'What is arguably present in every successful work of art', suggests de Botton, is 'an ability to restore to our sight a distorted or neglected aspect of reality.' Hear, hear! we say to this nicely-written aphorism, which rather effortlessly encapsulates the reason why we, as artistic consumers, often say, 'Well, now, that [enter art genre here] changed my life', in response to first encountering the piece in question. Of course what we mean in all truthfulness (but fail to simply say b/c of our general addiction to clichés) is that, more specifically, our perspective has been altered by an outside force. Yes, this worldview (egh), point-of-view, interpretive bent, universal bias, standard disposition and/or attitude, or - for the mathematically-inclined - metaphorical angle, slant, or panorama of ours has metamorphosized, that kind of change that cannot be overlooked. Now this marked diversion may not last for long; it may be that the perceived metamorphosis was in fact a false dawn, and by the next morning, we will have returned to our standard position. This outcome, we think, happens to be the case described as 'most often'.
But at least the film, the painting, the song, the symphony, the drama, the photo, the poem, the design, the sculpture, the performance, the words did...that is, altered...something...that is, you...however briefly.
We do not doubt that certain art will have a much more lasting effect.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Now Is The Winter of Our Content?
The textbooks all warn of the grey gloom that rides the coattails of Old Man Winter. I cannot say they are wrong; after all, I have endured many a winter, pitifully at the mercy of Lethargy, Despondency, and Melancholia - those bastardizing bastards of clinical feelings hopelessness and inadequacy. But tonight seems opportune to champion this season of hibernation, calling to our attention its most redeeming elements.
During the Renaissance, parental custom made it so that newborns remained tightly swaddled for most of their first year. While I am not sure this practice aided the physiological growth and/or development of basic motor skills in these sixteenth-century bright eyes, it must have done wonders for their young egos, what with its sensitivity to the disquieting transition from the All-I've-Ever-Known safety and security of the womb to the Dear-God-Save-The-Queen terror and helplessness of the big, bright world, detached from the umbilical cord.
The analogy here, of course, is that between the effect of swaddling and that of winter, the only season that retains just such a dramatic capacity for comfort and warmth. Yes, the irony is notable, given both the aforementioned and the temperatures, but three winter-specific factors make it so.
First, the darkness. I've always known more calm once the sun sets, I think because there is an unconscious sameness to night. Blackness is blackness in a way that the variance of the day is not; that is, the latter may bring partial cloudiness or bright blue skies - one never knows. But the night remains same. Dependable and familiar, brought on too by the cultural expectation of 'winding down', when work is to be put aside without guilt, and the casualness of prolonged rest, relaxation, and late-night solitude are encouraged. The darkness, and thus its accompanied reminders of the womb, is as a matter of the course of earthly tilt protracted during the months surrounding the Winter Solstice, so you can see the connection here, can you not?
Second, the snow. Is it any wonder the poets use words of inclusion to describe the effect of snow? It covers like a blanket, or whiteness envelops the landscape. The soft powder swaddles our earth, building up a fortress of protection around our homes, and in turn shrinks our world. When the heavy flakes fall, we cannot see but a few hundred feet beyond our windows. The sky and the trees and and the lawn and the roofs reflect the simplicity of white, establishing momentarily a commonality across time and space. I know I am here, that I am safe. Need I know more? asks Descartes.
Finally, the cold. What could be more antithetical to the warmth of the womb? And, yet, it is this very cold that reminds us of what we have lost and prompts us to reclaim what was once rightfully ours. To wit, we bundle up, wrap ourselves in wool and scarves, light raging fires of heat inside our homes and fill our bellies with the hottest of stews, teas, and soups. We are injecting heat just as we are defending against cold. Long past are the summer days where we exposed our skin and bared our souls. No, now, we pull each other close, for warmth, yes, but also in defense against the pitiless brutality and heartlessness of winter, which reminds us like no other season of our weakness, of our vulnerability, of our loss.
During the Renaissance, parental custom made it so that newborns remained tightly swaddled for most of their first year. While I am not sure this practice aided the physiological growth and/or development of basic motor skills in these sixteenth-century bright eyes, it must have done wonders for their young egos, what with its sensitivity to the disquieting transition from the All-I've-Ever-Known safety and security of the womb to the Dear-God-Save-The-Queen terror and helplessness of the big, bright world, detached from the umbilical cord.
The analogy here, of course, is that between the effect of swaddling and that of winter, the only season that retains just such a dramatic capacity for comfort and warmth. Yes, the irony is notable, given both the aforementioned and the temperatures, but three winter-specific factors make it so.
First, the darkness. I've always known more calm once the sun sets, I think because there is an unconscious sameness to night. Blackness is blackness in a way that the variance of the day is not; that is, the latter may bring partial cloudiness or bright blue skies - one never knows. But the night remains same. Dependable and familiar, brought on too by the cultural expectation of 'winding down', when work is to be put aside without guilt, and the casualness of prolonged rest, relaxation, and late-night solitude are encouraged. The darkness, and thus its accompanied reminders of the womb, is as a matter of the course of earthly tilt protracted during the months surrounding the Winter Solstice, so you can see the connection here, can you not?
Second, the snow. Is it any wonder the poets use words of inclusion to describe the effect of snow? It covers like a blanket, or whiteness envelops the landscape. The soft powder swaddles our earth, building up a fortress of protection around our homes, and in turn shrinks our world. When the heavy flakes fall, we cannot see but a few hundred feet beyond our windows. The sky and the trees and and the lawn and the roofs reflect the simplicity of white, establishing momentarily a commonality across time and space. I know I am here, that I am safe. Need I know more? asks Descartes.
Finally, the cold. What could be more antithetical to the warmth of the womb? And, yet, it is this very cold that reminds us of what we have lost and prompts us to reclaim what was once rightfully ours. To wit, we bundle up, wrap ourselves in wool and scarves, light raging fires of heat inside our homes and fill our bellies with the hottest of stews, teas, and soups. We are injecting heat just as we are defending against cold. Long past are the summer days where we exposed our skin and bared our souls. No, now, we pull each other close, for warmth, yes, but also in defense against the pitiless brutality and heartlessness of winter, which reminds us like no other season of our weakness, of our vulnerability, of our loss.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Some Thoughts on Certain Feminine Sartorial Trends:
The most underappreciated elements: mens' sunglasses worn by a woman; black leggings; long, hip-hugging dresses; riding boots; the Oxford shirt, of course; handbags.
