Giambi was never and is not on greenies. This is a rumor leaked to the press intentionally by either the Players' Union or the MLB in an effort to vilify a guy who was trying to come clean about his performance enhanced past in a culture and environment, created by the MLB and Players' Union, that condones talking to the media with a vigor similar to that with which South Boston residents encourage each other to talk to the police. The collective stance of the MLB and the Players' Union has been "reveal as little as possible."
Last night Peter Gammons said he has been told by five different sources that Giambi did NOT test positive for amphetamines. This makes sense to me. He already has the guaranteed money. Knowing the MLB tests for amphetamines, as he's said, "I'm tested more than anybody", he'd have to be a total moron to keep it up.
That being said, if we find out he did test positive for amphetamine use, I hope the Yanks void his contract.
On a separate note, though still in the realm of baseball, how come we never see players breaking in their gloves? And yet, their gloves always look almost brand new? Do MLB teams have personnel on their payroll who break in gloves for a living? Is this one of the many duties bestowed on bat boys?
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Crisis Abound
I narrowly escaped relationship disaster yesterday at approximately 7:45 pm, Eastern Standard Time.
It all began at approximately 7:05 pm, Eastern Standard Time....
I could hear her legions marching in unison up the street, their stern, military cadence contradicted by the musical beauty of the Italian language. I knew she was coming....but I never expected this.
As Mussolini burst in through the door, tension filled the air. We exchanged pleasantries yet I remained guarded. One can never trust Italians let alone Italian dictators.
She took a seat beside me on the couch. The television went on. E!, Mtv, E!, Mtv, Oxygen, Paris Hilton, American Idol, Jessica Simpson, Ryan Seacrest, etc. My stomach tightened. I became nauseous. Vision blurred. Obviously a dual reaction to the images flashing on the screen and the empty noise simultaneously invading my ears, coupled with the uneasy anticipation of the conflict that swiftly approached.
"So, Yanks, Sox in a few minutes?" I offered cautiously.
"Are you kidding me? You're kidding right?" I was able to decipher through her Forli provincial accent.
"Um.....Yeah. It's the Yankees and the Red Sox. You can't expect me not to watch it!"
Weapons were drawn.
I can't really say what happened next. Not because I'm censoring myself, though no doubt Mussolini would prefer this to be the case, but because it was all a blur. A blur of blood and fury.
The next thing I remember, I woke with a start; "Where am I?" I thought.
I'd been ousted from my own apartment much like Mussolini from power in 1943, though not relegated to a life of isolation. I was amongst friends, actually. I was comfortable. T'was a short-lived comfort though, I'm afraid.
Red Sox: 7
New York Yankees: 3
It all began at approximately 7:05 pm, Eastern Standard Time....
I could hear her legions marching in unison up the street, their stern, military cadence contradicted by the musical beauty of the Italian language. I knew she was coming....but I never expected this.
As Mussolini burst in through the door, tension filled the air. We exchanged pleasantries yet I remained guarded. One can never trust Italians let alone Italian dictators.
She took a seat beside me on the couch. The television went on. E!, Mtv, E!, Mtv, Oxygen, Paris Hilton, American Idol, Jessica Simpson, Ryan Seacrest, etc. My stomach tightened. I became nauseous. Vision blurred. Obviously a dual reaction to the images flashing on the screen and the empty noise simultaneously invading my ears, coupled with the uneasy anticipation of the conflict that swiftly approached.
"So, Yanks, Sox in a few minutes?" I offered cautiously.
"Are you kidding me? You're kidding right?" I was able to decipher through her Forli provincial accent.
"Um.....Yeah. It's the Yankees and the Red Sox. You can't expect me not to watch it!"
Weapons were drawn.
I can't really say what happened next. Not because I'm censoring myself, though no doubt Mussolini would prefer this to be the case, but because it was all a blur. A blur of blood and fury.
The next thing I remember, I woke with a start; "Where am I?" I thought.
I'd been ousted from my own apartment much like Mussolini from power in 1943, though not relegated to a life of isolation. I was amongst friends, actually. I was comfortable. T'was a short-lived comfort though, I'm afraid.
Red Sox: 7
New York Yankees: 3
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Out On Top
A friend of mine recently posed the question to me: How long would you want to play, create, and perform music if you did it for a living?
I thought it was a strange question. Especially considering the source. My visceral response: forever. But then I got to thinking about specific examples of rock bands who've forged on seemingly forever.
If I were Keith Richards or Mick Jagger, I would have hung it up a long time ago. They haven't had anything to say in years. I remember being given Voodoo Lounge as a going away present in seventh grade before we moved to Chicago. I sat on the floor of my bedroom next to my "boom box" and listened to it, amongst a sea of brown boxes containing the rest of my belongings, and thought, "What the fuck? These guys are too old." Sure, maybe these sentiments are an oversimplification, but what do you expect from a seventh grader?
