It is here that we all find ourselves: subjected by the puppeteers to all the disingenuous posturing that the "objective" media can shell out (funny how none of them appear to be on the fence).
Amen.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Dissin' Franchises
The Democratic National Committee apparently decided it made sense to open their convention with a prayer. This is merely the latest in a string of back-peddling, centering gestures that have seen me gradually retreat from the excitement I originally felt at the prospect of Barrack Obama winning his bid to become the forty-fourth presidency of the United States. Visceral rage now tempered by conversations with the like-minded individuals in my cabinet (which convenes infrequently at best and usually via cell phone), I'm not merely disenfranchised (back where I started). The framework of their assurances had loomed beyond the reaches of my comprehension yesterday when I first learned of the prayer. These assurances - to a degree - have steadied my modest political hand. I wish the democrats (notice I abstain from referring to them as "my party") could embody diversity and tolerance through dogma and policy rather than an apparently essential dog and pony show. At this point, the institutional turmoil having been cast aside by the results of the primary election (and unwittingly giving way now to ego-maniacal in-fighting and consequent media frenzy), the goals are now changed. No longer are democrats anointing their presidential candidate from amongst themselves. Currently targeted are the skeptics wavering inexplicably on the fence. Currently targeted are those historically republican voters, hopefully so frustrated by their party's dogged stubbornness that their vote is now up for grabs.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Why Michigan's in Trouble
When women and young children watch football on television they consistently ask the same question: Why are they running the ball directly into the heart of the defense when there's all that open space to the outside? For anyone who has ever played football at any level, the answer is relatively simple: By stacking the line of scrimmage, having some variation of two running backs, one or two tight ends, and modest spacing between offensive lineman, you can be relatively sure the defense on the other side of the ball will sport a similarly condensed formation. This narrowing of the field favors whomever is bigger and stronger by decreasing the importance of speed. The closer a defender is to a blocker when the ball is snapped, the easier it will be for the blocker to block, or to at least to get to his assignment and occupy his attention. As a defender, you cannot make a tackle when you're being blocked, and, more often than not, you cannot make a tackle soon enough even if simply occupied.
At some point, having encountered bigger, stronger defenses with very little or no success, a coach somewhere reluctantly, and perhaps inadvertently, heeded the advice of football novices everywhere. If I recruit more speed on the offensive line and at each and every skill position, I can spread out our formations, utilizing one back sets, empty backfields, and numerous receivers. So equipped, defenses will have to spread the field, taking defenders outside of the box and into open spaces. Having created bigger gaps in the defense, I can get my faster players the ball in those open spaces before the defenders get there.
This has proven boundlessly successful. We needn't look very far for some prime examples. Urban Meyer has already won a national championship at Florida with the spread offense. West Virginia, under Rich Rodriquez, put on offensive showcases on the ground and through the air by utilizing this approach. So much so, in fact, it got him the job in Ann Arbor. Big time college football is big business, however, and defensive coordinators don't make big bucks for hopelessly wringing their hands. The more successful and prevalent an offensive scheme, the more attention it will get from defensive masterminds. And the process has already begun. Larger defensive backs are being moved closer to the line of scrimmage at linebacker, larger linebackers moving to defensive end, and larger defensive ends sliding over into interior linemen.
Michigan will undoubtedly struggle this year without the speed to adequately execute Rich Rodriguez' spread offense. By the time his recruiting classes have graduated from high school and are enrolled at Michigan, defenses will have caught up. Make no mistake, the spread is not better than other more traditional offenses. It is superior, however, against bigger, stronger, slower defenses. In terms of $ucce$$ off the field, Rodriguez made the right decision by fleeing West Virginia for Ann Arbor. On the field, however, he'll be having an ideological crisis in the not too distant future. Only then will we see what kind of coach he is; one who is able to fine tune his spread offense with some of the X's and O's it isn't known for, or a coach who will struggle to readjust in his quest to return Michigan's program to greatness.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Best Olympic Sport You've Never Seen
TV Listings:
Monday August 19 12:00p - 5:00p MSNBC Multiple Sport Coverage
Men's weightlifting (105kg), Germany vs. Denmark in men's handball, men's beach volleyball quarterfinal, and U.S. vs. China in baseball.
Tuesday August 18 8:00a - 12:00p USA Multiple Sport Coverage
Women's basketball and handball quarterfinals.