As a hue, pink - especially that of the HOTTT brand - rarely does much to flatter a woman; purple, however, especially a soft, dark yet muted rendition, complements the brunette everyday.
Guy de Maupassant said it right when he suggested, 'Why not wear some flowers? They're very fashionable this season'. This season, and every season, Guy.
Silver (and platinum) may be the new gold standard in sales, but no ore accentuates the bare, tan skin of a southern European dusty blonde better than Au.
No matter the occasion, a moment exists within each evening wherein it is both perfectly acceptable and sexy for a woman to remove her heels and wear everything by wearing nothing below the calf.
As a hue, pink - especially that of the HOTTT brand - rarely does much to flatter a woman; purple, however, especially a soft, dark yet muted rendition, complements the brunette everyday.
Guy de Maupassant said it right when he suggested, 'Why not wear some flowers? They're very fashionable this season'. This season, and every season, Guy.
Silver (and platinum) may be the new gold standard in sales, but no ore accentuates the bare, tan skin of a southern European dusty blonde better than Au.
No matter the occasion, a moment exists within each evening wherein it is both perfectly acceptable and sexy for a woman to remove her heels and wear everything by wearing nothing below the calf.
Flash Fictionist Flotsam
Jack awoke quickly, startled and terrified that the sustained angst of his dreams had so effortlessly followed him into consciousness. Had you been standing near Jake's bed where he slept, you would have seen his body thrashing beneath the sheets and known that Hollywood had gotten this trope exactly right. This pitiful moment of helplessness, of disquiet.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008, Vol. 2
Here is what I sent to McSweeney's, in memoriam:
In short and from my fixed perspective, Dave Wallace accomplished in his forty-six years that which no one else has yet to repeat: he, surely without knowing, embodied the bookish cool.
I met Dave for the first and last time when I was seventeen and a high school junior. I lived in Bloomington, IL, where famous authors don't live. But Dave was teaching at Illinois State, and my kick-ass English teacher, a friend of his, arranged for us to have coffee at a diner less than a mile from my house. The Garden of Paradise, where famous authors don't dine. She wanted us to meet and talk and "hash out ideas" about the essay (my first rather elementary stab at cultural criticism) that I had proposed to write on the so-called weird Americana phenomenon for her class.
Now I wasn't even sure what weird Americana meant or even how to explain what I thought maybe it kinda was, but Wallace had said it was David Lynch and my teacher had said that maybe DFW's stories and experimental prose was it too, so I threw it all together and tried for the first time to wrestle with Artistic Theories that made me feel very small.
You'll believe that I am not being rhetorically grandiose when I tell you that Dave's words changed my life. When first handed A.S.F.T.I.N.D.A. by the same kick-ass English teacher, I read it twice in two weeks, nearly pissed my pants laughing, rethought the purpose of the footnote and the dash and the comma and - hell - all of literature for that matter, fell into an obsessive love with the OED, realized that it wasn't only OK to swear in professionally-sound writing but that it was a fucking postmodern (?) necessity, and became lose-sleep-at-night afraid that I would never be able to write as well as this man despite my inescapable longing to do so and do so now (then).
Maybe Dave's stories and essays are not weird Americana after all, but to that seventeen year-old they were mesmerizingly weird and representative of my little corner of America, with its cornfields and state fairs and tornadoes and state colleges. Here was a (local!) author who thought what I thought - only more perceptively / who wrote how I wanted to write - with seemingly complete command / and who took as his subjects all that in which I too shared (or quickly discovered) interest.
So there I was in 1998, wrapped in the requisite flannel, Converses, and blue jeans with the frayed bottoms that come from cutting off the cuffs - the very picture of Clinton-era teen-spirit conformity while desperately trying to fit in - and I'm sitting alone in this diner booth, waiting for Dave to show up. I'm nervous as hell, and will remain so. He shows up fifteen minutes late, tells me not to get up, apologizes for tardiness, and sits down. And then he just starts talking.
He talks and I listen. Like we are old friends.
I think I said something stupid about Lynch or tried hard to accurately identify something as w.A. He smiled and graciously agreed, expounding further on why I was "right," and then kept on talking. I just watched him - watched him extrapolating theory onto the everyday; watched him spitting his dipped tobacco into a coffee mug followed by a nervous glance to make sure he didn't confuse the the spit mug with the coffee mug when he reached for a sip seconds later; watched him work himself up physically with excitement when explaining how unexpectedly great this adolescent novel called Endzone was and how he was going to go back into the local downtown used bookstore to try to find the next book in the series; watched him adjusting his glasses and running his hand through his hair in a way that no so much suggested but defined the grunge-scholar or the PoMo Bohemian-intellectual. Every detail emitted a reality of anti-falseness.
In that short half-hour, he confirmed for me what I had always wanted to believe: that bibliophilia + central Illinois + analytical thinking + passion + words, words, words could = so cool.
He didn't stay for long. My mind wasn't an impressive match, I am sure. But he was kind and encouraging and, as he climbed into his beat-up blue Chevy, told me to keep asking questions. I sent him my paper and he read it, graciously marked it up, proffered some suggestions, and wished me good luck in my senior year.
In the years since, whenever I would write him, he assured me he remembered this first meeting of ours because I think he knew what it meant to me. That seems trivial now, and quite narcissistic on my part, but perhaps it speaks to the power of his persona and the endurance of his artistic genius. Our meeting and his words marked a moment in my life when I foresaw my future and pronounced my passions: I would and will read and write and teach and learn, in part because Dave Wallace did the same, and did it so coolly.
May you rest in peace, Dave. For those of us who loved you, your memory and your words will remain ad infinitum.
In short and from my fixed perspective, Dave Wallace accomplished in his forty-six years that which no one else has yet to repeat: he, surely without knowing, embodied the bookish cool.
I met Dave for the first and last time when I was seventeen and a high school junior. I lived in Bloomington, IL, where famous authors don't live. But Dave was teaching at Illinois State, and my kick-ass English teacher, a friend of his, arranged for us to have coffee at a diner less than a mile from my house. The Garden of Paradise, where famous authors don't dine. She wanted us to meet and talk and "hash out ideas" about the essay (my first rather elementary stab at cultural criticism) that I had proposed to write on the so-called weird Americana phenomenon for her class.