Ultimately, I think their astounding longevity actually taints their legacy. They charge an arm and a leg for their concerts and everyone that goes is desperately seeking glimpses into their past, whether it's the CEO up front or the customer service representative in the cheap ($200) seats. Live music, regardless of genre, is about the current, present moment. Or at least it should be. The lyrical content, or even mood, may be nostalgic but the experience shouldn't be. And I would venture to guess there aren't many people at these concerts who can name a good Rolling Stones' song from the past twenty years.
In college I went and saw Jethro Tull and I was embarrassed for Ian Anderson. Overweight, yet adorning spandex and posturing himself as he did in the late 60's and 70's- taking flute solos standing on one leg, with the bottom of one foot touching the other leg about the knee (think flamingo)- their set list was nothing more than an expensive fit of nostalgia. Lesson learned.
The Who is one of my favorite bands of all time, and there is no way in hell I'd pay to go see them. Too old to do their peak brilliance any justice, they should just spend even more time and energy focused on activism if you ask me. Not to mention, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey are the only surviving members. I don't care who's playing bass and drums or how many head-in-ass journalists portend they're as good as ever, there's no way in hell they're armed with the perfectly juxtaposed rhythm section of John Entwhistle's anchoring Keith Moon's insanity. It's contrived. But don't tell the accountant in the third row who just got high for the first time in 30 years. He paid good money for those seats.
I still remember the first time I heard The Who score a Hummer commercial. I'm not sure I could have been more disappointed in people I didn't actually know personally. Would they have ever done such a thing back when they were finishing up sets by destroying everything? Absolutely not. Back then, the destruction meant something. It was part of their message. And their message, at least seemingly to me, used to run counter to every facet of getting in bed with Hummer Corp. Inc. LLC. Not anymore.
So, with the best interests of rock and roll in mind, I'd like to think I'd hang it up at 40.
I thought it was a strange question. Especially considering the source. My visceral response: forever. But then I got to thinking about specific examples of rock bands who've forged on seemingly forever.
If I were Keith Richards or Mick Jagger, I would have hung it up a long time ago. They haven't had anything to say in years. I remember being given Voodoo Lounge as a going away present in seventh grade before we moved to Chicago. I sat on the floor of my bedroom next to my "boom box" and listened to it, amongst a sea of brown boxes containing the rest of my belongings, and thought, "What the fuck? These guys are too old." Sure, maybe these sentiments are an oversimplification, but what do you expect from a seventh grader?
Ultimately, I think their astounding longevity actually taints their legacy. They charge an arm and a leg for their concerts and everyone that goes is desperately seeking glimpses into their past, whether it's the CEO up front or the customer service representative in the cheap ($200) seats. Live music, regardless of genre, is about the current, present moment. Or at least it should be. The lyrical content, or even mood, may be nostalgic but the experience shouldn't be. And I would venture to guess there aren't many people at these concerts who can name a good Rolling Stones' song from the past twenty years.
In college I went and saw Jethro Tull and I was embarrassed for Ian Anderson. Overweight, yet adorning spandex and posturing himself as he did in the late 60's and 70's- taking flute solos standing on one leg, with the bottom of one foot touching the other leg about the knee (think flamingo)- their set list was nothing more than an expensive fit of nostalgia. Lesson learned.
The Who is one of my favorite bands of all time, and there is no way in hell I'd pay to go see them. Too old to do their peak brilliance any justice, they should just spend even more time and energy focused on activism if you ask me. Not to mention, Pete Townsend and Roger Daltrey are the only surviving members. I don't care who's playing bass and drums or how many head-in-ass journalists portend they're as good as ever, there's no way in hell they're armed with the perfectly juxtaposed rhythm section of John Entwhistle's anchoring Keith Moon's insanity. It's contrived. But don't tell the accountant in the third row who just got high for the first time in 30 years. He paid good money for those seats.
I still remember the first time I heard The Who score a Hummer commercial. I'm not sure I could have been more disappointed in people I didn't actually know personally. Would they have ever done such a thing back when they were finishing up sets by destroying everything? Absolutely not. Back then, the destruction meant something. It was part of their message. And their message, at least seemingly to me, used to run counter to every facet of getting in bed with Hummer Corp. Inc. LLC. Not anymore.
So, with the best interests of rock and roll in mind, I'd like to think I'd hang it up at 40.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Help Wanted
I am still looking for an adequate replacement for "that's so gay" to help me refer to all things stupid, lame, or uncool. Have been for quite some time. Apparently, so should Rebekah Rice:
http://apnews.myway.com/article/20070516/D8P57HG82.html
"So lame." "So beat." "Beet salad." "That's retarded." "What are you, Polish?" "Ho." "Nappy." "Moron."
See!? Those are all so gay! I don't even remember when, in my head, the word "gay" became completely unrelated to sexual preference, becoming instead an integral part of describing all things lame and/or stupid. Perhaps it's the fact that this has happened that has made me so intent on stopping it.