Wednesday August 20 5:00a - 11:00a MSNBC Multiple Sports
Softball bronze-medal game (LIVE ET/CT), men's freestyle wrestling (66kg and 74kg), men's volleyball quarterfinal (LIVE ET/CT), and men's handball quarterfinal.
Softball bronze-medal game (LIVE ET/CT), men's freestyle wrestling (66kg and 74kg), men's volleyball quarterfinal (LIVE ET/CT), and men's handball quarterfinal.
Friday August 22 10:30a - 2:00p MSNBC Multiple Sports
Women's field hockey bronze-medal game, women's modern pentathlon, and men's handball semifinal.
Women's field hockey bronze-medal game, women's modern pentathlon, and men's handball semifinal.
Saturday August 23 9:00a - 10:00a USA
Handball Women's gold-medal game.
Sunday August 24 5:00a - 11:00a USA Multiple Sports
Coverage includes gold-medal finals in men's handball and men's basketball (re-air). Plus, bronze-medal men's matches in volleyball and water polo.
For complete listings, though sometimes vague and incomplete depending on what sport you're looking for, go here.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
No Substitute
There is absolutely no substitute for live music. None. As someone who attends a fair amount of concerts, I always lamented the fact that I had never before seen Radiohead. The breadth of this regret is now multiplied. I am able to accurately quantify this regret, however, only because I was there last night in Mansfield, and for that I am actually grateful.
Setlist:
01. Reckoner (In Rainbows)
02. Optimistic (Kid A)
03. There There (Hail to the Thief)
04. 15 Step (In Rainbows)
05. Kid A (Kid A)
06. Nude (In Rainbows)
07. All I Need (In Rainbows)
08. The Gloaming (Hail to the Thief)
09. The National Anthem (Kid A)
10. Videotape (In Rainbows)
11. Jigsaw Falling Into Place (In Rainbows)
12. The Bends (The Bends)
13. Faust Arp (In Rainbows)
14. Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi (In Rainbows)
15. Everything In Its Right Place (Kid A)
16. Exit Music (OK Computer)
17. Bodysnatchers (In Rainbows)
Encore 1:
18. House of Cards (In Rainbows)
19. I Might Be Wrong (Amnesiac)
20. Paranoid Android (OK Computer)
21. A Wolf At The Door (Hail to the Thief)
22. How To Disappear Completely (Kid A)
Encore 2:
23. Cymbal Rush (The Eraser - Thom Yorke)
24. Karma Police (OK Computer)
25. Idioteque (Kid A)
(Studio album chronology: Pablo Honey, The Bends, OK Computer, Kid A, Amnesiac, Hail to the Thief, and In Rainbows)
In front of a fervent but docile full house at the Comcast Center, Radiohead delivered a show teeming with some of the contradictions I had expected and hoped for. They filled a 20,000 capacity amphitheater that I associate more with stadium acts like Bon Jovi and 3 Doors Down, (acts completely devoid of any nuance or subtlety), and purposefully meandered through a set list comprised mostly of their least accessible material; stuff a band shouldn't be able to pull off in such a venue, much less to the delight of 20,000 mongoloids. And they not only pulled it off, they looked and sounded as though they were in their natural habitat. In fact, based upon Thom York's frenetic stage presence -- singing eyes closed, head twiddling back and forth around the mic, giving way to enraptured dancing that only he can pull off -- their natural habitat might just be another planet.
A galaxy away from Pablo Honey as a band, an easy observation from set list alone, what is most striking about Radiohead jams, especially as compared to the prolonged instrumental passages of most other rock acts, is the sampling, the club beat experimentation, and the appreciation for and full exploitation of crescendo and decrescendo. all the while operating within a framework that sometimes felt classical, while at others was decidedly ladder-day Miles Davis, or avante-noise, but that is always without hint of the blues. It was this realization, and the subsequent juxtaposition in fact, that made the opening chords of The Bends, situated masterfully in the middle of the show, a sledgehammer and a refreshing change of pace in the same breath.
The entire experience was enhanced by giant flat screen televisions beside the stage and in front of the "lawn" seats, each split into quadrants, each quadrant focused on a different band member, and a stage backdrop lined with 50 or so giant tubes (see above), perhaps 2 and a half feet in diameter, that stretched from the floor to the roof, on which glow stick colors danced up and down, disappearing, reappearing, and changing color in keeping with the pace and mood of the music.
