along with my work with the Daily Collegian and Phroth. Basically, this summer I'll have to maintain a balance among my part-time job, full-time classes, and writing for the Collegian as well as our new site (which, by the way, will be called Stems and Staves). And you know what? I'm up for it. Needless to say, I've got some wasted time to make up for.

Spring Has Sprung

2006-04-10T00:38:00.000-04:00

My sixth grade teacher and Catholic vigilante Mrs. Kots always told us that spring meant the beginning of raging teenage hormones. Dammit if she wasn't right.

What I have to say from here on out is going to make me sound like a big pussy, but whatever. I'll take it on the chin.

I want a girlfriend. More than anything in the world right now, I think. It started a couple months ago when I was tired of not having a roommate, and I sort of felt lonely because it's the first time I've really lived by myself. But right now, as Mrs. Kots predicted, spring has sprung and so has my testosterone. There are a couple obvious problems with this:

a) I'm not that attractive that I can get laid whenever I want, and

b) I'm not quite sure that I'd even want to get laid whenever I want.

My dad once told me that the Dorans tend to be the monogamous type. I'd attribute it to the Irish Catholic background that was beaten into us (literally, for my dad and his siblings). I don't think I could ever have a one-night stand, if only because it's so damn hard to shake the Catholic guilt I've developed from 13 years of education under the supervision of PJP the Deuce. It's possible that I'd have sex with a girl after a party or something, but I'd be kicking and screaming as I got kicked out the door, or I'd cling to her leg as she struggled out of my room, with "Don't Let Go" playing in the background.

But anyway, back to my point: as Sir Mix-A-Lot would say, "When a girl walks in with that itty-bitty waist and a brown thing in your face, you get sprung!" Except in this case, it doesn't necessarily matter if there is an itty-bitty waist or a brown thing in my face involved, because it's mating season. It also doesn't help that the weather is getting nicer and girls are wearing fewer clothes. The female body is a work of art, and spring signals the prospect of nude models.

What with the changing weather, the raging hormones, and the fact that the last time I had a girlfriend, Lindsay Lohan was still hot and nobody knew who Paris Hilton was, I need some touch. I should probably also stop listening to Exile in Guyville. God damn, Liz Phair can fuck with a mortal man's brain.

2006-04-03T10:31:00.000-04:00

Opening Day of baseball season is pretty much the most exciting day of the year. It doesn't matter how crappy your favorite team is, or how much controversy the MLB is shrouded in for that given year, Opening Day is always the most exciting day of the year.

It's ridiculously fun seeing who has hit home runs on the first day and saying "He's projected for 162 homers this year!" or looking at the stats and seeing that Alex S. Gonzalez is leading the league with a .750 batting average. On top of that, Opening Day just brings back memories of all the past Opening Days, which brings back memories of all the great things about spring and summer and all the great baseball moments in general. I don't care what the calendar says, today is the first day of spring. It's a new season, a re-birth of all the beautiful things about life.

Football has surpassed baseball as America's favorite sport thanks to baseball's strike in 1994-95 and football's surge as the television ratings giant of sports. But 9 out of 10 sports fans would rather go to a baseball game than watch a football game. The aesthetic of going to the ballpark for nine innings and just relaxing, having some good food, and yelling crap in public is just too much for football to overcome. Sure, you can yell at football games, but when you heckle the ref he's not going to hear you. If you're loud enough (and believe me, I am) you can get a reaction out of the players sometimes, which just makes yelling that much more satisfying.

Since I'm getting all moist over today, I'm going to give you the top ten best things about opening day:

10. Every team has their number one starter going to the mound.
9. After opening day comes the rest of the season, a season in which every team plays baseball six days a week.'
8. The culmination of all your fantasy baseball drafts, at which point it appears you're going to win the championship by the widest of margins. That is, until your first round draft pick suffers an achilles tear on the first day of the season.
7. Sports fans can stop pretending they care about college basketball. Sure, the bracket is fun. But admit it, if it were still football season, nobody would be watching 8 games a day.
6. The ridiculous projections (mentioned above).
5. Everybody's still in the race.
4. It's spring time, finally. Time to walk around in t-shirts without jackets and breathe in some fresh air without getting ice in your lungs.
3. No matter how crappy the weather gets, it always seems like it's beautiful outside anyway.
2. It's almost expected that you skip work/school to go to a game.
1. Baseball on TV, all day long.

It's the most wonderful time of the year. As Michael Jackson once said to me, "Play ball."

Voyeur Nation

2006-03-26T16:20:00.000-05:00

Hitchcock warned us. So did Orwell and Kubrick, in a different, more disturbing way. They were the storytellers in the dawn of the modern age, and they dealt with issues like a future without freedom and the invasion of personal privacy, whether widespread or isolated.

The "right to privacy" is a hotly debated topic in politically minded circles, mostly because some think it is an inherent right while others argue that safety should take precedence over it. The problem comes from the fact that it was never explicitly defined by the U.S. Constitution. The framers purposely left the Constitution worded extremely vaguely, so that there would always be room to adjust government as times changed.

Our president is in the midst of a wire-tapping scandal that, if fully investigated, could be crippling for the Republican party, much like Richard Nixon's faults were. It has been said that fear is a weapon used by those in power to maintain or strengthen their grip on their position. However, there is always a breaking point, when those in power overstep their bounds and bring about some sort of revolt. In the nearly five years since 9/11, the Republican party has used this tactic to gain political power in an environment fueled by xenophobia.

The xenophobic post-9/11 environment has affected many aspects of the lives of American citizens, from the everyday personal life to the general foreign policy of the country. But it's not just the government who has a roving eye; the American citizens themselves have become somewhat paranoid and suspicious on their own. The greatest example of this is the magic of the internet.

Complex beast that it is, there are roughly thirteen billion ways for a person to be tracked via the internet. The most personal, commercial, and popular ones are networks like The Facebook and MySpace. While they're fun for keeping track of friends both old and new, the capacity for stalking using these sites is ridiculously high. I can look at photos of tens of thousands of Penn State students whenever I want. By now, every PSU student knows about the police investigation following the football team's win over Ohio State. Fans rushed the field, and later were identified using pictures posted on The Facebook. It also seems that every month there are news reports of sexual predators who use MySpace to prey on teenagers. It's scary.

It seems that these networks are a big problem. Our privacy is at stake when we use them. But the real problem is that everyone knows what a sketchy system it is, yet they still use it. Sure, there are benefits to using them, like maintaining a social relationship with people, but it seems obvious that the risks outweigh the rewards by a long shot. Maybe it's just a sign that teenagers and college students don't know what's best for themselves. But you'd think if a college student can balance school, work, and a social life while living out on their own, they could figure out that volunteering personal information on a StalkerNet isn't the smartest thing to do.

No, personal responsibility isn't the real issue here. After all, even adults will tune in every week to watch the personal lives of sixteen castaways bicker about whose turn it is to catch fish. The problem is a cultural one: America is addicted to voyeurism. We like stalking. We like being stalked. We like having a Big Brother watching us. That way, when something goes wrong, there's always someone else to blame. We don't want to face the reality that we are the only people responsible for our own actions.

We're nosy people. It boggles my mind when someone says we have the right to know the details of other people's personal lives. Sure, I'm not going to turn my head when somebody gives me some juicy gossip, but actively seeking out that gossip is just unethical. Why is it that political candidates are often only judged by their past personal decisions? Did Bill Clinton's effectiveness as the leader of our country change when he got that blowjob from Monica Lewinsky? Hell no. But Americans like to dig deep into people's personal lives and then hypocritically hold minor flaws against them.

Big Brother is watching you. You're watching everyone else.

Steelers Win One For Thumb; Search For Other Appendages Begins

2006-03-22T19:17:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this for Phroth, and due to its lack of timeliness, it's not going to be published. And Murph said this blog was in need of an update, and I agree. So here you go. I have other stuff already written that's coming soon, but it's lengthy and I figured this would tide my hypothetical readers over.]

Now that the Pittsburgh Steelers have won their fifth Super Bowl, they have finally run out of room for all their rings.

“I think the feeling within the team is that we’re going to move onto the other hand, finally,” said Steelers wide receiver Hines Ward. “We plan to win one for the other ring finger first, and then maybe move onto the middle finger.”

Ben Roethlisberger seemed confused by the idea.

“I actually only own one Super Bowl ring, so I think I’ll wear it on my ring finger,” Roethlisberger said. “If we win another one, I guess I’ll put it on my other ring finger. That’s where I generally wear rings.”

Steelers chairman Dan Rooney is actually the only member of the Steelers organization who has all five Super Bowl rings. He said that he usually only wears one at a time, if at all.

“Most of the time I keep them at home in a trophy case,” Rooney said. “Sometimes if I go out drinking with Terry Bradshaw, I’ll wear one from the late ‘70s. I’m probably going to stop, though, because last time I accidentally swallowed it doing a beer bong.”

Championship ring enthusiast Phil Jackson, coach of the NBA’s Los Angeles Lakers, is not impressed with Rooney’s collection of rings.

“Call me when he gets a Super Bowl cock ring,” Jackson said before hanging up abruptly.

When asked to comment on Jackson’s challenge, Rooney angrily announced that he had petitioned the NFL to sign its next ring contract with Pittsburgh’s own S&M Jewelers.

Whitey

2006-03-08T04:55:00.000-05:00

I somehow have a great respect for history while being completely self-centered about it. I love history, but only when it concerns me. I love American history, but stuff like the War of 1812 and the Civil Rights movement bore me, while World War II and the Bill of Rights could keep me entertained for hours.

I don’t know if this quality is genetic or a result of my environment, but evidence points to both. My father and most of the Doran family has an unnatural interest in the family’s genealogy, which is why I knew my grandmother’s house in Ireland was called the Bowling Green years before I’d ever visited the country, and why I know that Doran was such a common name in Strabane at one point that my great-great-grandfather Doran married a woman named Doran who had no relation at all. Somehow, I’ve never met a person with my last name, much less plan on marrying one.

Philadelphia also seems to be a city obsessed with its own history, notably its own sports history. It’s an unhealthy and very depressing obsession, since we’re arguably the most tragic sports town of all time. The Phillies have lost more games than any other sports franchise. The Eagles haven’t won a Super Bowl ever, and haven’t won an NFL Championship in 46 years. The Sixers drafted guys like Speedy Claxton, Jumaine Jones, Larry Hughes, Keith Van Horn, Jerry Stackhouse, Sharone Wright, and Shawn Bradley, all of whom were either complete busts or did nothing of note in Philadelphia before being traded away. And that’s just in the past 12 years. The Flyers have the highest winning percentage in all of sports, but they’ve only got two Stanley Cups to show for it, and they both happened about 30 years ago. Most hardcore Philadelphia sports fans know all these facts already, which is why it’s easy to see that the obsession is unhealthy and very depressing.