In a separate matter, though related to the link above, I find it funny that Mormon sexual practices are characterized as conservative. To the contrary, keeping numerous wives seems pretty "liberal" to me. I know this is likely a reference to abstention and all the requisite praying bullshit, and not to polygamy, but come on! These high school bullies need keep their eyes on the bigger picture! Sure, this chick might not put out now but she's potentially one of many future wives!
This message has been brought to you by the Church of Latter-day Blah.
http://apnews.myway.com/article/20070516/D8P57HG82.html
"So lame." "So beat." "Beet salad." "That's retarded." "What are you, Polish?" "Ho." "Nappy." "Moron."
See!? Those are all so gay! I don't even remember when, in my head, the word "gay" became completely unrelated to sexual preference, becoming instead an integral part of describing all things lame and/or stupid. Perhaps it's the fact that this has happened that has made me so intent on stopping it.
In a separate matter, though related to the link above, I find it funny that Mormon sexual practices are characterized as conservative. To the contrary, keeping numerous wives seems pretty "liberal" to me. I know this is likely a reference to abstention and all the requisite praying bullshit, and not to polygamy, but come on! These high school bullies need keep their eyes on the bigger picture! Sure, this chick might not put out now but she's potentially one of many future wives!
This message has been brought to you by the Church of Latter-day Blah.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Sopranos
*The following is an exchange I had with a friend regarding the most recent episode of The Sopranos. I thought it was interesting because his interpretation makes at least as much sense as mine. (Please also note that, as the blogger, I was able to edit/revise some of what I had originally said while my buddy did not benefit from such a luxury).
I thought it was really good. Best one of the season so far.
I liked the way they juxtaposed Anthony Jr. with his father. Tony was able to kill someone he thought of and treated as a son for most of the series. Instead of grieving, he felt relieved. Relieved to have been unburdened with a distracted, addiction-prone heir apparent in whom he had grown to resent having invested so much time, trust and energy. The episode and my analogy culminated in a cathartic, carefree trip to Vegas featuring a peyote trip, a fling with a former girlfriend of Christopher's, and some really good luck on the craps table.
His son, on the other hand, was thrust unwittingly into violent circumstances and conditions under which he felt extremely uncomfortable and could barely cope. A weak person in general, he is even unable to speak up against the violence he finds distasteful, standing idly by instead; voicing his objections only "on the chair" in the office of his psychiatrist.
To which my buddy responded:
I agree with what you wrote about AJ but totally disagree with what you wrote about Tony. He is feeling so much guilt about Christopher that he is completely losing it. You're saying that he feels so relieved about killing Christopher that he took a spontaneous trip to Vegas and tried a bunch of drugs that he had never done before? That doesn't make sense to me. He feels so much guilt he had to get away... and he did it in more ways than one.
I thought it was really good. Best one of the season so far.
I liked the way they juxtaposed Anthony Jr. with his father. Tony was able to kill someone he thought of and treated as a son for most of the series. Instead of grieving, he felt relieved. Relieved to have been unburdened with a distracted, addiction-prone heir apparent in whom he had grown to resent having invested so much time, trust and energy. The episode and my analogy culminated in a cathartic, carefree trip to Vegas featuring a peyote trip, a fling with a former girlfriend of Christopher's, and some really good luck on the craps table.
His son, on the other hand, was thrust unwittingly into violent circumstances and conditions under which he felt extremely uncomfortable and could barely cope. A weak person in general, he is even unable to speak up against the violence he finds distasteful, standing idly by instead; voicing his objections only "on the chair" in the office of his psychiatrist.
To which my buddy responded:
I agree with what you wrote about AJ but totally disagree with what you wrote about Tony. He is feeling so much guilt about Christopher that he is completely losing it. You're saying that he feels so relieved about killing Christopher that he took a spontaneous trip to Vegas and tried a bunch of drugs that he had never done before? That doesn't make sense to me. He feels so much guilt he had to get away... and he did it in more ways than one.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Equilibrium
Always a balancing act when attending shows. At the ends of the spectrum we have the following:
Have a bunch of drinks, loosen way up, dance and have a fantastic time; only later to be rendered incapable of recounting the music and performance with any amount of detail
or
have a couple drinks and loosen up a little while making a concerted effort not to get crazy. This is conducive to a relatively detailed memory and account of a show. This also usually ends up being the case because, more often than not, shows take place during the weekly grind instead of Friday or Saturday nights.
This Friday night, however, there was really only one option. With my brother in town for the weekend from New Jersey, a friend from Connecticut in town with his girlfriend, two buddies from work, Marty, and Kevy Wevy, it was time to get down..... And get down we did. Each and every one of us.
LCD Soundsystem's music is often characterized as dance-punk. I am not sure how many other acts exist that fit this bill. Prior to Friday night, actually, I scoffed at the applicability of this description even for them. Now, on Monday morning, having spent the duration of the weekend trying to compartmentalize my fragmented memories of my first LCD show, I think "dance-punk" fits just fine.