The entire experience was enhanced by giant flat screen televisions beside the stage and in front of the "lawn" seats, each split into quadrants, each quadrant focused on a different band member, and a stage backdrop lined with 50 or so giant tubes (see above), perhaps 2 and a half feet in diameter, that stretched from the floor to the roof, on which glow stick colors danced up and down, disappearing, reappearing, and changing color in keeping with the pace and mood of the music.
The eye of the storm is undoubtedly Yorke's incredible voice, which is sometimes as jagged and loose lipped as the music swirling alongside or around it, while at other times is incomprehensibly languid and beautiful, casting itself gently above the billowing atmospherics and melodies of his bandmates.
Remarkable.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Today It's Your Birthday
Today is my birthday, and for the first time in my life I wasn't awoken by my mother singing an over-the-top rendition of "Happy Birthday", either in person or over the phone. This gave me a sense of importance as a child that devolved into a source embarrassment during the acne years. For the past 10 years or so, however, it has been something that made me laugh; something that I took for granted. Thinking back now about my mother's singing voice, and her silly demeanor in general, I have to take a deep breath to choke back the tears.
I thought this whole thing was going to get easier once the funeral was over and I was back at work. Well, I thought wrong. I frequently find myself short of breath, paralyzed by the realization that, as I carry on here, my mother is no longer there; no longer a phone call or a 4.5 hour car ride away. I am thankful to be able to say, however, that during this trying time my family has been blessed --each individually and vicariously by association-- with the boundless love and support of our friends and each other.
I've struggled to make sense of this. And by "this" I mean pretty much everything. And I'll likely continue as such. The burden of this loss is tempered, however, by those around me. Specifically, one close friend of mine has offered what I consider to be some of the most useful pearls. Having endured similar pain, he has been extremely supportive, availing himself at the drop of a hat to talk, or just to be there. (Given my shortcomings, more often than not this has meant just being there.) While I admit there is a certain credibility stemming from our shared experience, what is most striking is his willingness to embrace the idea that, while our broad stroke circumstances are shared, our respective tragedies are ultimately unique, each distinctly our own. As such, this is a process that cannot and should not be rushed, nor will it ever be fully understood, much less by other people. He acknowledged having been at a loss for words when he greeted my family at the funeral, not wanting to make it seem like he knew what we were going through. And honestly, this emotional humility has meant the most to me. The last thing I've wanted to hear over the last few weeks, however well intentioned, is who knows exactly what I'm going through. Paradoxically, his insistence that he didn't know led me to the contrary conclusion. As such, his advices have taken on greater meaning. He has urged me to continue talking and thinking about her as a way to keep her with me; an idea I had been searching for that I had failed to adequately conceptualize. Though I will continue to struggle, I'm strangely comforted by the notion that I can keep her around by talking and thinking of her. She brought too many smiles to too many people for anything less.
Obviously, the rest of my family cannot be lost in this. Firstly, I couldn't have conjured up any of the requisite strength to cope, let alone persevere, without Moose. Her importance is incalculable. Bearing much of the brunt of responsibility since her arrival home from Costa Rica has been my younger sister. I am eternally thankful she arrived home soon enough to share some real quality time with my mother, while also making sure --with a sensitivity, empathy, grace, and determination each distinctly hers-- that her final days were filled with the kind of love and dignity she deserved. Though sometimes we misunderstand each other, I am grateful also that my mother knew well and benefited from the dutiful, quiet strength, and timely sense of humor of my brother, as well as the love --as bold, brash, and honest as youth can provide-- of my youngest sister. Above almost all else, I'm thankful my parents found each other, my existence notwithstanding. I'm thankful that my dad is exactly who he is and always has been, and that he has been so for the sake of my dear mother all along, and because he knows no other way.
I'm grateful for all of my mother's friends, as good as they were to her in life, kind still towards her family after. At one point, after my mom had passed away but before I had returned to Boston, my mother's cell phone rang. Instinctively, my sister answered the call and was greeted by surprise on the other end. The caller, a close friend of mom's, had assumed the call would have gone right to voicemail, or that at least that no one would answer. She was calling to listen to my mother's voice on her voicemail greeting. My sister having picked up, they shared an awkward conversation and an uncomfortable chuckle before my sister assured she would let the phone ring if she wanted to hang up and call right back. (Since then, I've made that phone call with the same intention more than once.) Last week my sister received another call from the very same telephone number. (It is perhaps relevant at this time to mention that my mother did not have anyone's phone number stored in her phone because she didn't know how to do so. She knew phone numbers by heart.) Hesitant, my sister answered the phone and was greeted by the warm assurance that this call had been made with the hope that she would answer, in order to share with her a dream about my mother, and likely some of the solace it provided. In the dream, she bumped into mom at the grocery store. Surprised to see her, she couldn't help but notice how beautiful and healthy she looked. After hugging and screaming, as women often do, she fed her compliments while she twirled around, undoubtedly showing off. Assuring her once more how beautiful she looked, my mom responded, grinning, "I'm not in pain anymore!"