Now I wasn't even sure what weird Americana meant or even how to explain what I thought maybe it kinda was, but Wallace had said it was David Lynch and my teacher had said that maybe DFW's stories and experimental prose was it too, so I threw it all together and tried for the first time to wrestle with Artistic Theories that made me feel very small.
You'll believe that I am not being rhetorically grandiose when I tell you that Dave's words changed my life. When first handed A.S.F.T.I.N.D.A. by the same kick-ass English teacher, I read it twice in two weeks, nearly pissed my pants laughing, rethought the purpose of the footnote and the dash and the comma and - hell - all of literature for that matter, fell into an obsessive love with the OED, realized that it wasn't only OK to swear in professionally-sound writing but that it was a fucking postmodern (?) necessity, and became lose-sleep-at-night afraid that I would never be able to write as well as this man despite my inescapable longing to do so and do so now (then).
Maybe Dave's stories and essays are not weird Americana after all, but to that seventeen year-old they were mesmerizingly weird and representative of my little corner of America, with its cornfields and state fairs and tornadoes and state colleges. Here was a (local!) author who thought what I thought - only more perceptively / who wrote how I wanted to write - with seemingly complete command / and who took as his subjects all that in which I too shared (or quickly discovered) interest.
So there I was in 1998, wrapped in the requisite flannel, Converses, and blue jeans with the frayed bottoms that come from cutting off the cuffs - the very picture of Clinton-era teen-spirit conformity while desperately trying to fit in - and I'm sitting alone in this diner booth, waiting for Dave to show up. I'm nervous as hell, and will remain so. He shows up fifteen minutes late, tells me not to get up, apologizes for tardiness, and sits down. And then he just starts talking.
He talks and I listen. Like we are old friends.
I think I said something stupid about Lynch or tried hard to accurately identify something as w.A. He smiled and graciously agreed, expounding further on why I was "right," and then kept on talking. I just watched him - watched him extrapolating theory onto the everyday; watched him spitting his dipped tobacco into a coffee mug followed by a nervous glance to make sure he didn't confuse the the spit mug with the coffee mug when he reached for a sip seconds later; watched him work himself up physically with excitement when explaining how unexpectedly great this adolescent novel called Endzone was and how he was going to go back into the local downtown used bookstore to try to find the next book in the series; watched him adjusting his glasses and running his hand through his hair in a way that no so much suggested but defined the grunge-scholar or the PoMo Bohemian-intellectual. Every detail emitted a reality of anti-falseness.
In that short half-hour, he confirmed for me what I had always wanted to believe: that bibliophilia + central Illinois + analytical thinking + passion + words, words, words could = so cool.
He didn't stay for long. My mind wasn't an impressive match, I am sure. But he was kind and encouraging and, as he climbed into his beat-up blue Chevy, told me to keep asking questions. I sent him my paper and he read it, graciously marked it up, proffered some suggestions, and wished me good luck in my senior year.
In the years since, whenever I would write him, he assured me he remembered this first meeting of ours because I think he knew what it meant to me. That seems trivial now, and quite narcissistic on my part, but perhaps it speaks to the power of his persona and the endurance of his artistic genius. Our meeting and his words marked a moment in my life when I foresaw my future and pronounced my passions: I would and will read and write and teach and learn, in part because Dave Wallace did the same, and did it so coolly.
May you rest in peace, Dave. For those of us who loved you, your memory and your words will remain ad infinitum.
Monday, September 15, 2008
David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008, Vol. 1
Fuck. I'd rather be writing anything else - research grants, instruction manuals, my mother's holiday letter, I promise you anything - than this right now. Anything. Because this will all read conversationally and shitty, something stream-of-consciousness-like, or, in a word, trite, which isn't how you as a person who kinda (unpublicly, or maybe not now) aspires to be a writer, a writer in the vain or Let-Us-Be-Honest exact fucking tradition of a certain celebrated author, ought to write when writing about the death of said author. Fuck.
When you work on Monday mornings, it is best to write off Sunday nights. I'm not sure how the network still draws over a four-point-five for primetime football, but maybe I haven't aged enough to realize that Monday mornings don't matter and that mailing it in on the first day of the week is not only acceptable but expected and maybe moral. So while the rest of the country enjoys more than just the first half-hour of J. Madden and A. Michaels, I am in bed by nine. Which explains why I didn't read D.'s text message until late this afternoon, despite that it was sent last night and unquestionably stamped urgent upon mailing.
"Wallace hanged himself on Friday. Romantic."
No first name. And in this case, no middle name. Just Wallace and suicide and a perfectly appropriate exclamatory adjective. Fuck. One of those moments where you know right away but are very, very afraid to have the Internet confirm what you already know because, despite what your professor continues to warn you, mostly all the information on the Internet is approaching about as true as things are any more these days.
So now it is official. McSweeney's is dark. The Times has a ridiculously un-Wallace-like headline, and its west-coast counterpart is running a pictorial retrospective, which is just a silly thing to do for an author (a fact I am sure the editor must realize and becomes grossly unbearable when the seventh picture turns out to be a scanned image of The Novel). All the print services are running these pieces called "Appreciations," which despite having had my proverbial nose buried in print for over a quarter of a century, I have never seen before. And now I hate them and it.
Here's a macabre admission: I read D.'s text while walking across town to buy cigarettes. (You will forgive me for switching from lights to standards just for today, I am sure.) And as I sat on the steps of store, watching the deep blue sky turn to black and the random patrons pushing in and pulling out of the door with the bells that jingled, I thought twice, "I'd so rather that guy right there be dead than Dave." That's worth an uncomfortable shudder.
And now I am trying to write all of this away, and it is killing me; I only want to curl up, listen to whatever makes me cry, and hold someone who feels the very same.
Which probably seems a bit dramatically unreasonable to you...
But I've read more of Dave's words than those of anyone else, living or - and now this is hard to write - dead...
I simply can't write any more tonight...
When you work on Monday mornings, it is best to write off Sunday nights. I'm not sure how the network still draws over a four-point-five for primetime football, but maybe I haven't aged enough to realize that Monday mornings don't matter and that mailing it in on the first day of the week is not only acceptable but expected and maybe moral. So while the rest of the country enjoys more than just the first half-hour of J. Madden and A. Michaels, I am in bed by nine. Which explains why I didn't read D.'s text message until late this afternoon, despite that it was sent last night and unquestionably stamped urgent upon mailing.
"Wallace hanged himself on Friday. Romantic."