I don't listen to dance music. When someone mentions it, I think of sweaty guidos wearing guinea T's, packed into a club at the Jersey Shore. I also think of some of the repetitive electronic elements that characterize LCD. What separates them- particularly live where James Murphy is accompanied by a six or seven piece band- from most other dance music I've heard, is a determination to develop and mold the genre's repetitive elements into something different; something more. Add to this presence of a dynamic audible energy a sharp wit and a sometimes almost calculated indifference in his approach to writing songs, and there you have it: "dance-punk".
While the energy of the band spilt over into the crowd for the show's entirety, a personal highlight for me was a 9 or 10 minute "Yeah Yeah Yeah" that sent the crowd into a frenzy, jumping up and down in unison, while shouting, appropriately enough, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, y, y, ye, yeah yeah, yeah, y, y, yeah, yeah, yeah!"
Have a bunch of drinks, loosen way up, dance and have a fantastic time; only later to be rendered incapable of recounting the music and performance with any amount of detail
or
have a couple drinks and loosen up a little while making a concerted effort not to get crazy. This is conducive to a relatively detailed memory and account of a show. This also usually ends up being the case because, more often than not, shows take place during the weekly grind instead of Friday or Saturday nights.
This Friday night, however, there was really only one option. With my brother in town for the weekend from New Jersey, a friend from Connecticut in town with his girlfriend, two buddies from work, Marty, and Kevy Wevy, it was time to get down..... And get down we did. Each and every one of us.
LCD Soundsystem's music is often characterized as dance-punk. I am not sure how many other acts exist that fit this bill. Prior to Friday night, actually, I scoffed at the applicability of this description even for them. Now, on Monday morning, having spent the duration of the weekend trying to compartmentalize my fragmented memories of my first LCD show, I think "dance-punk" fits just fine.
I don't listen to dance music. When someone mentions it, I think of sweaty guidos wearing guinea T's, packed into a club at the Jersey Shore. I also think of some of the repetitive electronic elements that characterize LCD. What separates them- particularly live where James Murphy is accompanied by a six or seven piece band- from most other dance music I've heard, is a determination to develop and mold the genre's repetitive elements into something different; something more. Add to this presence of a dynamic audible energy a sharp wit and a sometimes almost calculated indifference in his approach to writing songs, and there you have it: "dance-punk".
While the energy of the band spilt over into the crowd for the show's entirety, a personal highlight for me was a 9 or 10 minute "Yeah Yeah Yeah" that sent the crowd into a frenzy, jumping up and down in unison, while shouting, appropriately enough, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, y, y, ye, yeah yeah, yeah, y, y, yeah, yeah, yeah!"
Thursday, May 10, 2007
As previously described, Mussolini went out of town a couple days ago on business.
Home alone after dark, I did what any red blooded American dude would do...... rented porn. JK JK. I got high. Then I almost went to bed at a reasonable hour purely out of habit. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, setting the alarm, when I remembered; I was home alone!
I went back downstairs and watched Baseball Tonight and SportsCenter until I had both shows practically memorized. Then I listened to Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, in complete darkness, sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor like that DaVinci painting of the naked dude prominently featured in DaVinci Code the book....only I'm pretty sure I wasn't naked.
The album ended and I found myself back within myself. I decided it was time for bed. I sauntered through the darkness to the bathroom to pee and wash up. Keep in mind I was still pretty high. I got into the bathroom and the toilet seat was down. I froze.
The toilet seat is down. What the fuck? I never put the toilet seat down.
Seriously. Never. Just ask Mussolini.
Someone must have broken into my apartment, gone to the bathroom, and put the toilet seat down! Holy shit!
As all of this ran through my head I started peeing as if this were business as usual. I stood there in the dark, peeing all over the toilet cover, pee spilling onto the floor, plotting my next move.
If I were a burglar, where would I hide? Behind the shower curtain obviously. I wonder if he's armed?
After tucking my pee pee away, I ripped open the shower curtain.... Nobody.
Then I heard a creak upstairs. Instinctively, my fists clenched, and I bent a bit at the knees, ready to fight for my survival. I think I thought I was Bruce Willis or some shit. Live Free or Die Blah.
Then, suddenly, I realized what was going on. I relaxed my hands, straightened up, and went to bed... But it wasn't until the morning that I came to the realization I had pissed all over the toilet and floor.
Don't do drugs.
Home alone after dark, I did what any red blooded American dude would do...... rented porn. JK JK. I got high. Then I almost went to bed at a reasonable hour purely out of habit. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, setting the alarm, when I remembered; I was home alone!
I went back downstairs and watched Baseball Tonight and SportsCenter until I had both shows practically memorized. Then I listened to Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, in complete darkness, sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor like that DaVinci painting of the naked dude prominently featured in DaVinci Code the book....only I'm pretty sure I wasn't naked.