Most of all, I'm thankful for my mom. All of her. Every day, every hug, and every phone call:
She loved to laugh, sing, and dance. She could command the attention of an entire room, or graciously defer to one of her many partners in crime (though most often she deferred nothing). One of my favorite pictures is a relatively recent one of her dancing and karoeking with my brother. They're both smiling and singing, and he had just reached for her microphone. You can tell from the way her hand rests on his, and from the look on her face, if you know her well enough, that, while she was encouraging my brother to sing and dance alongside her, there was no way in hell he was taking her microphone.
I was a relatively wild pitcher at the age of 10. I was also relatively self-conscious, something that never afflicted my mother. I was warming up on the mound before a game one summer afternoon, my teammates behind me in the field, opponents taking practice swings and watching from the dugout, when she arrived. Though I didn't notice it at the time, she showed up with a pitcher of frozen margaritas for some of the other team mothers. What occupied my attention, however, was the boom box she carried under her arm. Deliriously nervous, I made a deliberate effort to refocus my attention on the task at hand, an attempt rendered futile when she turned on "Wild Thing" at full volume. Initial embarrassment soon gave way to laughter when I realized the coaches of both teams, my teammates, and opponents were all laughing hysterically.
Unmistakably Irish, but having had an Italian immigrant landlord in her early 20's, mom used to scold us for wrongdoings in broken Italian and with Italian gestures when she'd really had it. This has only taken on a humorous dimension in retrospect. When I was a kid and she started screaming in Italian, I knew there was going to be hell to pay.
I could continue in this vein until the wee hours of the morning, but it's my birthday, and I'm sure mom would want me to try to enjoy myself amongst some friends, so I'll leave you with what I hope will become one of countless definitive anecdotes:
A few days after she had passed away, my brother and I took her car to run a few errands. Pulling out of the driveway he suddenly remembered that the car was equipped with an audio note system that allowed you to dictate messages/reminders that could be recorded and available for retrieval later. Naturally, mom being mom, she never really got the hang of it. This is a woman who didn't have email and paid for groceries with checks. Most of the messages were from my brother; either crude jokes left for their entertainment or shock value, or recordings of him and mom singing to whatever happened to be in the CD player. The last one, however, was a crystal clear message from her that I'd like to think she left for whomever happened to get in the car after her. "I love you," she said.
I thought this whole thing was going to get easier once the funeral was over and I was back at work. Well, I thought wrong. I frequently find myself short of breath, paralyzed by the realization that, as I carry on here, my mother is no longer there; no longer a phone call or a 4.5 hour car ride away. I am thankful to be able to say, however, that during this trying time my family has been blessed --each individually and vicariously by association-- with the boundless love and support of our friends and each other.
I've struggled to make sense of this. And by "this" I mean pretty much everything. And I'll likely continue as such. The burden of this loss is tempered, however, by those around me. Specifically, one close friend of mine has offered what I consider to be some of the most useful pearls. Having endured similar pain, he has been extremely supportive, availing himself at the drop of a hat to talk, or just to be there. (Given my shortcomings, more often than not this has meant just being there.) While I admit there is a certain credibility stemming from our shared experience, what is most striking is his willingness to embrace the idea that, while our broad stroke circumstances are shared, our respective tragedies are ultimately unique, each distinctly our own. As such, this is a process that cannot and should not be rushed, nor will it ever be fully understood, much less by other people. He acknowledged having been at a loss for words when he greeted my family at the funeral, not wanting to make it seem like he knew what we were going through. And honestly, this emotional humility has meant the most to me. The last thing I've wanted to hear over the last few weeks, however well intentioned, is who knows exactly what I'm going through. Paradoxically, his insistence that he didn't know led me to the contrary conclusion. As such, his advices have taken on greater meaning. He has urged me to continue talking and thinking about her as a way to keep her with me; an idea I had been searching for that I had failed to adequately conceptualize. Though I will continue to struggle, I'm strangely comforted by the notion that I can keep her around by talking and thinking of her. She brought too many smiles to too many people for anything less.