No first name. And in this case, no middle name. Just Wallace and suicide and a perfectly appropriate exclamatory adjective. Fuck. One of those moments where you know right away but are very, very afraid to have the Internet confirm what you already know because, despite what your professor continues to warn you, mostly all the information on the Internet is approaching about as true as things are any more these days.
So now it is official. McSweeney's is dark. The Times has a ridiculously un-Wallace-like headline, and its west-coast counterpart is running a pictorial retrospective, which is just a silly thing to do for an author (a fact I am sure the editor must realize and becomes grossly unbearable when the seventh picture turns out to be a scanned image of The Novel). All the print services are running these pieces called "Appreciations," which despite having had my proverbial nose buried in print for over a quarter of a century, I have never seen before. And now I hate them and it.
Here's a macabre admission: I read D.'s text while walking across town to buy cigarettes. (You will forgive me for switching from lights to standards just for today, I am sure.) And as I sat on the steps of store, watching the deep blue sky turn to black and the random patrons pushing in and pulling out of the door with the bells that jingled, I thought twice, "I'd so rather that guy right there be dead than Dave." That's worth an uncomfortable shudder.
And now I am trying to write all of this away, and it is killing me; I only want to curl up, listen to whatever makes me cry, and hold someone who feels the very same.
Which probably seems a bit dramatically unreasonable to you...
But I've read more of Dave's words than those of anyone else, living or - and now this is hard to write - dead...
I simply can't write any more tonight...
Saturday, August 16, 2008
In Defense of USA Basketball
Now's the time for hyper-nationalism, what with the Summer Games of the Olympiad and all, and far be it for me to take the high road of an internationalist. So allow me to make a brief defense and promotion of the exceptionalism of USA Basketball.
For three pathetic and rather specious reasons - namely a sixth place finish at the 2002 FIBA Worlds, a Bronze-medal at the 2004 Athenian Olympics, and a third-place finish at the 2006 FIBA Worlds - the 2008 American basketball team finds itself under unprecedented pressure to 'take home the Gold' and reestablish perennial dominance, unquestioned superiority, and guaranteed victory. Behind these expectations, I throw my full support.
But I must object to the heightened levels of panic and self-doubt emanating from all corners of the sports media world. Newsweek branded the last six years 'a nightmare'. ESPN's Ric Bucher is sticking to his earlier prediction - despite our three dominating performances in the Games so far - that we'll repeat in the Bronze. And New England sports talk radio is simply upset that no Celtic is on the team. Oh, poor New England - haven't won enough championships lately?!? In all, what a bunch of myopic losers.
Ad hominems aside, let us first put things in perspective. In Olympic competition, we've won the gold medal twelve times. That is, we've won the gold every year since the games Olympic inclusion in '36 save for twice: once in 1988 in Seoul, and of course in Athens. (Officially, we lost to the Soviets in the most contested basketball game ever played, but I - and my fellow Illinois State alum Doug Collins - will never recognize this as a loss. We fuckin' won that game.) In '88, USA Basketball did not include professional players, only college boys. In short, no Jordan, no Magic, no Larry, no Adbul-Jabbar, etc. so the Seoul gold of the Soviets meant nothing more than that they happened to be the best team at the Olympic games, but not in the world. As the ex-Soviet and fourth-place "Unified Team" demonstrated four years later against the "Dream Team" in Barcelona, not having a black guy on your team officially denied you of every claiming the "Best in the World" title. So '88 means nothing.
As for 2004, we need not look any further than our roster to recognize why we (barely) lost:
Centers: Tim Duncan. Ok. Great center. Hall of Famer. MVP. NBA Champion. Things look good. His backup? Emeka Okafor. Case closed.
Filling out the roster: Carmelo Anthony, Carlos Boozer, LeBron James, Richard Jefferson, Shawn Marion, Lamar Odom, Amare Stoudemire, as forwards. Allen Iverson, Stephon Marbury, Dwayne Wade, as guards.
It's not a bad roster, to be sure. But where is Shaq? Nash? (He's Canadian, you fools!!!) KG? Kobe? McGrady? Kidd? Each were perennial repeats on the All-NBA first-team in the years leading up to the Athenian games. So while a Bronze isn't excusable, of course, as we still had the best collection of players on the court, it isn't necessarily shocking. You play your B-team - and a quickly assembled, poorly coached, tired-from-a-full-season of NBA basketball B-team with bad on-court chemistry at that - you run the risk of losing the gold. And we lost it. So fucking what?!? One loss in single-elimination Olympic play in twelve years is not cause to sound the trumpet on the end of American dominance.
The current team - which includes Kobe, Kidd, a matured LeBron, and first-teamers Dwight Howard and Chris Paul (but, not, inexplicably, Garnett) - is everything the B-team failed to be. Having practiced together for three consecutive off-seasons, the team exudes cohesion; Krzyzewski manages, whereas Brown barked; and the roster, ranging from Bosh to Boozer, from Prince to Redd, smartly allots its spots for role players - notably defenders and long-range shooters - and not simply big-name All-Stars. Plus, 'LeBronze' and the other carry-overs from '04 have a score to settle.
Fear-mongering and bold, underdog-favored predictions might sell magazines and improve ratings, but fallaciousness for its own sake is plain stupid, and simply make you look like a fool. I hope ESPN fires Bucher when the so-called 'Redeem Deam' wins the Gold with the largest margin-of-victory since the original Dream Team. Mark it, dude.
For three pathetic and rather specious reasons - namely a sixth place finish at the 2002 FIBA Worlds, a Bronze-medal at the 2004 Athenian Olympics, and a third-place finish at the 2006 FIBA Worlds - the 2008 American basketball team finds itself under unprecedented pressure to 'take home the Gold' and reestablish perennial dominance, unquestioned superiority, and guaranteed victory. Behind these expectations, I throw my full support.
But I must object to the heightened levels of panic and self-doubt emanating from all corners of the sports media world. Newsweek branded the last six years 'a nightmare'. ESPN's Ric Bucher is sticking to his earlier prediction - despite our three dominating performances in the Games so far - that we'll repeat in the Bronze. And New England sports talk radio is simply upset that no Celtic is on the team. Oh, poor New England - haven't won enough championships lately?!? In all, what a bunch of myopic losers.