The album ended and I found myself back within myself. I decided it was time for bed. I sauntered through the darkness to the bathroom to pee and wash up. Keep in mind I was still pretty high. I got into the bathroom and the toilet seat was down. I froze.
The toilet seat is down. What the fuck? I never put the toilet seat down.
Seriously. Never. Just ask Mussolini.
Someone must have broken into my apartment, gone to the bathroom, and put the toilet seat down! Holy shit!
As all of this ran through my head I started peeing as if this were business as usual. I stood there in the dark, peeing all over the toilet cover, pee spilling onto the floor, plotting my next move.
If I were a burglar, where would I hide? Behind the shower curtain obviously. I wonder if he's armed?
After tucking my pee pee away, I ripped open the shower curtain.... Nobody.
Then I heard a creak upstairs. Instinctively, my fists clenched, and I bent a bit at the knees, ready to fight for my survival. I think I thought I was Bruce Willis or some shit. Live Free or Die Blah.
Then, suddenly, I realized what was going on. I relaxed my hands, straightened up, and went to bed... But it wasn't until the morning that I came to the realization I had pissed all over the toilet and floor.
Don't do drugs.
Bow Ties, Bannanas, and Blow
Mussolini's out of town on business. She emailed me from her Blueberry, "Tucker Carlson is on my plane."
To which I responded, "Punch him in the face for me."
This was unfair. All I really knew about the guy is that he's a conservative, he wears a bow tie, and he's on a partisan MSNBC show that masquerades as journalism.
So, being in an office with little to no free time to surf the web and research anything, let alone Tucker effing Carlson, I took the Wiki way out.
As it turns out, I don't agree with him on most things. Surprise surprise. He's adamantly pro-life, he doesn't really have a stance on gay marriage. I believe he's all for tightening up the borders and I would bet my life he's economically conservative. BUT, he does have an interesting take on George Bush and his place on the ideological line. And he IS critical of the war in Iraq.
That said, I can't stand the bow tie! Unless you're getting married or you're some blueblood asshole taking the ferry over to Nantucket, the bow tie is absolutely uncalled for (Mr. Kenyon is exempt from this rule). Especially if you consider yourself a journalist.
My favorite part of the Wiki entry was the substantial portion that detailed a well-publicized confrontation he had on Crossfire with Jon Stewart (very sad how my favorite politicians are comedians). Check it out.
He is critisized by conservatives for not being conservative enough. That's a good thing. That means he's thinking for himself. He's neither pro nor anti gay marriage. His view isn't contingent upon an interpretation of the Bible but, instead, on the potential impact, or a lack thereof, of gay marriage on children. I don't agree but at least god doesn't enter directly into his thought process.
I can't believe I just wrote a blog about Tucker Carlson.
To which I responded, "Punch him in the face for me."
This was unfair. All I really knew about the guy is that he's a conservative, he wears a bow tie, and he's on a partisan MSNBC show that masquerades as journalism.
So, being in an office with little to no free time to surf the web and research anything, let alone Tucker effing Carlson, I took the Wiki way out.
As it turns out, I don't agree with him on most things. Surprise surprise. He's adamantly pro-life, he doesn't really have a stance on gay marriage. I believe he's all for tightening up the borders and I would bet my life he's economically conservative. BUT, he does have an interesting take on George Bush and his place on the ideological line. And he IS critical of the war in Iraq.
That said, I can't stand the bow tie! Unless you're getting married or you're some blueblood asshole taking the ferry over to Nantucket, the bow tie is absolutely uncalled for (Mr. Kenyon is exempt from this rule). Especially if you consider yourself a journalist.
My favorite part of the Wiki entry was the substantial portion that detailed a well-publicized confrontation he had on Crossfire with Jon Stewart (very sad how my favorite politicians are comedians). Check it out.
He is critisized by conservatives for not being conservative enough. That's a good thing. That means he's thinking for himself. He's neither pro nor anti gay marriage. His view isn't contingent upon an interpretation of the Bible but, instead, on the potential impact, or a lack thereof, of gay marriage on children. I don't agree but at least god doesn't enter directly into his thought process.
I can't believe I just wrote a blog about Tucker Carlson.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Some Sports & Some Tunes & Some Hilarious Footage
I'm going to be in a basketball league. Games begin May 17. We had a pickup scrimmage type thing on Saturday. Nothing quite as humbling as two hours of basketball. Throws the fact that you're in horrible shape right in your face. Front and center. No hiding. You're a pussy Seamus. I know, I know.
That being said, here's the scouting report on my team:
Kevy Wevy- He's actually pretty good. Once we have some wind (get into decent shape) he'll be really good. He really stays with it on defense. This is something you really can't say about most people. You put him on a guy and you don't have to worry about him needing help.
Tommy- I had met him once before. He's really short and didn't strike me as particularly athletic so I assumed he would be terrible. He is limited defensively but this kid can shoot the lights out. Lights out. His stroke is really nasty. He's really competant off the dribble too.