Based on Philadelphia’s sick fixation on its tragic history, sports or otherwise (and I could go on about the other stuff, too, but I’ll spare you), I don’t know if my pride comes from my father’s genes or my social upbringing. I know it’s not my mother’s genes, since everyone in the Walsh family tends to make fun of each other.

My pride is so intense, however, that I just experienced something completely new to me. I just got teary-eyed (which almost never happens, I assure you) reading about Richie Ashburn.

In case you’re not familiar with Richie Ashburn, he was a Hall of Famer for the Phillies and a long-time broadcaster for the team until he died in 1997.

I was only about 12 years old when he died, so I really don’t remember him very specifically, except remembering the sound of his voice in 1993 Phillies retrospects, or recalling a story Harry Kalas told when he got inducted into the Hall of Fame.

[For the sake of accuracy, I consulted the internet to find this story from Harry’s induction speech, and Jayson Stark gets paid to say stuff a lot better than I ever could, so here’s an excerpt from his story on Harry’s induction.]

And he paid homage to his partner one more time during his speech, with a hilarious story about how Ashburn, on nights the games dragged a little long, used to wonder aloud on air "if the people from Celebre's Pizza are listening."

"And sure enough," Kalas said. "Fifteen minutes later, we'd have pizzas being delivered up to the booth."

But after this had gone on awhile, Kalas reported, Ashburn was called into the office and reminded that Celebre's Pizza wasn't a sponsor, so he couldn't keep plugging them for free. It was OK to do birthdays and anniversaries, but no more free plugs.

A few days later, though, another Phillies game refused to end. So Ashburn abruptly delivered an unexpected birthday greeting.

"I'd like to send out very special birthday wishes tonight," he said, "to the Celebre's twins -- Plain and Pepperoni.”

Find anyone who’s been a Phillies fan for the past 30 years and they could probably recount a story about Richie Ashburn similar to that one. He was loved by the city, and for good reason.

The reason I bring him up is that I’m currently reading Bill James’ Historical Baseball Abstract, and reading the story about Ashburn just made me beam with pride. I never watched him play, obviously, but James’ description portrays him as the perfect Philadelphia athlete—always running full-speed, always wanting to win, and always having a sense of humor.

Besides those qualities, he was also a tremendous person. James says his favorite Ashburn story happened when Richie hit a foul ball into the stands and hit a woman. Concerned, he stepped out of the box and watched to make sure the medics could revive her. As soon as they did, he stepped back in the box and hit another foul ball—right at the woman. After the game he visited her in the hospital, took her to meet the team, and became friends with her. They corresponded for the rest of his life.

Stories like that are what make me wish I had a better memory, one that could recall my favorite Richie Ashburn moment. It must take a great person to bring to tears a guy who doesn’t remember him.

World Baseball Classic

2006-03-03T05:13:00.000-05:00

Major League Baseball is trying to start baseball's version of the World Cup this year, and frankly, I couldn't be more excited. I'm a huge fan of international competition in actual sports (sorry, Winter Olympics), so this is right up my alley. I don't even like watching soccer on TV, but if it's the World Cup, I'll watch it. Hell, I even watched the first Women's World Cup final...you know, the one where Brandi Chastain took off her shirt after scoring the game-winning shootout goal. I had a thing for Mia Hamm.

Anywho, back to the point--international competition is always exciting. For the U.S., it's kind of like asserting our status as the greatest country in the world. For the other countries, it's kind of like making the statement that, even though they can't compete with us economically or politically, they can still pull off an upset athletically. And I have a natural disposition towards the underdog, so when I'm disappointed with the U.S. program in a certain sport, it's fun to root against my own country (see the 2004 Summer Olympic USA Basketball Team).

The tournament started last night in Japan with a game between South Korea and Chinese Taipei. Korea was the favorite, having a whopping five MLB players on the roster. Taiwan is better known for using ringers in the Little League World Series. Too bad for them, Barry Bonds doesn't look the least bit Asian. Right now I'm watching the second game, between Japan (the favorite in this pool) and China (the underdog). Japan has the most major leaguers of any of the Asian teams, including my favorite baseball player in the world, Ichiro Suzuki. He might be the best pure hitter in baseball history, given the pitching competition he's going against.

I'd like to root for the U.S. the whole way, but truth be told, I genuinely dislike a lot of the players on the U.S. team. Not to mention it would be foolish to root for just one team when every team features something to root for. Let's take a look at the coolest qualities of each team in the WBC.

Australia
Australia has baseball? Could have fooled me. They don't feature a single player whose name I recognize, though according to ESPN.com they have a handful of major leaguers on the team. The only compelling thing about this team is that I just discovered Australia has baseball, though in their variation they probably have full-contact double play break-ups, and you have to chug a Foster's for every base you reach.

Canada
Contrary to popular belief, Canadians play sports other than hockey. In fact, the team does have some good talent, including the only home run derby participant not to hit a homer last year, Jason Bay, as well as 1999 Mullet of the Year winner Matt Stairs, who according to his ESPN.com profile is 5'9" and 215 pounds. Now I don't feel so bad about my weight problem. Canadians are pretty much the most likeable people in the world, so if you can't get excited for a team with guys named Pierre-Luc LaForest and Rheal Cormier, you might want to check your pulse, eh?

China
I've already mentioned these guys, but there are two hilarious things about them. First, among the 30 guys on the roster, there are only 15 different last names. I guess when you have two billion people in your country, you're going to have a shortage of last names, but seriously, China...come on. The other hilarious thing about China is that their manager is Jim Lefebvre. I wonder if Chad Lewis is his bench coach.

Chinese Taipei
Again, there is a severe shortage of last names on this team. But this little fact stumps all the rest: one of the players plays for a team called the Hokkaido Nippon Ham Fighters. If that's not intimidation, I don't know what is.

Cuba
I'm rooting for Cuba because they've been unfairly treated by the U.S. in this whole process. George Bush actually tried to get them banned from the competition. Didn't this shit all end when the USSR went down? For Christ's sakes, Cuba's not even a Communist country. They're socialist, which is completely different. Sure, Fidel Castro might be a bastard, but he's also a guy with an intense pride for his nation. Remember when Elian Gonzalez got captured and it was decided that he'd go back to live with his father in Cuba? If it was so bad over there, why wouldn't he be forced to stay? This U.S.-Cuba "rivalry" is so fucking stupid. It stems from a political snafu that only exists because of some overzealous American imperialists in the early 20th century.

[/political rant]

Dominican Republic
The roster hasn't been finalized yet, but how can I root against a team that will likely have Jose "Macho Man" Mesa and Placido "Gazebo" Polanco? The team has had some setbacks with Pedro Martinez and Vladimir Guerrero taking themselves out of the WBC, but overall they have probably the best lineup in the competition. It's probably better than the MLB All-Star teams.

Italy
I feel bad rooting for one of the supreme underdogs of the tournament, but this team has fewer Italians than Chinese Taipei. I think almost every player on the team is an American-born dago who wasn't nearly good enough to make the U.S. team. The most noteworthy defector is Mike Piazza, who was born in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania and has likely never stepped foot in Italy.

Japan
Like I said, I have to root for any team with Ichiro Suzuki on it. Also, the manager is Sadaharu Oh, the worldwide home run record-holder with over 800 homers in the Japan League. The team also features a Ham Fighter, as well as a bunch of guys who play for the Yakult Swallows. Me love you long time.

Korea
Korea is really just South Korea, since the only game you're allowed to play in North Korea is a test of endurance called Forty Lashings. The team features former Arizona Diamondback and New York hero Byung-Hung Kim, who gave up walk-off homers in two consecutive games during the 2001 World Series. Everyone on the Korean team has three names. If only the U.S. team were so lucky. I'd look forward to hearing what Coco Crisp's middle name is.

Mexico
Despite what you might think, Mexico doesn't have too many big names on its team. It does have 1998 Mullet of the Year winner Vinny Castilla, though, which is enough for me. It will be interesting to see who prevails in the Mexico-Canada game, which will feature "Immigrant Song" during the seventh-inning stretch.

The Netherlands
I'm hoping the team bursts out of the clubhouse in a giant cloud of smoke, but that could be just me. They only have three major leaguers, but they are Andruw Jones, Calvin Maduro (a former Phillie) and Randall Simon, better known as the guy who hit one of the Sausage Racers in the head with a baseball bat. If marijuana isn't on the banned substances list for the WBC, these guys could make some noise.

Panama
Pan-a-ma-ha-ho-ho-ho-hoooo! Who knew Fatass Bruce Chen wasn't Asian? Not me! Turns out he comes from the place only known for three things: pot, canals, and hats. Perhaps the biggest disappointment here is that no one on the team is named Jack. Nonetheless, Panama just seems like a cool country, and I'm pulling for them.

Puerto Rico
The best part about the WBC, perhaps, is the fact that the players will actually care about winning for once. Thus, we're going to see some competitiveness from Pudge Rodriguez, Carlos Beltran and Jose Cruz, Jr. for the first time since their contract years. The team also has Kiko Calero on the pitching staff, and a guy with a name that cool is reason enough to root for any team. (Another thing: apparently Bernie Williams is Puerto Rican. I think that's kind of like an Irishman named Hans.)

South Africa
The only African team, and probably one of the only teams with no minorities on it. The wonders of apartheid!

United States
Like I said, I hate a lot of the guys on this team. But I love pretty much everything about Chase Utley. He's got passion for the game, one of my favorite swings, and he pulls off the soul patch without looking like a gay. In short, what a hottie.

Venezuela
Finally! Managed by the immortal Luis Sojo, this team's got some talent. They were picked by the ESPN.com "experts" to win the tournament. Most importantly of all, they've got more Phillies than any other team with three (pre-finalization of the roster): Bobby Abreu, Endy Chavez, and Tomas "Simply the Best Bench Player I Have Ever Seen" Perez. Bobby's the only lock to make the team, but I'm sure if Ugie Urbina was able to play, he'd be killer out of the bullpen. I'll pause for laughter. Frankly, I like this team more than any other, mostly because I know the guys will play their hardest. The Venezuelans have a great sense of pride and they may be overlooked since they haven't been a baseball powerhouse for a very long time.

So there are your World Baseball Classic teams. As I type this, Japan and China are headed to the bottom of the 5th and I have only one thing to say: ICHIROOOOOO!!!!

Catherine Alis Buckius

2006-02-26T22:58:00.000-05:00

All the women who are independent
Throw your hands up at me
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me
All the mamas who profit dollas
Throw your hands up at me
All the ladies who truly feel me
Throw your hands up at me

--Destiny's Child, "Independent Women, Pt. 1"

Catie Buckius should have been one of Charlie's Angels. She's confident, intelligent, and beautiful. I could definitely see her kicking some ass, too. And she likes to have fun, like any girl should. She defines the independent woman.