Ad hominems aside, let us first put things in perspective. In Olympic competition, we've won the gold medal twelve times. That is, we've won the gold every year since the games Olympic inclusion in '36 save for twice: once in 1988 in Seoul, and of course in Athens. (Officially, we lost to the Soviets in the most contested basketball game ever played, but I - and my fellow Illinois State alum Doug Collins - will never recognize this as a loss. We fuckin' won that game.) In '88, USA Basketball did not include professional players, only college boys. In short, no Jordan, no Magic, no Larry, no Adbul-Jabbar, etc. so the Seoul gold of the Soviets meant nothing more than that they happened to be the best team at the Olympic games, but not in the world. As the ex-Soviet and fourth-place "Unified Team" demonstrated four years later against the "Dream Team" in Barcelona, not having a black guy on your team officially denied you of every claiming the "Best in the World" title. So '88 means nothing.
As for 2004, we need not look any further than our roster to recognize why we (barely) lost:
Centers: Tim Duncan. Ok. Great center. Hall of Famer. MVP. NBA Champion. Things look good. His backup? Emeka Okafor. Case closed.
Filling out the roster: Carmelo Anthony, Carlos Boozer, LeBron James, Richard Jefferson, Shawn Marion, Lamar Odom, Amare Stoudemire, as forwards. Allen Iverson, Stephon Marbury, Dwayne Wade, as guards.
It's not a bad roster, to be sure. But where is Shaq? Nash? (He's Canadian, you fools!!!) KG? Kobe? McGrady? Kidd? Each were perennial repeats on the All-NBA first-team in the years leading up to the Athenian games. So while a Bronze isn't excusable, of course, as we still had the best collection of players on the court, it isn't necessarily shocking. You play your B-team - and a quickly assembled, poorly coached, tired-from-a-full-season of NBA basketball B-team with bad on-court chemistry at that - you run the risk of losing the gold. And we lost it. So fucking what?!? One loss in single-elimination Olympic play in twelve years is not cause to sound the trumpet on the end of American dominance.
The current team - which includes Kobe, Kidd, a matured LeBron, and first-teamers Dwight Howard and Chris Paul (but, not, inexplicably, Garnett) - is everything the B-team failed to be. Having practiced together for three consecutive off-seasons, the team exudes cohesion; Krzyzewski manages, whereas Brown barked; and the roster, ranging from Bosh to Boozer, from Prince to Redd, smartly allots its spots for role players - notably defenders and long-range shooters - and not simply big-name All-Stars. Plus, 'LeBronze' and the other carry-overs from '04 have a score to settle.
Fear-mongering and bold, underdog-favored predictions might sell magazines and improve ratings, but fallaciousness for its own sake is plain stupid, and simply make you look like a fool. I hope ESPN fires Bucher when the so-called 'Redeem Deam' wins the Gold with the largest margin-of-victory since the original Dream Team. Mark it, dude.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Seven All-Too-Obvious Observations Made Aloud During the 2008 State Farm Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium
1. 'How hot is Erin Andrews?' The one rhetorical question every ESPN anchor was thinking but failed to slip up and say aloud. Sorry YouTube.
2. Reggie Jackson. Still a pompous, self-aggrandizing prick after all these years. Here's to hoping that he's stuck in a stall at Yankee Stadium when the wrecking ball hits.
3. Evan Longoria is one letter away from Eva Longoria, and twice as hot!!!
4. No, really, you are right: the credibility and watchability of the derby isn't at all affected by the fact that seven of the top ten leading home run hitters of this season aren't participating. Paging Ryan Howard. Ryan Howard. Please pick up the white courtesy phone. Along with Utley, Uggla isn't even outrightly leading his team in home runs. Mid-market. Mid-market. Mid-market. Small-market. Small-market. Bored!
5. Remind me again who is sponsoring this event? Something Farm? Are they the ones with the funny little talking lizard? He's hilarious!
6. It's a rough night for the Boys and Girls Club of America - and for way-too-happy farmers from, God bless him, Brimfield, Illinois. Pujols would've kindly put that ball in the left-field loge. No question.
7. Morneau can't be serious about keeping that trophy. a) He's Canadian and this is Yankee Stadium. b) He hit thirteen fewer total home runs than Hamilton. c) Hamilton hit more bombs in one round than Morneau hit all night, notwithstanding that d) Hamilton abandoned the second round after only four outs. e) The man is a recovering heroin addict who found Jesus and dreamt about coming to Yankee Stadium and competing in the State Farm Home Run Derby before he even returned to the big leagues. Don't foil our mythologies again, Canada! Somebody call Selig and have him change the rules in the middle of the competition again.
Bonus: 8. Whah?!?! 3 Doors Down!?! What, were the Goo Goo Dolls unwilling to commit?
2. Reggie Jackson. Still a pompous, self-aggrandizing prick after all these years. Here's to hoping that he's stuck in a stall at Yankee Stadium when the wrecking ball hits.
3. Evan Longoria is one letter away from Eva Longoria, and twice as hot!!!
4. No, really, you are right: the credibility and watchability of the derby isn't at all affected by the fact that seven of the top ten leading home run hitters of this season aren't participating. Paging Ryan Howard. Ryan Howard. Please pick up the white courtesy phone. Along with Utley, Uggla isn't even outrightly leading his team in home runs. Mid-market. Mid-market. Mid-market. Small-market. Small-market. Bored!
5. Remind me again who is sponsoring this event? Something Farm? Are they the ones with the funny little talking lizard? He's hilarious!
6. It's a rough night for the Boys and Girls Club of America - and for way-too-happy farmers from, God bless him, Brimfield, Illinois. Pujols would've kindly put that ball in the left-field loge. No question.
7. Morneau can't be serious about keeping that trophy. a) He's Canadian and this is Yankee Stadium. b) He hit thirteen fewer total home runs than Hamilton. c) Hamilton hit more bombs in one round than Morneau hit all night, notwithstanding that d) Hamilton abandoned the second round after only four outs. e) The man is a recovering heroin addict who found Jesus and dreamt about coming to Yankee Stadium and competing in the State Farm Home Run Derby before he even returned to the big leagues. Don't foil our mythologies again, Canada! Somebody call Selig and have him change the rules in the middle of the competition again.
Bonus: 8. Whah?!?! 3 Doors Down!?! What, were the Goo Goo Dolls unwilling to commit?