Andy (Kevy's brother in-law)- I thought he would be terrible. He just doesn't look like much of an athlete. After having played with him, however, it's obvious he was at one time a decent athlete. Once he gets some wind back he'll be pretty good.
Rock- This dude works with Kevy's brother in-law and went to high school with Kev. He's better than Tommy defensively, most likely because he's at least 6'2", and shoots similarly well.
Lil' Marty- He's not so little. He's about 6'2". While he didn't participate in our little scrimmage, I've played with him before. I don't know if he has no jumper just because he doesn't play enough basketball or because, like myself, he just doesn't have a jumper. I'd tend towards the former. He's a good finisher off the dribble and in traffic. He too, could benefit from some suicides.
Me- I really need to know my role/ just try and get a lot of garbage rebounds and set a lot of picks. I have never had a jumpshot and likely never will. When people are mistakenly under the impression I have a jump shot, and they come out to guard me 15 to 20 feet from the basket, I am quick enough off the dribble and athletic enough around the basket to finish; provided the defender is not substantially taller and equally as quick; a distinct possibility unfortunately. Regardless, once opponents figure out I don't have a jumpshot, I'll be relegated to defense and rebounding duties. In order to remain effective on the offensive end, I'll need to get lucky with a couple jumpers early, getting my outside shot a contrived respect that will enable me to drive to the hoop here and there throughout the game. I too, need some more wind. The longer the game, the less effective I become- lazy on defense- and more likely to defer dribbling duties, and moving around in general, to my fitter counterparts.
MUSIC
THE SOUND OF SILVER
LCD Soundsystem's The Sound of Silver is fantastic. I like to compare it to the first album much like I compare Kid A to Amnesiac (reverse the chronology of their releases for the purposes of the analogy). While Amnesiac, a great album, sounds the raw materials (I know they're from the same studio sessions), perhaps even B sides, if you will, for the finished product and masterpeice that is Kid A, LCD Soundsystem set forth a lot of raw ideas, an attitude, and a musical identity with its debut that The Sound of Silver brings to fruition. It's not as rough around the edges vocally. It's cleaner lyrically, and without casting aside any of the tongue in cheek, self-depricating humor of its predecessor, while armed with the hook-laden electronic music one would expect. I can't wait to see, this Friday at The Avalon, the way this comes together on stage.
WILCO
I'll be seeing them in June. Can't wait for that or the release of their upcoming album.
I just read the interview at the link below. I like the way Jeff Tweedy is almost argumentative at times. Maybe that's not the appropriate word. Contrarian maybe? When he disagrees with the direction the interviewer seems to be guiding the Q&A, he's not shy about redirecting or even dismissing. I don't think he does this to be difficult, I think he's being honest. But who knows? Maybe he's as contemptuous of Pitchfork and their pomp as I am.
Also interesting; the way Pitchfork (who prides itself on being THE authority of indie-rock and non-mainstream music in general) is consistently at a loss for words when they try to describe Nels Cline. Have I already mentioned how pompous they are?
It's somewhat of an enigma for a guy like Nels Cline to be in a band like Wilco. As such, the media that covers Wilco really struggles to describe Cline or characterize his role within the band. They just throw words around like, "experimental" and "avante-garde"; words that ultimately don't really say anything.....as Jeff Tweedy points out in the interview.
http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/feature/42415-interview-wilco
Also, unrelated, courtesy of some friends of mine who filmed some of their exploits in Europe during the World Cup:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prB-aqK0v6g
That being said, here's the scouting report on my team:
Kevy Wevy- He's actually pretty good. Once we have some wind (get into decent shape) he'll be really good. He really stays with it on defense. This is something you really can't say about most people. You put him on a guy and you don't have to worry about him needing help.
Tommy- I had met him once before. He's really short and didn't strike me as particularly athletic so I assumed he would be terrible. He is limited defensively but this kid can shoot the lights out. Lights out. His stroke is really nasty. He's really competant off the dribble too.
Andy (Kevy's brother in-law)- I thought he would be terrible. He just doesn't look like much of an athlete. After having played with him, however, it's obvious he was at one time a decent athlete. Once he gets some wind back he'll be pretty good.
Rock- This dude works with Kevy's brother in-law and went to high school with Kev. He's better than Tommy defensively, most likely because he's at least 6'2", and shoots similarly well.
Lil' Marty- He's not so little. He's about 6'2". While he didn't participate in our little scrimmage, I've played with him before. I don't know if he has no jumper just because he doesn't play enough basketball or because, like myself, he just doesn't have a jumper. I'd tend towards the former. He's a good finisher off the dribble and in traffic. He too, could benefit from some suicides.