Catie has one little flaw, however. She loves life, perhaps too much. Because of her lust for life, she tends to put off her work until the last minute. In the end, it doesn't hurt her much because when she does her work, she does it well. But as anyone who's ever gone to school, ever, knows all too well, procrastination is ultimately counterproductive. You spend a bunch of time dreading writing an essay, when if you'd started that essay right away it would probably be done 10 times faster.

Yet this flaw is an endearing one. It's been said that you like people for their good qualities, but love them for their bad ones. Besides, how can you not love Catie? She might be demanding, but that demand is very motivational. I might not have this blog if she didn't beg me to write every week so I could feed her procrastination habit.

I don't know if Catie's a big poetry fan, but hopefully she'll like this poem:

Catie Buckius, you're my friend--
The kind of girl I'd soon bend
Over backwards for; it's true.
Catie, I'm your Montague.

You're oft bouncing off the walls,
Humoring my drunk phone calls.
You don't know what comes beyond
School, but some man you'll make fond.

You've got talent that won't go
To waste; what you set out to
Do will suit you perfectly.
I can't rhyme with perfectly.

Just like that rhyme I can't find,
You're a rarity. The kind
Of girl with your charm may be
A treasure. That's jazz, baby.

Only the coolest girls get songs written about them. Catie, how your angels get down like that?

You Are Home

2006-02-12T04:18:00.000-05:00

In the 19 months I've spent at Penn State, I've always felt left out one way or another--so much so that I've grown some kind of superiority complex/disaffection with Penn State. I knew that my kind of people existed; I just had no idea where.

[An aside: I love my friends, but I have somewhat diverse friends who generally are rather unlike me. When I say "my kind of people," I mean pretentious, jaded assholes and artsy-fartsy pseudo-hippies.]

Last night, I attended my second Phroth meeting. The "meeting" consisted of watching Arrested Development, eating pizza and drinking Miller Lite. Tonight, I went and "sold" magazines at an open mic night. Somehow, everything has changed.

At the open mic night, someone played "El Scorcho" and at least 50% of the people knew the song. The girls looked different in a good way. There was free coffee at 10 P.M. Why hadn't I stumbled upon these gatherings before? It seems so obvious now. All this time, I was assuming open mic nights were full of untalented hacks and their friends. Don't get me wrong; they are. But I'm an untalented hack, too! I'll fit right in! I feel like Isaac Newton getting hit on the head with an apple, all in a two-day span.

Like I said, it wasn't the open mic night that was good; there were a handful of good acts there, but on the whole it was pretty sucky. However, 90% of the audience was there for new, original mucsic. Surely it was a glass-half-full crowd, optimistic that something interesting would stand out. For me, it did--I'd found my niece, as Eric Matthews would say. For the first time since high school, I felt like I fit in.

Now to practice my Weezer covers.

Ooh, You Make Me Live

2006-02-02T22:05:00.000-05:00

So I was watching Four Kings--I know, this entry is officially off to a bad start, but hear me out. It's Seth Green's sitcom on NBC, in case you didn't know. Basically, it's about four best friends who live together. They've been friends since childhood. Anyway, in the episode I was watching, two of the friends get into a fight when it's discovered one is a Republican. The Democrat of the group takes serious offense to this (as any respectable Democrat would).

There's a scene at the end of the episode where an old friend of the guys' runs into them at a bar. He wonders how they've remained friends so long.

"I guess we're the brothers none of us ever had," one of them says.

I often wonder how it is that I've lost so many friends over the years. Well, it turns out that this is actually normal. It turns out I've been spoiled by the friends I've actually kept.

I also wonder what it is that's kept my friends and me together for so long. I've known Jake almost my whole life. I've known DJ for a dozen years, more than half my life. And Murph, I've known well for over five years. Josh has been my best friend at Penn State since freshman year. What do all these guys (and myself) have in common?

Well, besides the obvious (white, middle-class, college males from Pennsylvania), there's one unique thing, I think. Let me Tarantino it for ya.

Jake, Josh, and I only have a younger sister (coincidentally they're all roughly the same age). Murph's an only child. DJ's what he likes to call an "Oh, shit!" baby. He's got a much older brother and sister.

We're best friends because we're the brothers we never had. (I think) We all need each other. DJ's got a brother, but I know he doesn't see him as much as brothers normally would. Whenever any of us is in trouble or has a problem, we've got our best friend to call on for help or just to talk, or even to just laugh it off.

I don't know about the other guys, but I've always wanted a brother. Older brother, younger brother, didn't matter. I always wanted that camaraderie that two brothers shared, no matter how different they were or how mad they got at each other. In a way, I was a little jealous of my dad, who had four brothers of his own growing up.

Little did I realize, I've had four brothers all along.

She Wants Revenge

2006-01-31T11:13:00.000-05:00

New music day, already! I never got around to last week's revisionist music review, but I'll definitely have one this week. I think the hardest thing is deciding on what album to review, since there are so many worthwhile albums (yet it's hard to decide on what to bring to light, since so many "underrated" albums have already gotten that treatment).

Anyway, this week is a bit of a slow week in the music world. I use MTV.com's news page (much, much better than MTV itself) as a guide for new releases, and four of the five most notable releases are artist tributes. Yikes. We're not talking This Bird Has Flown quality, either. The only one that remotely interests me is one dedicated to Tim and Jeff Buckley, but unfortunately I don't have access to that album today. So the new music review for this week is for the new self-titled release from She Wants Revenge.

The name She Wants Revenge makes them sound like a riot grrl band or something. It just screams "angry militant feminist." Fortunately for my testicles, the band is just a couple of Los Angeles DJs who like post-punk. Unfortunately for me, I'd rather be emasculated than listen to this couple of Los Angeles DJs who like post-punk ever again.

Okay. I tried. Really, I did. But there's only so much Interpol techno I can listen to. At least Interpol has interesting lyrics and seems cool enough that I can justify listening to them. She Wants Revenge doesn't have a single interesting musical quality to them. The vocals are purposely monotonous, placing a heightened importance on the lyrics. But the lyrics suck. This sounds like Interpol and Depeche Mode covering Britney Spears. I want to shoot myself in the face. This album doesn't even get an album cover picture from me. And it's a shame, too, because the album cover is the most interesting thing about this album. The artist name is number two. But then you hear the music, and you realize, "Oh! I get it! They're just pretending to be interesting."

She Wants Revenge pretends to be interesting. I don't know if you can think of a worse thing to say about a band than that. There are tons of uninteresting bands out there, but most of them don't pretend to be interesting. Coldplay pretends to be interesting, and even though they're not, they're about 1000x more interesting than She Wants Revenge.

This album sucks. I'm giving it a 1/10, because it lacks all semblance of melody, harmony, prose, lyrical content, anything. The 1 is for effort, because at the very least they try very hard to make their music interesting. It's still not, but they pretend it is. That's it. Fuck She Wants Revenge. Fuck them.

James Howard Thome

2006-01-28T03:44:00.000-05:00

How often is it that a team like the Phillies of 2002 make a big splash in free agency? It would be like the Kansas City Royals, the Minnesota Twins, or the Oakland A's signing Johnny Damon this year (coincidentally, he's already played for two of those teams). It helped that the Phils were getting a new stadium soon, but for a team whose last "big" deal was when they signed Danny Tartabull in 1997, this was pretty unexpected.

When Jim Thome (or Howie, as my friends and I like to call him) came to Philadelphia from Cleveland, he brought everything Phillies fans wanted. He was a natural fill-in after Scott Rolen's career in Philadelphia ended bitterly. He hailed from the midwest, just like Rolen, and he hit lots of homers and played corner infield, just like Rolen. He was the strong, silent type, just like Rolen. He said and did all the right things when he came to town, playing up his good old boy accent and blue-collar background. It didn't hurt that he'd hit 52 homers the season before that, either, which would have been the most ever by a Phillie.

But three years later, and he's out the door. If you traded Jim Thome for Aaron Rowand in 2003, you'd be run out of town. Now, it seemed like a good deal for the Phillies. In Rowand they get a centerfielder (finally!) who can hit for average and power. The White Sox get an aging, oft-injured power hitter to put at DH and replace their other aging, oft-injured DH, Frank Thomas.

Thome came into town labeled as the franchise player meant to lead the team into their new ballpark, eclipse some milestones, and retire a beloved figure in two huge baseball towns. Instead, he played very little last season (only 59 games), and most of the time he did, he was obviously not at 100%. He finished the season hitting .207 with 7 homers and 30 RBIs in 193 at-bats. Things only got worse when Ryan Howard, the Phillies former trade bait and current rising star, absolutely exploded for a tremendous NL Rookie of the Year season marked by 22 home runs, including 10 in the month of September.

How will Thome be remembered in Philadelphia? When he was healthy, he was a great power hitter. Whenever he came to the plate, there was always that feeling that he could go deep and change the game. He hit his 400th home run in Citizens Bank Park, undoubtedly one of the memorable Phillies moments of this decade. He was an all-star for the Phillies in 2004. No Phillies fan will forget the series he had against the Florida Marlins in the midst of a wild-card race in 2003 (remember the Hurricane Game at the Vet?).

Then there's the other side, the typical pessimistic Phillies fan that would bring up how often Thome got injured, how he was overpaid, how he tended to come up small in big situations, how he struck out too much, and how he ultimately didn't live up to the expectation of leading the Phillies to the playoffs.

It was too short an affair. I'm not saying that the Phillies shouldn't have traded Jim Thome, but it seems unfair that such an important player only played two full seasons with them. Thome was a hard-working player, a great power hitter, and a team leader. It's a shame he couldn't have stayed a little longer.

That said, I'll be rooting for him to stay healthy this year and do well with the Chicago White Sox. If the Phillies don't make it to the World Series (hah!), I'll be rooting for the ChiSox the whole way. Thanks, Howie.

Tuesday Is New Music Day

2006-01-24T20:24:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I secretly (oops, not anymore) want to make this a music blog. Every week, I'm going to review a new CD, and if there are multiple new CDs that I want to review, I'll do a couple. Then, every week or two, I'll review an older CD that not all my palberts may be familiar with (a la my entry on Astral Weeks). Today, I'll be reviewing Cat Power's The Greatest.

In case you don't know anything about Cat Power, I'll give you a brief rundown. Cat Power is basically just one person (sort of how Bright Eyes is just Conor Oberst), a southern gal by the name of Chan Marshall. Yes, she is gorgeous. She's on Matador Records, which is one of the big names in indie-rock (Yo La Tengo, Sleater-Kinney, et. al.).

Despite the title, The Greatest is not a greatest hits compilation or anything. It's just a regular old album. Well, maybe "regular" and "old" aren't the best words to describe it, but you know what I mean.