Monday, July 14, 2008
Heavenly Wanderlust
Unlike untold millions of travelers, flying fails to unnerve me. In fact, lifting off effects the opposite sensation: that cylindrical tube with all its hard-to-fathom propulsional force calms me. For this anomaly, I think there are two explanations:
First, when I find myself thirty-plus-thousand miles above the surface of the earth in a comfortable, commonly-blue bucket seat, few demands exact pressure upon me. Simply, for however many hours, I turn and enjoy the always blue sky, the chatoyant cumulous clouds, framed orderly by the rows of rectangular windows, each with their rounded edges. Only the sky requests my cathexis.
If we 'go down', I suppose, my responsibility as a compassionate human being - one who is certainly capable of astounding acts of unselfishness - requires me, at the very least, to aid my fellow passengers in finding the exits or securing their oxygen masks. But such an imposition has yet to befall me, thus leaving me with nothing really to do but sit peacefully. I am Ram Bahadur Bomjon in the sky.
At this, I am quite skilled. I press the concave silver button on my armrest and slip relaxingly into the downright position. All is well here, with my six-ounce complimentary beverage and airline amuse-bouche; here, for a few short hours, I am safe, untouchable, literally above it all.
More tranquilizing, however, is the perspective. Bird's eye, you might say. Forty-one thousand feet straight up reconfigures everything forty-one thousand feet straight down. The patchwork of the Middle West's farmland appears comfortingly organized and properly planned, set in place long before my birth as dreadfully efficient; the too-often-taken-for-granted Eisenhower expressway system cuts and weaves through the metropolis and countryside alike, bringing a nation and its people together; and the lakes, the rivers, the oceans - they find each other with ease from up here, more impressively than any map could ever depict. In this seat (whose benefit far outweighs its rising cost), the seaboard watershed reveals itself. I never fear that a drop will lose its way.
The perspective internalizes. To leave the earth behind is to free myself of the burdens it keeps. The mortgages, the bill payments, the friends and lovers who expect and reject me. The mismanagement and failures of my life on the ground grasp in vain to reach me here. But they cannot, and I laugh at their futility. The tabla is rasa. All is now and new and possible. I am reborn. I see the towering skyscrapers as nothing more than small-scale models. Your million-dollar mansion, with its limitless rooms and exorbitant pricetag is just another rooftop, only slightly larger than those single-family homes down the road. I can pick it up and drop it in the lake to its east. Here, I am closer to Heaven than to Hell. He sees, I imagine, similarly to how I see. This is how He can promise peace, I think. Our fatuous meddling below is to a Him fascinating and funny movement in the orchestrated human dance, all eradicable with the slowly deliberate ease of a thunderous, splenetic gesture. A flood here, a fire there. Come this way, mighty river; blossom near those woods, fair mountainside violets. You are my world. I have set you in (dis)order. I am God's seneschal. Until we land.
Please return your seats and your tray-tables to their original, upright positions, and thank you for flying S-------- Airlines.
First, when I find myself thirty-plus-thousand miles above the surface of the earth in a comfortable, commonly-blue bucket seat, few demands exact pressure upon me. Simply, for however many hours, I turn and enjoy the always blue sky, the chatoyant cumulous clouds, framed orderly by the rows of rectangular windows, each with their rounded edges. Only the sky requests my cathexis.
If we 'go down', I suppose, my responsibility as a compassionate human being - one who is certainly capable of astounding acts of unselfishness - requires me, at the very least, to aid my fellow passengers in finding the exits or securing their oxygen masks. But such an imposition has yet to befall me, thus leaving me with nothing really to do but sit peacefully. I am Ram Bahadur Bomjon in the sky.
At this, I am quite skilled. I press the concave silver button on my armrest and slip relaxingly into the downright position. All is well here, with my six-ounce complimentary beverage and airline amuse-bouche; here, for a few short hours, I am safe, untouchable, literally above it all.
More tranquilizing, however, is the perspective. Bird's eye, you might say. Forty-one thousand feet straight up reconfigures everything forty-one thousand feet straight down. The patchwork of the Middle West's farmland appears comfortingly organized and properly planned, set in place long before my birth as dreadfully efficient; the too-often-taken-for-granted Eisenhower expressway system cuts and weaves through the metropolis and countryside alike, bringing a nation and its people together; and the lakes, the rivers, the oceans - they find each other with ease from up here, more impressively than any map could ever depict. In this seat (whose benefit far outweighs its rising cost), the seaboard watershed reveals itself. I never fear that a drop will lose its way.
The perspective internalizes. To leave the earth behind is to free myself of the burdens it keeps. The mortgages, the bill payments, the friends and lovers who expect and reject me. The mismanagement and failures of my life on the ground grasp in vain to reach me here. But they cannot, and I laugh at their futility. The tabla is rasa. All is now and new and possible. I am reborn. I see the towering skyscrapers as nothing more than small-scale models. Your million-dollar mansion, with its limitless rooms and exorbitant pricetag is just another rooftop, only slightly larger than those single-family homes down the road. I can pick it up and drop it in the lake to its east. Here, I am closer to Heaven than to Hell. He sees, I imagine, similarly to how I see. This is how He can promise peace, I think. Our fatuous meddling below is to a Him fascinating and funny movement in the orchestrated human dance, all eradicable with the slowly deliberate ease of a thunderous, splenetic gesture. A flood here, a fire there. Come this way, mighty river; blossom near those woods, fair mountainside violets. You are my world. I have set you in (dis)order. I am God's seneschal. Until we land.
Please return your seats and your tray-tables to their original, upright positions, and thank you for flying S-------- Airlines.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
You Can Tell a Lot About a Person by What They're Reading, but You Can Tell More About a Person by What They Say About What They are Reading
If you have it before you, flip quickly past the Perry Ellis, Dolce & Gabbana and Fendi advertisements on the single- and double-digit page numbers of the new, March 2008 Vanity Fair, and come to rest on p. 232, the seventh in the always-revealing "FANFAIR" section. Here we find, in the lower right-hand corner that is the third of a half-page, "Night-Table Reading," that lovely little monthly viewer into the literary lives of those somebodies most subscribers only know televisually. This month's interviewees: Conan O'Brien, Jay Leno, and Martha Stewart (or, simply summarized, "The Talk-Show Hosts").
C.O. - The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable - "I'm enjoying this book because it confirms just about everything I have learned after 20 years of working in television: humans have bad brains, and nobody - especially anyone in a position of authority - knows what the hell they are talking about. I also like the pretty bird on the cover."
J.L. - Equations of Motion: Adventure, Risk, and Innovation - "Bill Milliken is an engineer, and he wrote the book at age 95. He was practically there when Lindbergh took off. It's just a fascinating look at motion through the 20th century."