Me- I really need to know my role/ just try and get a lot of garbage rebounds and set a lot of picks. I have never had a jumpshot and likely never will. When people are mistakenly under the impression I have a jump shot, and they come out to guard me 15 to 20 feet from the basket, I am quick enough off the dribble and athletic enough around the basket to finish; provided the defender is not substantially taller and equally as quick; a distinct possibility unfortunately. Regardless, once opponents figure out I don't have a jumpshot, I'll be relegated to defense and rebounding duties. In order to remain effective on the offensive end, I'll need to get lucky with a couple jumpers early, getting my outside shot a contrived respect that will enable me to drive to the hoop here and there throughout the game. I too, need some more wind. The longer the game, the less effective I become- lazy on defense- and more likely to defer dribbling duties, and moving around in general, to my fitter counterparts.
MUSIC
THE SOUND OF SILVER
LCD Soundsystem's The Sound of Silver is fantastic. I like to compare it to the first album much like I compare Kid A to Amnesiac (reverse the chronology of their releases for the purposes of the analogy). While Amnesiac, a great album, sounds the raw materials (I know they're from the same studio sessions), perhaps even B sides, if you will, for the finished product and masterpeice that is Kid A, LCD Soundsystem set forth a lot of raw ideas, an attitude, and a musical identity with its debut that The Sound of Silver brings to fruition. It's not as rough around the edges vocally. It's cleaner lyrically, and without casting aside any of the tongue in cheek, self-depricating humor of its predecessor, while armed with the hook-laden electronic music one would expect. I can't wait to see, this Friday at The Avalon, the way this comes together on stage.
WILCO
I'll be seeing them in June. Can't wait for that or the release of their upcoming album.
I just read the interview at the link below. I like the way Jeff Tweedy is almost argumentative at times. Maybe that's not the appropriate word. Contrarian maybe? When he disagrees with the direction the interviewer seems to be guiding the Q&A, he's not shy about redirecting or even dismissing. I don't think he does this to be difficult, I think he's being honest. But who knows? Maybe he's as contemptuous of Pitchfork and their pomp as I am.
Also interesting; the way Pitchfork (who prides itself on being THE authority of indie-rock and non-mainstream music in general) is consistently at a loss for words when they try to describe Nels Cline. Have I already mentioned how pompous they are?
It's somewhat of an enigma for a guy like Nels Cline to be in a band like Wilco. As such, the media that covers Wilco really struggles to describe Cline or characterize his role within the band. They just throw words around like, "experimental" and "avante-garde"; words that ultimately don't really say anything.....as Jeff Tweedy points out in the interview.
http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/feature/42415-interview-wilco
Also, unrelated, courtesy of some friends of mine who filmed some of their exploits in Europe during the World Cup:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=prB-aqK0v6g
Whitey.......Continued
Although I have been unable to find any information in any media outlet, I can say with an adequate amount of certainty that the incident I spoke of last week was a drive-by shooting. Gang retaliation.
Weird thing is, it was my gang. You would have thought they'd have told me so that I could have gotten out my AK or at least gone along for the ride. :(
We're trying to get a copy of the police report. We have been able to confirm that this took place, however, the dispatcher at the police log warehouse place would not divulge any details over the phone. In order to find out the details of a shooting in my own neighborhood, I have to either pay $5 for the report to be mailed to me or I have to go to the station in person and request a copy.
My question; how'd they keep this quiet from any and all media?
Charlestown's wicked weird.
Weird thing is, it was my gang. You would have thought they'd have told me so that I could have gotten out my AK or at least gone along for the ride. :(
We're trying to get a copy of the police report. We have been able to confirm that this took place, however, the dispatcher at the police log warehouse place would not divulge any details over the phone. In order to find out the details of a shooting in my own neighborhood, I have to either pay $5 for the report to be mailed to me or I have to go to the station in person and request a copy.
My question; how'd they keep this quiet from any and all media?
Charlestown's wicked weird.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Rick J
I have this buddy who picks up on any and all athletic feats with the same ease Mozart took to the piano. He can just play, to quote Good Will Hunting.
As a freshman playing division 1AA football, Rick returned a fumble for a touchdown in what has been described to me as, "the most athletic thing I've ever seen," by friend of mine not usually given to hyperbole.
Sophomore year, in the quad while walking back to the dorms from the dining hall, a friend taunted from a third floor window, pressing his nose up against the screen. From about seventy yards away, Rick hit the screen with a snow ball, his target barely backing off the window screen in time.
Junior year, from the railing of the second floor deck of his house off campus, before a crowd of his drunken cheering peers, he jumped about fifteen feet out off of the deck into a garbage can on the lawn....BARE FOOT! Unfortunately there were broken liquor bottles at the bottom of the garbage can. This didn't stop him the following day, in a pickup football game, from outrunning me on a post route for a long touchdown with a gaping infection sweltering on his right foot inside his shoe.