Marshall has a great, soulful voice. This album really showcases it well. It was also recorded in Memphis, which should give a hint as to the feel of the music on the album. The piano has that old saloon feel to it, a lot of the guitar has a country twang to it, and the drums are low-key if present at all. The album is just about the definition of stripped-down. It's got a very nice aesthetic to it.

The problem with stripped-down albums, however, is that the vocalist really has to put out a great effort. Like I said, Marshall has a great, soulful voice, which really suits the music. However, she pulls her punches with her lyrics a bit. They're not laughably bad or anything, but they're pretty basic. I suppose that also goes along with the stripped-down aesthetic of the album, but it's not very impressive. Simple lyrics work in the blues genre because generally in a blues song, the instrumentation is the focus. On this album, the music is just as simple as the lyrics, so despite Marshall's vocals, the songs fall short.

Still, it's a very nice album. Marshall's charm and the Memphis soul aesthetic are cool enough to make it a 7/10.

Guess what? Today's one of those special days where I'm reviewing two CDs. The second CD on the docket this week is The Elected's Sun, Sun, Sun.

Now, for some background info on The Elected. The band is the side band of Blake Sennett. If you don't know who Blake Sennett is, trust me, you probably do. Ever watched Boy Meets World? Remember Joey the Rat? Yep, that's Blake Sennett. He's also a member of Rilo Kiley, for whom he plays guitar and is overshadowed by the utter hotness of Jenny Lewis.

The Elected isn't all that much different from Rilo Kiley, except that they're not fronted by an uber-hot chick. Sun, Sun, Sun is a solid album, though. Sennett's vocals have shades of Elliott Smith, and the guitars have some Wilco-style alt-country twang to them.

The title and cover art for this album are fitting. The sound is bright, and the art (which reminds me of Disney World's Frontierland) suits the laid-back feel. While it could easily come off like a Jack Johnson acoustic surf album, it stays unpredictable enough to make each song feel like its own. It's not going to blow you away, but it's a nice, fun album without overdosing on sugary indie-pop. "Biggest Star" has a great crescendo, closing the album perfectly. I give it a 7.5/10.

The Pantheon

2006-01-23T19:20:00.000-05:00

America is obsessed with celebrity. Actually, the whole world is obsessed with celebrity. Most celebrities are pompous, arrogant, self-centered, vain, conceited, snobbish, stuck-up, or pretentious. So why do we love them so much?

Real people have flaws. Famous people are put up on a pedestal because we don't know them in real life. That's why, when someone meets a famous person, more often than not the reaction will be, "S/he was a bitch/jerk" rather than "S/he was cool." We expect them to be perfect, and when we find out they're not, we're inevitably disappointed.

I made a list of celebrities and public figures who I think seem like the type who would actually be cool in person, and who I would love to be like. This isn't based on any personal experience other than my perception of their character in the public spotlight.

Pat Croce -- Pat Croce is a breath of fresh air. He's infinitely optimistic, charismatic, and an all-around great guy. When he want to do something, he goes out and does it. It's sort of a shame he's so ambitious, because once he got the Sixers to the NBA Finals as the team president, he decided he was poised for bigger things. Unfortunately for Croce, Ed Snider was unwilling to give up his powers as Comcast-Spectacor's chairman, and Croce decided to move on. The Sixers have since fallen to mediocrity and Croce is now off doing lots of crazy stuff, like commentating for NBC in the summer Olympics and opening a pirate museum in Key West. His optimism is contagious. He's Pat Croce and he feels great, because he is great.

Shaquille O'Neal -- How can you not love Shaq? He strikes me as the kind of guy who could be a bit sneaky in the background, but I love his character in the foreground so much I'm willing to look past that. The guy is a machine. He's the best NBA center since Wilt Chamberlain. How he can move so quickly despite having a behemoth physique stuns me. And you know what the coolest thing about Shaq is? He's a fucking police officer in Miami during the off-season. Would you not lose your stool if Shaq was chasing you? Dear God, I might have nightmares tonight just because I imagined that. And you know what's the ultimate measure of how cool someone is? How many nicknames he has. Shaq has a lot. It doesn't matter that he gives them to himself; he still has a lot. Here's a short list:

Shaq
Shaq Fu
The Big Aristotle
The Big Maravich
The Big Felon
The Big Cordially
The Big Diesel
The Big IPO
Shaq-Zilla
Shaq Daddy
The MDE
Superman
Will Chamberlinni
The Big Deporter

Seriously, anybody who's got more nicknames than the ODB has gotta be one BAMF. Speaking of BAMFs, let me introduce the next celeb...

Dane Cook -- Whether you think he's hilarious or overrated, you must admit, he can take the most inane situation in everyday life and make it humorous. He seems like the kind of guy who you could actually hold a conversation with and never stop laughing. I would definitely hit up the BK Lounge or The Wall with him.

Conan O'Brien -- Conan and I have a lot in common. We're both Irish, awkward, and self-deprecating. Except Conan's funny. I tend to think if I were a late night host, I'd be a lot like Conan, except without the great hair. He just seems like such a nice guy, too. Not like that asshole Jay Leno.

David Letterman -- Some of what I said for Conan goes for Dave. Great sense of humor and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. He's also a great interviewer. You could have zero interest in his guest and end up watching anyway, laughing through the whole thing. He would make for great conversation.

Bill Lyon -- This is the only guy on this list that I've actually met. He's my favorite sports writer ever, and he had a great philosophy. He's not a sports writer; he's a people writer. He said that people reveal their true selves in moments of pressure, and sports is nothing but a series of pressure situations. His pieces on Lance Armstrong, the Phillies, and the Eagles are what made me love him as a writer, but meeting him in person and hearing him speak made me like him as a person.

Jack Black -- Jables would definitely be my broseph in real life. If I had a movie made about me, I'd want him to play me. We have similar physiques and features, and he's one of the most entertaining actor in the world, up there with Johnny Depp and Bill Murray in my book. He's also loves to rock and has great taste in music. Speaking of music...

Beck Hansen -- Or just Beck, if you like. I don't generally comment on people's style, because I know jack shit about style. But I do know that Beck has awesome style. I know that he can dance like a mofo. He can also rap better than any other whiteboy out there.

Those are all my Living Legends. If I named any dead guys, I'd say John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was simply the coolest man of the 20th century. You might say Miles Davis, but he was an asshole. John Lennon was an asshole too, but in a good way, I think.

All-Nighter Ranting

2006-01-18T03:38:00.000-05:00

Yeah, that's right. Old habits die hard. Sleep is for the weak. Ranting is for the self-important.

So I've been reading a Hendrix biography that DJ got me for Christmas, and it turns out that Jimi Hendrix's weight at birth was the exact same as mine--8 pounds, 11 ounces. This statistic is baffling for two reasons: one, I've never heard of anyone who had the same weight as me at birth, probably because the probability that a) I find out someone's weight at birth is low, and b) there are a ton of possible birth weights to go around; two, I've never read a biography that lists the person's weight at birth. Bizarre. I'd proclaim myself the next Hendrix, but he had a few things going for him that I didn't--the long fingers, the family musical history, the oodles of free time spent playing the guitar while in the paratroopers...I could go on for pages. I'll try and work this little factoid into conversations when possible. I can see it now...

Person A: "Hey, did you hear Jane and Jimmy had a baby?"
Me: "Oh yeah? How much did it weigh?"
Person A: "How the hell should I know?"
Me: "It's important. Very important. Did you know Jimi Hendrix and I share a birth weight?"
Person A: "What the hell are you talking about?"

Oh yeah. Climbing the social ladder.

In other news, I've decided to list a few random demographics that I'd like to date (at least) once:

A natural redhead. I think I inherited a love of redheads from my father, who also has a thing for them. I don't know what it is about the juxtaposition of fiery hair and pale skin that makes me go wild, but there's something. Blame Jessica Rabbit.
A girl with an accent. Preferably one I can understand, like English, Irish, Australian, etc. Maybe even a Southern accent. I don't care. Accents are hot, and nobody can tell me otherwise.
A minority. It's like trying a new flavor. It's human nature to want to try new things, right? I'd also like to be certain I'm not subconsciously limiting myself to white girls. [Note: this demographic would likely be unpopular with my parents. But that's a blog entry for another time.]
A musician. I'm not talented enough to be in a band, so why not live vicariously through my girlfriend? Girls are automatically at least twice as hot if they can play guitar, bass, or drums. It's science.
Women's hockey player. I just came to this conclusion on Saturday, when I was standing outside Penn State's ice rink waiting to go to watch the men's hockey team kick [Come On, Feel the] Illinois team's asses. Women's hockey players are hot. They're athletic, but at the same time, not nearly as intimidating as the basketball or volleyball players, most of whom have a considerable height advantage over me.

My word of the moment is "chuffed." Here's the Urban Dictionary entry:

chuffed

To be quite proud of ones self.

I just had my first backshot experience, i'm so chuffed!

[Note: I didn't know what "backshot" meant, and I didn't care to put it in here. Check it out for yourself, if you wish. Be warned.]

On a final note, I changed a couple of the links on the sidebar. One is a comprehensive Penn State sports blog, if you're interested in that stuff. It's got news on recruiting, previews of next year's football team, news on the current players, and then stuff about the basketball team to go along with it. The other new link is for a music site that posts nothing but covers--for example, one recent one is Anthrax covering Radiohead's "The Bends." It's interesting at worst, entertaining at best.

Astral Weeks

2006-01-17T19:56:00.000-05:00

It starts off with a simple upright bassline and percussion. A couple guitars join in the fun. Then something extraordinary happens. A voice pierces the group of smooth, solid instruments, as though telling a story that's never been told before. Every word is new, every note is new, and they're sung with a conviction that could only come from an Irishman.

Van Morrison has an incredible voice. He is never content to stay in one spot, jumping through the modulations that the background music allows him. His words are prosaic and poetic all at once. Listening to Astral Weeks is like reading your favorite novel with a soundtrack. It's probably one of the best five pop albums ever recorded, up with the likes of Sgt. Pepper's, Pet Sounds, What's Going On and Highway 61 Revisited. The reason all these albums are up there is that they all do something that has never been done before and has never been done since. Sgt. Pepper's is a rock carnival, Pet Sounds is a true pop masterpiece, down to every melody and harmony, What's Going On is a powerfully political yet smooth Motown period piece, and Astral Weeks is a perfect, unique blend of folk, blues, jazz, and rock and roll. It's beautiful enough to make you cry tears of joy out your right eye and tears of sorrow out your left.

There are no rules on Astral Weeks. There is no definite rhythm section. The string bass is on its own wavelength, as are the two guitars that appear on most tracks. Besides those central instruments, the album features flutes, saxophones, vibraphones, keyboards and a number of percussion instruments. But while the album is unpredictable, it remains anything but chaotic. It's a rare mix in music to find composed unpredictability.