M.S. - Out Stealing Horses - "I am currently reading a fabulous novel that I can't put down, by Norwegian novelist Per Peterson. The book is beautifully written, different, heartbreaking, and evocative."
So what can be said about C.O., J.L., and M.S. from reading what they said about what they are reading?
O'Brien is self-deprecating, as per usual and especially on the last note which is, of course, a failed joke and seemingly has to be so, but balances this expectation of humor by demonstrating an awareness of the macroish rewards of reading, how the prose of another can confirm long-held notions of the self and the world. All of this, however, seeps irony, as C.O. assumes a position of authority when speaking about such awareness, and thus does not, according to his own belief, "know what the hell [he] is talking about." Proof in forty-nine words and two numerals that Conan is the smartest working entertainer on television.
Leno's a grease-monkey and a serious car collector with a serious amount of knowledge about what he collects. So this selection is not surprising; in fact, it is altogether fitting and believable that he really is reading this book every night before bed. Moreover, his enthusiasm is clear, and he succeeds and informing the interviewer exactly why this random choice is so very exciting: Milliken wrote it at 95, the age at which most of us are dead; this guy was "practically there when Lindbergh took off," and is, as such, a front-row dispatch from the century that took machine-initiated motion to a level hitherto unheard of.
If Stewart wrote this blurb, I'll be damned and not hesitate to repudiate my cynicism by buying every cookbook she's ever published. (Five-to-one that the lowest of low-level interns was assigned to reply to the bothersome (but importantly bothersome in that it keeps "us" in the magazines of high-society thus retaining our fleeting sense of relevancy that started to drain just prior to feeling that horrific sensation of cold hand-shackles) email from whatever low-level intern at Vanity Fair was assigned to send out.) Even so, I'll remain the victor, as this dumbest of answers affirms M.S.'s self-infatuation and subliteracy. Count the cliches: "fabulous novel," "can't put down," "beautifully written," "heartbreaking and evocative." These constitute nearly half of the answer, and when unpacked say nothing. I'm bored just writing about her words, of which the first sentence she spends telling us what we already know and tries to name-dropping-of-a-foreign-author-ly impress us, while beating us to death in the second sentence with a lack of original thought - a fact conveyed quite clearly by those less-than-descriptive adjectives that read suspiciously as though they were lifted from a fifth-grader's book report.
C.O. - The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable - "I'm enjoying this book because it confirms just about everything I have learned after 20 years of working in television: humans have bad brains, and nobody - especially anyone in a position of authority - knows what the hell they are talking about. I also like the pretty bird on the cover."
J.L. - Equations of Motion: Adventure, Risk, and Innovation - "Bill Milliken is an engineer, and he wrote the book at age 95. He was practically there when Lindbergh took off. It's just a fascinating look at motion through the 20th century."
M.S. - Out Stealing Horses - "I am currently reading a fabulous novel that I can't put down, by Norwegian novelist Per Peterson. The book is beautifully written, different, heartbreaking, and evocative."
So what can be said about C.O., J.L., and M.S. from reading what they said about what they are reading?
O'Brien is self-deprecating, as per usual and especially on the last note which is, of course, a failed joke and seemingly has to be so, but balances this expectation of humor by demonstrating an awareness of the macroish rewards of reading, how the prose of another can confirm long-held notions of the self and the world. All of this, however, seeps irony, as C.O. assumes a position of authority when speaking about such awareness, and thus does not, according to his own belief, "know what the hell [he] is talking about." Proof in forty-nine words and two numerals that Conan is the smartest working entertainer on television.
Leno's a grease-monkey and a serious car collector with a serious amount of knowledge about what he collects. So this selection is not surprising; in fact, it is altogether fitting and believable that he really is reading this book every night before bed. Moreover, his enthusiasm is clear, and he succeeds and informing the interviewer exactly why this random choice is so very exciting: Milliken wrote it at 95, the age at which most of us are dead; this guy was "practically there when Lindbergh took off," and is, as such, a front-row dispatch from the century that took machine-initiated motion to a level hitherto unheard of.
If Stewart wrote this blurb, I'll be damned and not hesitate to repudiate my cynicism by buying every cookbook she's ever published. (Five-to-one that the lowest of low-level interns was assigned to reply to the bothersome (but importantly bothersome in that it keeps "us" in the magazines of high-society thus retaining our fleeting sense of relevancy that started to drain just prior to feeling that horrific sensation of cold hand-shackles) email from whatever low-level intern at Vanity Fair was assigned to send out.) Even so, I'll remain the victor, as this dumbest of answers affirms M.S.'s self-infatuation and subliteracy. Count the cliches: "fabulous novel," "can't put down," "beautifully written," "heartbreaking and evocative." These constitute nearly half of the answer, and when unpacked say nothing. I'm bored just writing about her words, of which the first sentence she spends telling us what we already know and tries to name-dropping-of-a-foreign-author-ly impress us, while beating us to death in the second sentence with a lack of original thought - a fact conveyed quite clearly by those less-than-descriptive adjectives that read suspiciously as though they were lifted from a fifth-grader's book report.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
A Running Commentary on the season premiere of LOST
Editor's Note: In an attempt to capture the many thoughts that LOST provokes (especially when it's been over seven months since the last new episode), I took notes during my viewing of the season premiere. I know. How lame is that? But since my LOST compadres - a quick shout out to KLANG and Triple Lutz - are a thousand miles away, the usual interpersonal experience that is Wednesday night on ABC has depressingly become an experience of solitude, wherein I often look toward an imaginary audience and exclaim, "Can you fucking believe that?" Thus, I'm now running commentary so as to retain that same sense of interaction, even if it is delayed and electronic. In keeping with the unedited spirit of the aformentioned sessions, I have not cleaned up or rewritten any of these so-called observations. This is what wrote after what I saw.
"A running commentary on the season premiere of LOST" - 5 February 2008 - 2:07 a.m.
A great cold open. Hurley as a fugitive? Fantastic switch to flashforwards, which may take some time getting used to, but show incredible promise in terms of storytelling. Jack's future alcoholism foreshadowed reminded me of the incredibly continuity of this show. And the Oceanic Six?!? I love that. Like the Chicago 10, or the Seattle Seven (if you get the second reference, your comedic sensibility is damn near perfect). The question, of course, becomes: who are the other three? After three minutes, I'm completely hooked again.