Sullivan's Tap, across the street from the TD Banknorth Garden, has this game. For a dollar, you get one punch at a punching bag. In return you get a score. I hadn't been beaten. I felt like this game was my game. Saturday night, as I entered the bar with about 20 of Boston's best and brightest, I was eager to showcase my dominance over a larger crowd. I hadn't even given thought of the likelihood Rick would beat me. He's roughly my size, maybe a little smaller. I was more concerned with the guys that accompanied us who were over well over 2 bills.
His first punch set the High Score higher than I had ever seen it before. I spent about $20 trying to at least come close. Neither me nor anyone else with us was able to score within 80 points. It wasn't even a contest. Eventually, other people spilled into the bar. They too wanted to take their shots at the machine and Rick J. They too, were wasting their money (especially when he began hustling and taking their money). They, like the big boys with us, were also amazed they couldn't even compete with a dude half their size.
I shouldn't have been surprised
As a freshman playing division 1AA football, Rick returned a fumble for a touchdown in what has been described to me as, "the most athletic thing I've ever seen," by friend of mine not usually given to hyperbole.
Sophomore year, in the quad while walking back to the dorms from the dining hall, a friend taunted from a third floor window, pressing his nose up against the screen. From about seventy yards away, Rick hit the screen with a snow ball, his target barely backing off the window screen in time.
Junior year, from the railing of the second floor deck of his house off campus, before a crowd of his drunken cheering peers, he jumped about fifteen feet out off of the deck into a garbage can on the lawn....BARE FOOT! Unfortunately there were broken liquor bottles at the bottom of the garbage can. This didn't stop him the following day, in a pickup football game, from outrunning me on a post route for a long touchdown with a gaping infection sweltering on his right foot inside his shoe.
Sullivan's Tap, across the street from the TD Banknorth Garden, has this game. For a dollar, you get one punch at a punching bag. In return you get a score. I hadn't been beaten. I felt like this game was my game. Saturday night, as I entered the bar with about 20 of Boston's best and brightest, I was eager to showcase my dominance over a larger crowd. I hadn't even given thought of the likelihood Rick would beat me. He's roughly my size, maybe a little smaller. I was more concerned with the guys that accompanied us who were over well over 2 bills.
His first punch set the High Score higher than I had ever seen it before. I spent about $20 trying to at least come close. Neither me nor anyone else with us was able to score within 80 points. It wasn't even a contest. Eventually, other people spilled into the bar. They too wanted to take their shots at the machine and Rick J. They too, were wasting their money (especially when he began hustling and taking their money). They, like the big boys with us, were also amazed they couldn't even compete with a dude half their size.
I shouldn't have been surprised
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Whitey?
I live at the top of a hill in Charlestown. From my bedroom window I can see a bit of the financial district off to the left and over through the Back Bay to the Prudential Tower and Cambridge to the right.
Last night I woke up to numerous loud popping sounds. Whether or not they sounded like gunshots, I cannot really say. I never completely woke up. Even if I had, I'm not sure I am capable of definitively identifying the sound of a gun being fired. Mussolini is sure we woke up to the sounds of gunfire, however, and was subsequently unable to fall back asleep. Hence, her cranky disposition this morning (I'm still waiting for an explanation of every other morning).
Usually, noises in the night wake me up only momentarily before I roll over and fall back to sleep. This time, however, the loud popping sounds were followed by an approaching chopper (it was too loud to just be a pussy hellicopter). Suddenly it sounded like it was directly overhead. Mussolini threw back the sheets and climbed over me to get to the window.
"Holy shit!"
"What?" I asked as I sat up to have a look see.
Really low; so low that it seemed like we were looking straight ahead out the window, instead of looking up, there was a chopper hovering over Charlestown, seemingly no more than a few blocks away. Red and blue lights flashing, it hovered there for at least a half hour.
I've been looking at Boston.com for an inkling as to what transpired last night in the shadows. The criminal underbelly no doubt played a role. So far, nothing.
TBC.........
Last night I woke up to numerous loud popping sounds. Whether or not they sounded like gunshots, I cannot really say. I never completely woke up. Even if I had, I'm not sure I am capable of definitively identifying the sound of a gun being fired. Mussolini is sure we woke up to the sounds of gunfire, however, and was subsequently unable to fall back asleep. Hence, her cranky disposition this morning (I'm still waiting for an explanation of every other morning).
Usually, noises in the night wake me up only momentarily before I roll over and fall back to sleep. This time, however, the loud popping sounds were followed by an approaching chopper (it was too loud to just be a pussy hellicopter). Suddenly it sounded like it was directly overhead. Mussolini threw back the sheets and climbed over me to get to the window.
"Holy shit!"
"What?" I asked as I sat up to have a look see.
Really low; so low that it seemed like we were looking straight ahead out the window, instead of looking up, there was a chopper hovering over Charlestown, seemingly no more than a few blocks away. Red and blue lights flashing, it hovered there for at least a half hour.
I've been looking at Boston.com for an inkling as to what transpired last night in the shadows. The criminal underbelly no doubt played a role. So far, nothing.
TBC.........
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