I'd always see this album named on those "Best Albums of All-Time" lists and wonder why. I mean, Moondance had most of Morrison's hits ("Moondance," "Into the Mystic," "Caravan," "Crazy Love" and so on); his most well-known song ("Brown Eyed Girl") was on 1967's Blowin' Your Mind! What place did Astral Weeks have on these lists?

Bob Dylan was always credited for being great at telling stories through his songs, and rightfully so. Dylan is arguably the best lyricist of all-time. Dylan was never much of a singer, however, as most can agree. He was a decent musician, but certainly nothing spectacular. On Astral Weeks, Morrison doesn't just write great lyrics; he sings them like no one else ever could. While Dylan has often been one-upped by artists who cover his songs, nobody could touch Morrison's "Cyprus Avenue" or "Madame George." He doesn't just sing the songs, either. He lives them. There is an unparalleled passion in his voice on "The Way Young Lovers Do" and "Sweet Thing."

The main reason that Astral Weeks isn't very popular is that it's not really a pop album. It can't be confined just to pop or rock or folk or jazz or blues or even classical. It spans them all like no album had done before or has done since. There's a relatable theme in every single song, yet the songs are personal and illustrative. If Shakespeare was a songwriter in the late '60s, these are the songs he would write. Calling some of them love songs doesn't do justice to the magnitude that the lyrics touch. It's a damn shame this album doesn't get the notoriety it deserves, because any music fan with some semblance of taste would be well-served to listen to this one.

Random Thoughts on Friday the 13th

2006-01-14T01:37:00.000-05:00

One week of school down, roughly 80 to go...

Yeah, that's right. 80 weeks until I'm done college. I'll probably end up staying here in State College for a couple summer semesters, granted the classes I need to take are available. And you know what? I couldn't be happier about that.

It's not that I dislike living at home, or that living at school is perfect by any means. It's that, for the first time since my 2nd semester of college, I'm excited about school. Ever since then, I've been...well...distracted. Now I have nothing to worry about but my grades and my physical and mental health. My self-confidence is at an all-time high. To paraphrase the immortal Pat Croce, I'm Kevin Doran and I feel great.

So, one week down. So far, so good. I still don't have a roommate, which allows for double the space any normal Penn State student is allotted. I bet even Michael Robinson would be jealous. My room is messy, but because of the surplus of space, it doesn't even matter. I have crap in all corners of the room, but there's still extra space if I need it. I feel like a millionaire.

The one problem with this is that I don't have anyone to hang out with in my room yet. I am lucky enough to be on a floor with someone I already know (a complete coincidence), and I've held conversations with two other people, including my RA. One of my conversations with my RA began because I was playing music too loud. This does not bode well for him. I mean, it's the first week of the semester--do you really need quiet time at 2 in the afternoon? I just met the other guy today.

My classes are going pretty well so far, though somehow I've already missed a class. Only me. It's okay though, it was just my first recitation class for my American politics class. No worries. My comparative politics lecturer dude is insane. He publicly embarrassed a girl whose phone went off in the very first class. Can we at least get a grace period here, Stalin? (That reminds me, he actually does resemble a European dictator--thick mustache/beard combo and all. Even the way he walks around the room makes me suspicious.) My news writing teacher is also crazy. It's an introductory course, yet we had a paper assigned on the first day of class, without any teaching given beforehand. I guess it's one of those "hands-on learning" classes. God, I hate that.

I applied for a job at Lion Line, which is basically Penn State's telemarketing department. They call alumni, friends and family of students, and other rubes to sucker money out of them. Actually, it's more like begging them for donations, but in such a way that you talk them up first and then BAM! "So, you wanna fork over some cash?" I figured I'd apply just to see what the job was like, but then they told me about the interview. I was handed a "script" to practice, then when the time came for my interview, I'd call their number and go through the script as though I were actually doing the job. You know what? Telemarketing sucks enough without having to do actual work before you get the job. No dice, Lion Line.

I've sent two e-mails to the editor of The Daily Collegian to see if I can get my job back. I've gotten no responses, which means I'm going down there and getting my job back the hard way--via oral sex. Or perhaps groveling. We'll see how it plays out.

In other random news concerning my first week back at Penn State, I talked to Paul Posluszny a few days ago. He was sitting on a bench in Waring Commons and I asked him, "How's the leg, Paul?" He responded politely, "Seven more weeks. It'll be fine." Who wants to touch me?

So that was the first chapter in The Kevo Strikes Back. Stay tuned for more.

Best of 2005: The Memories

2006-01-01T22:22:00.000-05:00

Before I say anything, I'd like to do two things: first, I'm going to apologize in advance for the dearth of comprehension this entry will provide. I know I've forgotten memorable things, for any number of reasons. Secondly, I'd like to thank everyone who has affected my life in a positive way this year. If you're reading this and I know you, chances are you're one of those people. Go raibh mile maith agat.

So This Is the New Year
DJ and I left Jake's party early in favor of a more low-key affair. We hung out at Ginny's, then we smoked cigars at my house. DJ made omelettes and we woke up the next morning to drive down the shore, where the Four Horsemen made sweet love (okay, we talked) on the beach.

Reading this recap, I'm thinking I should be owed some money from the Brokeback Mountain royalties.

One Team, One City, One Dream
McNabb drops back. The Atlanta rush is coming. He rolls out of the pocket, buying himself some time, just as he's done hundreds of times before. He fires a laser to an open Chad Lewis in the back of the end zone. The force and conviction with which McNabb throws the ball seems to knock Lewis on his ass, but he holds on to the ball for dear life. Both feet remain planted in bounds. Lewis raises his arms in victory. I collapse to the floor, tears of joy flooding the hallway.

Downtown State College is Little Philadelphia for a short time. As I watch the final seconds tick off the clock (just to make sure), I bundle up and run outside into the falling snow, hugging people I've never met before.

The Eagles are going to the Super Bowl.

Jump On It
The lights go down. The music kicks up. I begin laughing hysterically as I hear James Brown belting out "Living in America" and see John Albert Kurz walking down the aisle, sporting his red, white and blue threads and gigantic boxing gloves.

The Mr. Haverford competition is the pinnacle of entertainment. I am enthralled from the beginning as Andy Bench defys the precedents of the human anatomy and threads a Twizzler Pull and Peel through each nostril and out his mouth.

Jake never fails to disappoint, and I laugh through his entire "talent," which consists of him coming up with impromptu responses to Dating Game-type questions.

Unfortunately, it's not in the cards for Jake, as the panel screws over a couple more talented gentleman in favor of the minority (not that Dan Ha didn't do well, but come on...)

He did, however, win the Mr. Penny designation, as I donated about 20 bucks to his favor and my archenemy Randy Koch put in his fair share as well.

Hold Me Closer, Tony Danza
I couldn't be prouder to say that I know a man named David Gene Million. Words cannot do justice to the sequence of events that will forever etch his memory into my brain, but I'll try.

On a day that many people will remember for Live 8, I'll remember for the annual Manoa Road block party. Karaoke, pick-up hoops, the works. It's guaranteed to be a fun time.

Goldfish certainly meant well when she brought out the glowing necklace things. They're always a hit with the kids and immature young adults such as myself. We all grabbed our share.

Jake and Dave have a history of feuding that goes back to the 4th grade, but I nothing will top the battle that ensued. As you may know, those glowing necklace dealies double as dangerous weapons. Dave certainly knows, for he and Jake got into it with the necklaces as the weapons of choice. Somehow, Jake outduels Dave and gets control of both of the necklaces. When the moment is right, he blindsides Dave, delivering a welt-inducing blow to the back.

Dave is left reeling, but in a moment of blind fury, he grabbed the nearest projectile--a basketball--and armed himself. Jake, with his head turned towards DJ and me, got caught celebrating prematurely--caught right in the jewels with the basketball.

Jake collapsed in a broken heap. I collapsed in a fit of laughter.

The weekend's antics didn't end there. That Monday was the 4th of July, and Sir Elton John was coming to town. As part of a last-second plan, my sister and I met Jake, Dennis, and Kyle downtown to catch the flamboyant rocker.

I wouldn't consider myself a big Elton John fan, but he put on a hell of a show, despite my Billy Joel cracks. Among the highlights of the night were my pink and blue polo shirt and Dhani Jones onstage with Patti LaBelle.

However, the main highlight of the night was when we shockingly ran into Dennis's spazztastic neighbor, Lanky Dave. He is named such because he is about 6'7" and about 150 pounds. He also has a propensity for slow dancing with strangers, apparently. We belted out all the words to "Tiny Dancer" together like it was the last day of our lives.

Hey, Where's Kevin?
I don't know where it went wrong. It might have been the choice of beverage (Vladimir). It might have been the number of shots (probably around eight). It might have been the decision to go outside. I don't know; I'm not a doctor.

Somehow, in the span of about a half hour, I achieved the following feats:

a) almost got clocked by an angry Steelers fan,

b) got a girl's number programmed into my cell phone without requesting such, and

c) became the first of my group of friends to get arrested.

It was a productive night.

***

There were many more nights to remember, but unfortunately, I have the worst memory of anyone I know. My short-term memory is spectacular, but ask me to recall something that happened more than an hour ago and you're stretching. If I had to describe 2005, I'd say it had its moments, good and bad. But altogether, it was an interesting year to say the least. Hope you had a good one, and here's to a happy 2006.

Letting My Freak Flag Fly

2005-12-28T09:37:00.000-05:00

I'm very tentative when it comes to decisions that affect my personal appearance. Sure, I talk a big game, but when it comes to decision time I generally change my mind just in time. Usually I'll say stuff like, "I'm not going to shave at all until Christmas," or "I'm going to let my hair grow until the summer and then get it cut short." Then my neck hair gets scraggly and I get annoyed with grooming my long hair but I'm too non-committal to cut it all off.

The reason I'm usually tentative is that while I get annoyed by certain aspects of my appearance, I simultaneously find them endearing. There's something I like about being able to pass my fingers through my long hair or make little adjustments to it all the time. I'm the kind of guy who hates getting rid of stuff, and my hair is no different.

This was not the case Monday. Monday, I thought, "I'm getting a haircut tomorrow. I'm getting it really short." And I did.

Another thing that stops me from getting haircuts often is that I hate them purely on principle. Why pay someone to take something away from you? I mean, I can understand paying a doctor to remove your tumor; that's a life-threatening situation. Unless you have hair that is plotting to suffocate you in your sleep, haircuts are not a necessity. In fact, long hair is more of a necessity than short hair (especially in the winter months). People make fun of my body hair all the time, but I'm as close to cold-blooded as any person you'll meet.

Sometimes people just tell me to get it cut for free by one of my friends. But while I hate haircuts on principle, I don't trust an amateur with something that people make a living off of. It's like hiring replacement players for your baseball team--you might win a few games, but you're not going to compete for the World Series. I also don't trust barbers. Barbers generally just go through the motions. While they may be good at what they do, all they're doing is chopping your hair off your head and onto their tile floor. I'm also afraid of old Italian men because of possible connections with the mob.