Obviously, the rest of my family cannot be lost in this. Firstly, I couldn't have conjured up any of the requisite strength to cope, let alone persevere, without Moose. Her importance is incalculable. Bearing much of the brunt of responsibility since her arrival home from Costa Rica has been my younger sister. I am eternally thankful she arrived home soon enough to share some real quality time with my mother, while also making sure --with a sensitivity, empathy, grace, and determination each distinctly hers-- that her final days were filled with the kind of love and dignity she deserved. Though sometimes we misunderstand each other, I am grateful also that my mother knew well and benefited from the dutiful, quiet strength, and timely sense of humor of my brother, as well as the love --as bold, brash, and honest as youth can provide-- of my youngest sister. Above almost all else, I'm thankful my parents found each other, my existence notwithstanding. I'm thankful that my dad is exactly who he is and always has been, and that he has been so for the sake of my dear mother all along, and because he knows no other way.
I'm grateful for all of my mother's friends, as good as they were to her in life, kind still towards her family after. At one point, after my mom had passed away but before I had returned to Boston, my mother's cell phone rang. Instinctively, my sister answered the call and was greeted by surprise on the other end. The caller, a close friend of mom's, had assumed the call would have gone right to voicemail, or that at least that no one would answer. She was calling to listen to my mother's voice on her voicemail greeting. My sister having picked up, they shared an awkward conversation and an uncomfortable chuckle before my sister assured she would let the phone ring if she wanted to hang up and call right back. (Since then, I've made that phone call with the same intention more than once.) Last week my sister received another call from the very same telephone number. (It is perhaps relevant at this time to mention that my mother did not have anyone's phone number stored in her phone because she didn't know how to do so. She knew phone numbers by heart.) Hesitant, my sister answered the phone and was greeted by the warm assurance that this call had been made with the hope that she would answer, in order to share with her a dream about my mother, and likely some of the solace it provided. In the dream, she bumped into mom at the grocery store. Surprised to see her, she couldn't help but notice how beautiful and healthy she looked. After hugging and screaming, as women often do, she fed her compliments while she twirled around, undoubtedly showing off. Assuring her once more how beautiful she looked, my mom responded, grinning, "I'm not in pain anymore!"
Most of all, I'm thankful for my mom. All of her. Every day, every hug, and every phone call:
She loved to laugh, sing, and dance. She could command the attention of an entire room, or graciously defer to one of her many partners in crime (though most often she deferred nothing). One of my favorite pictures is a relatively recent one of her dancing and karoeking with my brother. They're both smiling and singing, and he had just reached for her microphone. You can tell from the way her hand rests on his, and from the look on her face, if you know her well enough, that, while she was encouraging my brother to sing and dance alongside her, there was no way in hell he was taking her microphone.
I was a relatively wild pitcher at the age of 10. I was also relatively self-conscious, something that never afflicted my mother. I was warming up on the mound before a game one summer afternoon, my teammates behind me in the field, opponents taking practice swings and watching from the dugout, when she arrived. Though I didn't notice it at the time, she showed up with a pitcher of frozen margaritas for some of the other team mothers. What occupied my attention, however, was the boom box she carried under her arm. Deliriously nervous, I made a deliberate effort to refocus my attention on the task at hand, an attempt rendered futile when she turned on "Wild Thing" at full volume. Initial embarrassment soon gave way to laughter when I realized the coaches of both teams, my teammates, and opponents were all laughing hysterically.
Unmistakably Irish, but having had an Italian immigrant landlord in her early 20's, mom used to scold us for wrongdoings in broken Italian and with Italian gestures when she'd really had it. This has only taken on a humorous dimension in retrospect. When I was a kid and she started screaming in Italian, I knew there was going to be hell to pay.
I could continue in this vein until the wee hours of the morning, but it's my birthday, and I'm sure mom would want me to try to enjoy myself amongst some friends, so I'll leave you with what I hope will become one of countless definitive anecdotes:
A few days after she had passed away, my brother and I took her car to run a few errands. Pulling out of the driveway he suddenly remembered that the car was equipped with an audio note system that allowed you to dictate messages/reminders that could be recorded and available for retrieval later. Naturally, mom being mom, she never really got the hang of it. This is a woman who didn't have email and paid for groceries with checks. Most of the messages were from my brother; either crude jokes left for their entertainment or shock value, or recordings of him and mom singing to whatever happened to be in the CD player. The last one, however, was a crystal clear message from her that I'd like to think she left for whomever happened to get in the car after her. "I love you," she said.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