This is why I go to a hair "stylist" or whatever. The only people I trust cutting my hair are professional women and gay men. They know what looks good. Old Italian men do not know what looks good. They always try to part my hair so I look like a schoolboy from the '50s. Usually they don't even ask where I want the part. I'm not comfortable talking to old men, either. I can handle talking to women, and probably gay men, though I've never gotten my hair cut by one.

Another reason I prefer women to men is that I'd feel rather awkward if a man complimented my hair. I like the comfort I get from the lady who cuts my hair when she fawns over my hair. It's like a cheaper form of prostitution.

But the most important reason I go to a hair stylist is so I can get my hair washed. There's nothing more comforting (next to maybe a professional massage, which I've never had) than feeling some strange lady's hands going through your hair while hot water pours over your head. If I had the choice between getting my hair washed and anything else in the world, I'd choose getting my hair washed. Except for sex and massages, probably.

Yesterday, I messed up. I took a shower before I got my haircut. I mean, I had to, since I'd just gotten home from work. But I didn't dry it well enough, and by the time I got to Klippers, it was still a bit damp. The girl at the front desk asked if I wanted my hair washed. "Yes," I said while trying not to jump out of my shoes with excitement. Alas, when I got my head down into the sink, the hair dresser asked if I'd already washed it, and I affirmed her suspicion. But she still wet it down for me, which was okay.

Ever since that hot wetdown, my head has been cold. I want my hair back.

My My, Hey Hey

2005-12-21T19:10:00.000-05:00

During Monday night's football game between the Green Bay Packers and Baltimore Ravens, there was one particularly revealing play. Nobody scored on the play; it wasn't a game-changing play. The final score was 48-3; there weren't really any game-changing plays since it was the Ravens' game for 60 minutes.

Brett Favre dropped back to pass. He looked for his first option. He looked for his second option. He would have looked to his checkdown receiver, but he was flushed out of the pocket by the Raven pass rush. He rolled out to his right, got some time to throw, and threw a bomb.

As the ball was in the air, Al Michaels, Monday Night Football's play-by-play commentator, said "Quintessential Favre," referring to the quarterback's ability to keep fighting to make a big play until he got the chance. He got the chance on this play, and his pass was headed toward the end zone, where Donald Driver awaited the ball--along with three other Ravens defenders. The pass was intercepted.

In retrospect, it was a bit funny to hear Michaels say "Quintessential Favre" on an interception, but his quip was an accurate one. Favre leads the NFL in interceptions this year with 24, a career-high. His QB Rating is 73.1, the lowest it's been since his third year in the league. He ranks 23rd in the league in that category.

The man once won three consecutive MVP awards. He's the only player ever to do that. In fact, nobody has ever won three non-consecutive MVPs, either. During that three-year span, he also won a Super Bowl, two NFC Championships, and three NFC Central division titles. He was the definition of a franchise quarterback, and my generation's most popular player.

Every generation has that one team that everybody loves growing up. Back in the '70s, it was usually the Cowboys (because they were on national TV all the time) or the Steelers (who won four Super Bowls in the decade). Then, in the '80s, the Raiders and 49ers were very successful and garnered a lot of young fans. In the '90s, kids took either side of the Cowboys-49ers rivalry.

Then, both the Cowboys and 49ers started losing their players to free agency. Brett Favre hit his prime and made the Packers the next big thing.

And now he's throwing up jump balls into triple coverage, for any number of reasons--his defense can't keep his team in games, he has no one he can trust to make plays on offense, he can't get time in the pocket, etc. He's still got some of the tools, but at this point in his career, he's an old, stubborn quarterback. He's going to force every throw because he believes he can make it. He used to be able to because his arm was a little better and his supporting cast was a lot better. Now the Packers' success is riding on his arm, and they're 3-11.

It's sad to see the premier player of your youth go washed-up, but that's what Brett Favre is now. According to footballoutsiders.com (my bible of football statistics), he's ranked 12th among QBs in DPAR, which rates a players total value. He's ranked 19th in DVOA, whcih rates a player's value per play. In other words, he would be a starting quarterback for less than half the teams in the league. That's saying something for a three-time MVP. It's saying, "Retire."

Christmas Wish List, Donald Trump Edition

2005-12-20T18:33:00.000-05:00

Okay, I know it's a little late, but I'm making my Christmas list. Here are all the gifts I would like in a dream world, expensive or priceless.

Segway Human Transporter p Series
Price: $3,995.95

This thing tops out at 10 MPH on flat land. But most importantly, I'd look like a huge nerd while riding it. It would also be the laziest thing I've ever owned. Come on, people. 10 MPH? Just go for a damn walk.

Horizon T53 Treadmill
Price: $799.99

I despise running. I used to dread going to the track with my dad. What's the interest in running around in circles for a half hour? I could be watching Full House, for chris'sakes.

However, I have this weird infatuation with treadmills. Plop one in front of the TV set, run in place at a pre-determined speed, and drink a beer while you do it, all in a climate-controlled area. That's the life.

Flybar Model 1200
Price: $299.99

This is a pogo stick. Who would buy a pogo stick for 300 bucks, you ask? Me, that's who. I'm the type of person who would say "Screw groceries for the next [n] weeks, I'm buying a fucking pogo stick." You may think I'm nuts, but check out these slick features:

Appropriate for ages 14 and up--supports rider weight from 120 to 250 pounds
Elevation potential of over 5 feet--dramatically greater than any pogo on the market
Based on a one-of-a-kind, patented, fully adjustable elastomeric spring system
Powered solely by leg strength and body weight--no pneumatic or artificial propulsion mechanisms
Feels like bouncing on a trampoline--no high-impact jumping

Feature one: Hey, I'm age 14 and up! And I weigh between 120 and 250 pounds! Why don't I own this already?

Feature two: 5 FEET IN THE AIR. I could be the first Doran to dunk a basketball.

Feature three: I don't know what that means, but it sounds pretty badass, if you ask me.

Feature four: Powered solely by leg strength and body weight. Time to pack on 10 pounds so I can get closer to the 250 pound weight limit, if you ask me.

Feature five: I love trampolines! And no high-impact jumping? Thank god, finally a pogo stick that suits my needs and wants.

The Economist

Price:

$129.00

Because only rich people read The Economist. Sounds like a great investment, if you ask me.

The Complete Calvin and Hobbes
Price: $124.00

The complete works of my two favorite philosophers. I wish Bill Watterson had faded away instead of burning out. I would read these from cover to cover, uninterrupted, from the very moment I got them. Then I'd eat a sandwich and do it again.

Whatever: The '90s Pop and Culture Box

Price:

$95.49

Because I don't want to buy albums by M.C. Hammer, Matthew Sweet, House of Pain, Tag Team, Better Than Ezra, Deep Blue Something, or Meredith Brooks, but I do want to hear "U Can't Touch This," "Girlfriend," "Jump Around," "Whoomp! (There It Is)," "Good," "Breakfast at Tiffany's," and "Bitch" whenever I damn well please.

Alfred Hitchcock - The Masterpiece Collection
Price: $89.99

It would be nice to watch these all in a row, then lock myself in a windowless room for fear of living anymore. The man was a genius. Psycho, Rear Window, The Birds, and Vertigo alone make this well worth the 90 bucks. The other nine films are a welcome bonus.

Comfort Products 60-1180X 5 Motor Leather Executive Massage Chair, Black

Price:

$99.49

Cindy, could you cancel my 10:00?

Sony MDR-NC6 Noise-Canceling Headphones
Price: $39.99

Because I like to live in peace when I'm listening to "Immigrant Song" on full blast, thank you very much. Because I want to hear Jimi Hendrix's fingers move along the fretboard. Because I want Freddy Mercury to tickle my eardrums.

This hat:
Price: Unkown

Available through http://www.amazingstore.jp/

If I knew how to read Japanese, I'd have one already.

This eBay auction:

As I type this, the auction is at 200 bucks. That's not nearly enough, in my opinion.

Some people like action figures as collectibles. Not me. You can bet I would be kicking some major Foot shell with the Turtles, as well as Casey Jones and the rest of the good guys. Look at all those Foot clan members. I only had one. I dreamed of an entire Foot clan for so long. Ah, memories.

Batman Underoos
Price: Unknown

Young Kevin: Na na na na na na na na (gasp) na na na na na na na na (gasp) Bat-man!

I talked really slow. My parents thought I might have had a learning disability. Then I aced every test in the first and second grade.

Proton Gun:

Another eBay find. I couldn't find the trap (which I know I used to have, for a very long time) or the actual proton pack, but I'd add those to the list too.

Dave Meggett's Super Bowl XXV Ring
Price: $30,000.00 to 60,000

Meggett must need some quick cash. I don't know why some rich Giants fan hasn't bought this yet. If it were an Eagles one, I'd be fundraising as we speak. Then again, if it were an Eagles one, I'd know it was a fake.

And that's my list for this Christmas. I'll be awaiting my gifts eagerly.

Labels

2005-12-16T09:41:00.000-05:00

Generalizations make the world go round. Without generalizations, we wouldn't have racism, holy wars, or Polish jokes. Good ol' stupid Polacks. [The irony in that sentence is that I had to look up "Polack" to make sure I was spelling it right.] Everybody's got a generalization. Blacks are lazy, Southerners are ignorant, Irish are drunks, Italians are in the mob, Chinese are good at math, etc.

The reason general labels are so popular is that they make things easier. Everything becomes black and white when we use labels. We don't have to think before we figure out what a person is like. I'm not going to make friends with that black dude, because he'd probably try and steal my stuff. That's easy. Much easier than going over, talking to the black dude, and deciding that he is either a) a nice guy who probably won't steal my stuff, or b) not someone you want to make friends with.

That's why we always get into trouble when we use labels. There's no such thing as black and white. There is ALWAYS a grey area, even in science, which is why different scientific experts can analyze observations in many different ways. Even mathematics, which always seems definite, is based entirely upon an abstract set of numbers. We think of "0" or "1" as some definite thing, but those numbers are really just representations of a concept that can't truly be put into physical form. So we label them.

And what happens in math when you label things? You have to set parameters. For instance, when you do algebra in high school, you'll often see something like "Where x is a real number" or something like that. If we didn't set those parameters, any answer could conceivably be the correct one. x + 2=7; x = dog.

In everyday life, we have these generalizations that serve as labels for people, not even numbers. We're taking real people with real lives and turning them into inanimate objects when we label them. It's not just by race or ethnicity, either. You have the jocks, the computer geeks, the band geeks, the preppy kids, etc. Well, most people don't fall into just one category. I was a brainy nerd/band geek, but I also wrestled freshman and sophomore year, so I guess some people could consider me a jock for a period of time, and yet I ate lunch with a handful of metalheads/hockey players/skaters as well as some other band geeks/crew team members/theatre snobs/etc.

The problem that comes along because of these labels is that impressionable kids want to fit in, so they force themselves into a group of people. So they all dress the same way as their friends, listen to the same music (whether they really like it or not, but they listen to it so much they end up liking it out of necessity), and practice the same study habits. They pigeonhole themselves because it's easier than finding out who they really are. Most don't even find out until they finally outgrow their cliques, which tends not to happen until after high school. Meanwhile, these kids are turning into adults who have no idea what to do with their lives because they don't know who they are.

Things go bad when you try and make things black and white. This is why I hate the Bible. It's all about rules that aren't made to be broken. Take the Ten Commandments, for example. Of course people have expounded upon them to fit a more civilized society, but just reading ten rules for how to be a good person makes me kind of sick. These black and white rules pretend to be all-encompassing, yet there are so many grey areas left uncovered. You can't turn life into a battle of good and evil, which is what the Bible tries to do. In real life, the sinners are saints and vice versa.

To further prove the phrase "Everything I need to know, I learned in kindergarten," I'm going to quote the Disney film Aladdin. "Things aren't always what they seem." There you have it. The moral of a film produced by a morally bankrupt American organization provides you with all the wisdom you need to live a socially just life. It's like rain on your wedding day.

***

I found out last week that The Decemberists signed with Capitol Records. The Decemberists are a whimsical, theatrical, anthemic indie pop band. Well, until they signed with a major. I guess this makes them a whimsical, theatrical, anthemic mainstream pop band.

I'm not all too familiar with their catalogue, but evidently their most recent effort, Picaresque, has a very accessible sound to it. In other words, they're making a shift to appeal to the mainstream (which some may see as a shift towards commercialism and away from artistry). The reason I write about this is that it's not just a trend in the music industry, but a certainty. Even The Velvet Underground, the precursors to indie rock, signed with a major after three albums.

The main difference between indie and mainstream is the commercialism. While it's not set in stone that anyone signed to a major label is a "sell-out," there's always at least some subtle pressure to sell records rather than make good ones. Labels have sued artists for not sounding enough like themselves. Ridiculous? Of course. But this is the music industry; these are the people who are on a witch hunt to sue everyone who's ever illegally shared music. I'm still awaiting my subpoena for those times I recorded radio programs onto cassette tapes 7 years ago.

Capitol Records will expect big things from The Decemberists, and I'm not sure they can deliver without sacrificing at least some artistic integrity. It's the nature of the business.

This negativity towards the mainstream makes it hard to appreciate the mainstream at all. When you hear a song on the radio, you know deep down that that song was somehow affected by the fact that the artist who recorded it had to sell some records. It wasn't purely artistic motives that brought about that song on the radio.

The benefit of a major is that they provide more money. It sounds selfish of the artists on the surface, but in many cases that extra money is making the music available to more people, which is mostly a good thing. Money also provides for more resources to work with in the recording studio, which ultimately improves the quality of the music, if only slightly. But if the end result sacrifices quality in the name of capital, does it really matter how good your horn section is?

I guess in the end it comes down to personal preference, but I'm a purist when it comes to rock music. We're a dying breed.

Best of 2005, Part II

2005-12-15T17:03:00.000-05:00

Continued...

I'd originally intended to make these entries closer together, but then finals week came around and well...there simply wasn't time. But as long as they're done by the end of the month (which I can't promise), my goal will have been achieved.

So, onto the next category:

Best Food/Beverage:
[Note: For this category, I'm throwing out the part about having first experienced the item in 2005. These are the standout foods of 2005. I would never ever ever turn these down if the opportunity arose.]

Honorable Mention: Pizza
Without pizza, I'd be half the man I am today.

(pause for laughter)

But seriously folks...pizza rules. Especially Hawaiian pizza. I'm usually not one to mix sweet elements with salty elements, but when Don Ho and Queen Liliuokalani came up with the idea of combining pineapple and ham, well, they were making magic. Magic my taste buds can't ignore.

Second Runner-Up: Starbucks Coffee
The last time I was at a Starbucks, it was with my dad. When I ordered a vanilla mocha, he said it was a "chick drink." Fuck you, Dad. It's good.

Caffiene has taken its place alongside food, water, and shelter in my life.

First Runner-Up: Jack and Coke
When we had that ill-fated party at my house around Halloween, I was very angry to walk into my kitchen to find empty bottles of Captain Morgan's, Smirnoff, and Jose Cuervo. I was more angry to find a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's.

However, I carried Jack around for the rest of the night. In the immortal words of Mandy Moore, "[Jack and Cokes are] like sugar to my heart."

And the Kaddy goes to: The Blue Ribbon Special at the Tom Jones Diner
Okay, this is really more than one food--but that's what makes it so "special." Two pancakes, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of sausage, two slices of toast, choice of juice, and coffee--for $2.79.

It's like hitting the lottery every time you eat it. Jake and I went to TJ's at least twice this summer and each got the Blue Ribbon. I literally pumped my fist when we got the check, both times. It's exciting. And the food is not bad at all.

Word to the wise: don't get your eggs scrambled. Well, you can, but you're only getting one egg. Trust me on this. And a side of hash with cheese is a popular request as well.

I don't watch a lot of TV, but I'll try and do a category for my favorite TV Shows of 2005.

Honorable Mention: Survivor
I hate the reality TV genre. Hate hate hate it. But Mark Burnett is a genius. He pulled me in with The Apprentice even though Donald Trump is the biggest jackass on earth. He does it every season with Survivor. It's unpredictable and riveting TV. It's as close to reality as reality TV gets. And the unintentional comedy of Jeff Probst carrying the final vote onto a helicopter that lands in NYC (or in this season's case, Hollywood) months later to reveal the Survivor winner on live TV is just off the charts.

Second Runner-Up: Family Guy
Anyone who knows me knows how much I love this show. I used to be so bad with it that I'd laugh to myself about 15 times a day because something reminded me of a Family Guy scene. I could quote it at the drop of a hat.

Unfortunately, the belly laugh quotient of the show went down from once every five minutes to once every fifteen in the show's triumphant return to network TV. Hopefully it gets better, but I don't really see it happening. It jumped the shark when it got cancelled.

First Runner-Up: The Daily Show
Jon Stewart is the funniest political satirist in America. Stephen Colbert, who now has his own hilariously titled The Colbert Report (both t's are silent), is brilliant at playing the hard-hitting yet clueless reporter. He is a worthy replacement for Steve Carell.

Since Colbert left, you'd think the show would let down. No way. Rob Corddry, Ed Helms, and Samantha Bee are all just as hilarious. Combined with Stewart's interviews, The Daily Show is the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be when it comes to fake news.

And the Kaddy for Best TV Show of 2005 goes to: The Office
Okay, I'll admit it. I've never seen the British version. But it doesn't really matter, because even the U.S. version is comedy gold. Steve Carell is equally believable and ridiculous as the clueless boss. The rest of the characters have that great ensemble cast chemistry (or in some cases, lack thereof) that is a must for every great sitcom.

Two more categories to go, and they're both music-related! I'm so excited!

The penultimate category is for Best Album of 2005. Again, it doesn't have to be a 2005 release; I just have to have first experienced it in 2005. I'm going to keep it to one album per artist.

Honorable Mention: Armed Forces by Elvis Costello and the Attractions
Elvis is a spectacular lyricist and vocalist. And "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?" flat out rocks.

Second Runner-Up: Get Behind Me Satan by The White Stripes
I'm probably a little biased here, but being as objective as I can be, Jack White branches out a lot on this album. It's not mind-blowing stuff, but it's fun as hell. I already talked about "The Denial Twist" in Part I, and "Take, Take, Take" is a great story.

First Runner-Up: The Gay Parade by Of Montreal
The Sgt. Pepper's of Indie Pop. It's a beautiful album, with a ton of great stories on it. From run-ins with your favorite boxer to fables of invisible trees, it's like reading a children's storybook--except with melodies catchier than AIDS.

And, the Kaddy for Best Album of 2005 goes to: Set Yourself on Fire by Stars
Listen to this album now. Listen. This album, more than any other album I've ever heard, embodies the word beautiful. It's perfect. The lyrics are perfect, the vocals are incredible, and the music is never boring. Just when you think the album is all orchestration and bells and whistles, there's a ripping guitar solo. It's emotional, but not sappy. It's witty, but not pretentious. It's gorgeous.

Onto the grand finale...The Best Artist of 2005, which amounts to Best New Artist. I think at this point it's obvious that Stars is going to win, so I'm just going to list the other nominees:

Second Runner-Up: Spoon
First Runner-Up: Of Montreal
Winner: Stars

That's my Best of 2005 Awards ceremony. I hope you enjoyed it. I might have another regular entry before I get to the memories section of the Best of 2005, since that's going to take a while to compile. Until next time.

Best of 2005, Part I

2005-12-05T13:58:00.000-05:00

I'm going to do a sort of year in review for 2005. Yes, I'm sort of stealing this idea from when Jake used to keep a LiveJournal. Except instead of just reviewing the greatest moments from 2005, I'm going to split it into parts I and II (and maybe III, IV, etc.). The first few parts will be the greatest new things to come out of 2005--CDs, movies, concerts, etc. And this has nothing to do with when the new things were released--since this is MY blog, it will be completely egocentric. If it came out in 1967 but I heard it for the first time in 2005, it could be on this list. Anything's up for grabs, as long as it had something to do with me. The second parts will be like Jake's old LiveJournals--the best (and maybe the worst) moments of 2005. I'll also include short reviews for the first part and short anecdotes for the second part.

And of course, I'll need a spiffy name for my awards. "Kevys" looks like a typo of "keys," so that's out. Fattys? Nah, too self-deprecating. And if I somehow lose a ton of weight (snicker), the name will be obsolete. My initials are KAD. I'm thinking "The Kaddys." It's got a ring to it. Nice play on words, too. Right, now that that's settled...

PRESENTING THE INAUGURAL KADDY AWARDS

We'll start off with a somewhat major award, sort of like how the Oscars start with Best Supporting Actor and Actress.

The Kaddy Awards for Best Comedies of 2005:

Honorable Mention: Sideways
Solid, smart, sophisticated buddy comedy. I can't believe Paul Giamatti didn't even get an Oscar nomination for this. How to explain...it's sort of like if Dumb and Dumber was an indie flick.

Second Runner-Up: Shaun of the Dead
I rented this movie a few weeks ago. It came out late last year, so it's not too far off from 2005. It wasn't just great as a comedy, but it also had a great plotline, lovable characters, and a solid soundtrack (I can't listen to "You're My Best Friend" anymore without thinking of it). If you haven't seen it, do it ASAP. Everyone I've talked to about it has also loved it, so I know I'm not alone here.

First Runner-Up: Blazing Saddles
"Hey, where the white women at?" "Nobody moves, or the nigger gets it!" "All right, we'll give some land to the niggers and the chinks, but we don't want the Irish."
I suggested we (Jake, DJ, Jamie, and I) rent this because I'd never seen it, and I was high. Instead, DJ and I watched Starsky and Hutch, which was much funnier the second time around. Then, the next day, we watched it at DJ's house. Very good decision. It's a classic by one of the great comedy filmmakers of all time, Mel Brooks. If you like any racial humor at all, it's hilarious.

And The Kaddy for Best Comedy of 2005 goes to: The 40 Year Old Virgin
Steve Carell puts in perhaps the funniest comedic performance since, jeez, maybe Tom Hanks in Big. It's essentially one joke stretched out for 90 minutes, but it's a good joke, and it stays fresh throughout. Judd Apatow, who directed the cancelled-far-too-soon Freaks and Geeks, does a great job making the movie seem somehow believeable. This one will be remembered for a long time.

Onto the second movie category, Best Non-Comedies of 2005:
Honorable Mention: The Incredibles
I could have put this in either movie category, but I'd consider it more of an action or family movie over a comedy. Awesome movie. It's sad to see Pixar and Disney part, but if this is their last film together, I'd say they went out on their highest note. That's no knock on Toy Story, Toy Story 2, or Finding Nemo, but The Incredibles was, well...you know--incredible.

Second Runner-Up: Batman Begins
Stunning, in pretty much every way you can imagine. The visuals were amazing. The storyline was a great introduction to the Batman series. And for the first time (apologies to Tim Burton), a director captured how dark a character Bruce Wayne really is. This is why I love Christopher Nolan so much. With Katie Holmes missing from the sequel, it should be even better.

First Runner-Up: Cinderella Man
I'm a sucker for sports movies. This one rivaled the best with its chill moments. And it wasn't just a great boxing movie, but a tremendous Depression movie as well. It had depth to it. The only other sports movie I can think of with depth like this was Field of Dreams. Again, Paul Giamatti. He should get nominated for this. If he doesn't, I'm burning and old rich white Jewish man in effigy. Also, Russel Crowe--he's an incredibly asshole, but he might be the best actor on the planet.

And the Kaddy for Best Non-Comedy of 2005 goes to: Say Anything
This was easy. I fell in love with this movie the first time I saw it. My favorite actor (John Cusack) and my favorite actor (Cameron Crowe) in what I'd consider their defining moments. There's no scene more memorable in Cusack's career than the immortal Lloyd Dobler standing outside Diane Court's window, holding up the stereo playing "In Your Eyes." So many epic scenes, so many great lines, so intense. Maybe I'm an emo bitch, but Lloyd Dobler is my fucking hero and this movie damn near brought me to tears.

Now, for the music category. I've expanded my musical horizons more this year than almost any other year of my life. I'm going to do four categories here: Best Song, Best Album, Best Artist, and Best Concert. Now, it may not necessarily be what I consider to be the "best" song/artist/etc., but the one that had the biggest impact on me.

First things first--the Best Concert of 2005:
Honorable Mention: U2
I love them. Well, I loved them. I'm a little disappointed with How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, and it's even more disappointing that it seems Bono is very happy with it. What's worse, I've become increasingly disappointed with All That You Can't Leave Behind. At it's core, Pop is a better album than both of those, although the band will admit that they weren't able to give 100% to that album. The band is moving in a direction away from the likes of Achtung Baby, which I consider their best and most interesting album. They're nothing more than an arena rock band anymore, which isn't necessarily a bad thing--it's just not why I love U2.

That said, the concert was the perfect arena rock concert. Damian Marley was a great opener--he even covered a couple of his dad's songs ("Exodus," "Could You Be Loved"), so I knew more than "Welcome to Jamrock." U2 was simultaneously exciting and incredibly frustrating, due to the insistence of their fans to sing every word at the top of their lungs, as well as dance embarassingly to songs that shouldn't be danced along with. The highlight of the concert was undoubtedly "One," as well as a cover of "People Get Ready," which included a cameo appearance from none other than Bruce Springsteen and Patti Scialfa. That's some memory to take away, huh?

Second Runner-Up: Ben Folds
Wow. Never have I seen anyone rock so hard while banging away on a piano. There were almost no lowlights to the show. The Fray was a pretty good opener, and Folds and his band were as entertaining as it gets. The highlights were a makeshift cover of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore," Dr. Dre's "Bitches Ain't Shit," and the crowd sing-a-long on "Army." He definitely did not disappoint.

First Runner-Up: Foozer
This would probably be the winner of the Kaddy if it weren't for the Foo Fighters. Don't get me wrong--I actually like the Foo Fighters a good amount. But Dave Grohl...well, if he were as good a vocalist as he is a frontman, he'd be a great performer. As it is, he just kind of screams bloody murder on the majority of his songs. He's a very entertaining rockstar. And when he actually sings, it turns out well. He did a solo performance of "Everlong" that was pretty cool. Another highlight was "Up in Arms," which features both sides of the vocal coin--a slower, vocal-centered part, followed by a blistering, thrashing, visceral rock part. Besides those, the stage effects on "Best of You" were very cool.

As a Weezer fan, this might have been the highlight of their career for me. I knew all the little gimmicks they were going to throw in, as I read the concert reports for pretty much every show on the tour. The sing-a-long on "Perfect Situation," each band member featured on lead vocal for a song, the solo acoustic version of "Island in the Sun," the crowd member chosen to play on "Undone," and the covers of "Big Me" and "Song 2." It was a great show. When the confetti went out at the end of "Buddy Holly," I was euphoric. It took away the bitter taste I still had in my mouth from a lackluster show at the Electric Factory back in May.

Oh, and I forgot Hot Hot Heat. They were great openers. A really fun band that I'd almost definitely throw down 20 bucks to see on a headlining show next time they come around.

And the Kaddy for Best Concert of 2005 goes to: Beck
Beck is the single greatest stage performer I've ever seen. There's really not much more to say. His set was pretty much flawless, featuring all his different musical incarnations over the past dozen years. His opener was the most mind-boggling thing I'd ever seen: a one-man Canadian band who looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger and played drum pads, two keyboards, and vocals all at once. It was, all in all, maybe the best show I've ever seen.

Now, onto the next category, the Best Song of 2005:
This category is obviously going to be an incredibly tough one. Lots of songs I've gotten obsessed with over the course of this year had reached my ears long before 2005. However, due to my dive into all things Beatles, some albums I may have heard when I was growing up didn't really connect with me until this year.

On the other hand, until this year I'd never listened to Rubber Soul, Revolver, or A Hard Day's Night. I'd heard some of the songs before, of course, but not the entire albums. For this category, I'm going to only include songs I'd never heard before 2005. These are the 5 I fell in love with. And since I'm on the subject of the Beatles, I might as well start with them.

The Beatles, "Here, There and Everywhere"
This is the representative Paul McCartney song. Sure, he wrote "Yesterday" and "Hey Jude," which are stronger songs, but "Here, There and Everywhere" is pure Macca. The melody couldn't have been written by anyone else. The "ooo"s in the harmony are a trademark of the Revolver album. The lyrics are gorgeous. This song will be played at my wedding.

Of Montreal, "Tim I Wish You Were Born a Girl"
This might be the cutest song ever written. I don't like using the word "cute," but this song is fucking cute as hell. There's a catch, though. It's...kinda weird, in a way. The title is the first line of the song. The song is a straight man's lament, damning that his best friend is a boy. "But it's just not the same / 'Cause you're a man / And so am I." It's like...gay...but not gay. It's a hypothetical love song. If you were a girl, I'd be in love with you. But you're not a girl, and I'm not attracted to you for that reason; therefore, we can never be together. It's tragic, in a way, but it's beautiful.

Pixies, "Gigantic"
This is one sexy song. My name isn't Paul, and Kim Deal isn't exactly a supermodel (she's not terrible looking, but she's not "hot," per se--unless you have a thing for bass players), but when she sings, "Hey Paul, hey Paul, hey Paul, let's have a ball," well...I want in.

Stars, "Your Ex-Lover Is Dead"
Never have I heard a song that sums up the post-breakup run-in better. The lyrics are perfect. The dual vocals are absolutely gorgeous. The orchestration is perfect--strings, harmonica, a subtle guitar, piano, sweeping cymbals...the song is a masterpiece. And bonus points for having the best opening to an album I've ever heard--"When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire."

The White Stripes, "The Denial Twist"
This is why rock and roll was invented. If you can get through this one without dancing, you have no soul.

Shirtless and Lonely on a Cold Friday Night

2005-12-03T00:30:00.000-05:00

I have a Coke addiction. The soda, not the drug. It's a tough one to battle when you live in my house, because we never have soda here. I guess that's for my own good, but it doesn't stop me from stopping at Wawa for a soda almost every night before work starts.

I think the nightly Wawa stop is the source of my troubles. A lot of times we don't have any food that I can eat in a hurry that will keep me satisfied through my shift. When I get hungry, I get cranky, so sufficient sustenance is a necessity. So I stop at Wawa. Sometimes I get a Tastycake pie, but usually I get one of their pre-made chicken wraps, which are actually pretty good. But of course, I need a drink to go along with it.

I thought I needed caffiene to keep me awake on the ride to work, since a lot of times I'd find myself struggling to keep my eyes open on I-95. However, I've since realized that drinking any beverage at all will keep me awake while I'm drinking it. I'd drink water, since it's healthy and all, but I have an ethics issue with paying money for water. It should be illegal. So I don't get water. The next problem is that a 20 oz. bottle of anything isn't going to last me until I get to work, and I might find myself dozing off because I've got nothing to do while I drive. This is unfortunate, because the next size up from a 20 oz. soda is a 1 liter soda. I never finish by the time I get to work, because 1 liter is far too much soda to drink in one sitting. I could get iced tea, but there's an even bigger disparity there between the 16 oz. and the 32 oz (which is equal to one liter).

So I drink almost a liter of soda almost every night--sometimes I switch it up to a Diet Lemonade Tea--and now I'm addicted. I got sick of Mountain Dew, and I guess it's less addictive than Coke. So now I drink Coke almost any chance I get. Diet is out of the question for two reasons: 1) It's nasty, and 2) They don't carry it in the 1 Liter size at the Wawa.

Coke is an evil product. It tastes great and all, but there are so many side effects. First, there's the addiction that comes along with it. Secondly, that first sip will inevitably result in an overload of carbonation. And finally, something I figured out today, is that the reason you're always thirsty after you drink Coke is that they load it up with sodium. Normally you'd wonder why someone would mix salt with sugar, but when it comes to commercial products, we tend to accept that something's in there for a good reason. Unfortunately for Coca-Cola, I had no Coke left after I finished drinking it, and I had to drink some water.

But that doesn't change the fact that I could really go for a Coke right now.