A second flashforward; Kate still loves Jack, that is obvious. And she has no reason to go home from the island. Of course, most of them, including Jack, don't have much of a reason.
"And here I was thinking I was going to get a good night's sleep." - Sawyer
Hurley is paranoid - and seemingly for good reason.
"Are they still alive?" - The Oceanic "laywer" to Hurley. I have no idea what this means, but I love it.
Sawyer's compassion for Hurley is striking. Before coming to the island, it was clear that Sawer acted in a completely selfish and self-centered manner. But "surviving" has taught him a sense of community, brotherhood and sacrifice. It's fleeting, to be sure, but it's there.
Jacob. I'm not sure about this character. Potential.
Naomi is a real bitch. I don't know who George is, but they've made his voice rather unlikeable.
Locke finds Hugo at Jacob's place. He plays to, in convincing Hugo to go with him to the abandoned barracks, exactly what Hurley is emotionally invested in, which is, of course, Charley. (Why is Locke the only one who calls Hurley, "Hugo"? Nice touch.)
Jack would've killed Locke if there had been a bullet in that gun. Locke would not have done the same. What is Jack becoming?
"If you want to live, you'll come with me." - Locke. I, until this point, have usually sided with Jack. But Locke is making more and more sense.
"You're if I went nuts, if I was going to tell." - Hurley to Jack, in flashforward. Tell what?!?
"I think it wants us to come back." - Hurley to Jack, in flashfoward. Damn. Sounds like Locke. The island personified. Sounds like Jack at the end of Season 3.
What was it that Hurley could've told?
How easy it is to forget that this is unquestionably the best show on television. Great to be back.
"A running commentary on the season premiere of LOST" - 5 February 2008 - 2:07 a.m.
A great cold open. Hurley as a fugitive? Fantastic switch to flashforwards, which may take some time getting used to, but show incredible promise in terms of storytelling. Jack's future alcoholism foreshadowed reminded me of the incredibly continuity of this show. And the Oceanic Six?!? I love that. Like the Chicago 10, or the Seattle Seven (if you get the second reference, your comedic sensibility is damn near perfect). The question, of course, becomes: who are the other three? After three minutes, I'm completely hooked again.
A second flashforward; Kate still loves Jack, that is obvious. And she has no reason to go home from the island. Of course, most of them, including Jack, don't have much of a reason.
"And here I was thinking I was going to get a good night's sleep." - Sawyer
Hurley is paranoid - and seemingly for good reason.
"Are they still alive?" - The Oceanic "laywer" to Hurley. I have no idea what this means, but I love it.
Sawyer's compassion for Hurley is striking. Before coming to the island, it was clear that Sawer acted in a completely selfish and self-centered manner. But "surviving" has taught him a sense of community, brotherhood and sacrifice. It's fleeting, to be sure, but it's there.
Jacob. I'm not sure about this character. Potential.
Naomi is a real bitch. I don't know who George is, but they've made his voice rather unlikeable.
Locke finds Hugo at Jacob's place. He plays to, in convincing Hugo to go with him to the abandoned barracks, exactly what Hurley is emotionally invested in, which is, of course, Charley. (Why is Locke the only one who calls Hurley, "Hugo"? Nice touch.)
Jack would've killed Locke if there had been a bullet in that gun. Locke would not have done the same. What is Jack becoming?
"If you want to live, you'll come with me." - Locke. I, until this point, have usually sided with Jack. But Locke is making more and more sense.
"You're if I went nuts, if I was going to tell." - Hurley to Jack, in flashforward. Tell what?!?
"I think it wants us to come back." - Hurley to Jack, in flashfoward. Damn. Sounds like Locke. The island personified. Sounds like Jack at the end of Season 3.
What was it that Hurley could've told?
How easy it is to forget that this is unquestionably the best show on television. Great to be back.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
A Few Thoughts On Contemporary American Men's Magazine Feature Essay Writing
If you read my last post of four essay reviews, you'll remember that I borrowed the title of the post from Mindy Kaling's blog. Well, it's a new fucking year, and I've decided that it's going to be Kaling free. I never liked her, her blog, her comedy writing, or her acting in the first place, so says the position I am now taking. I lied to all of you. (Still, her prose is sharp.)
Kaling aside, a select group of essays need to have some things said about them. As such, I've alloted this space to do just that.
1. "Colby Buzzell's State of the Union 2008," by (who else?) Colby Buzzell. Esquire, February 2008. - Can somebody please tell me when it will become officially trite to send a reporter around (parts of) the country so as to gather a so-called definitive perspective on how things are and what people are thinking? Oh, it's already trite? Perfect. Then this is just stupid writing and bad editorial practice. Can this stated intention even be successfully accomplished in essay form? The answer, of course, is no. If you want such a product, read On the Road (1957) or Travels with Charley in Search of America (1962), or find a similar, book-long consideration that follows the tested and true Kerouac/Steinbeck formula. But don't patronize me with eight and a half pages. C'mon, Buzzell - stop going straight for the stereotypes. Oh, they drink and hunt heavily in Texas? I had no idea. Thank God you were there to witness this anomaly of culture. My advice: read the first two pages, get it, and then move on. (On the positive: Do consider with care Paula Scher visual map work, which is fresh, and clear evokes the influence of Jasper Johns.)
2. "The Lost King of France," by Michael Paterniti. Gentlemen's Quarterly, February 2008. You've heard a similar story before: a rogue member of the royal family leaves or flees or is disposed from the country for which he is the rightful heir to the throne. Years later, one of his children returns, bring with him much ado, to reclaim what is rightfully his. (You haven't heard this one? Well, stop being ignorant and read some Shakespeare or any other English courtier story.) So what's the new twist for a new reader in the new age? The rightful heir to the French throne (which no longer exists) is a 48-year-old, brown-skinned Indian lawyer, living where Indian lawyers live - in Bhopal, India. Informed nearly a half-century into his life that he is first in line for kingship (should the monarchy ever be restored), the nobleman? undergoes a pathetic psychological transformation. It is a story of one man's real and imagined identity, the ramifications of race in royalty, the self-destructiveness of a particular self-image, misplaced ethnocentrism, and basic human hypocrisy. And it's simultaneously fantastic and heartbreaking.
3. "Violence of the Lambs," by John Jeremiah Sullivan. Gentlemen's Quarterly, February 2008. - I'm a sucker for "When Animals Attack!!!" anything, so it really is no surprise that this is the first feature I read when the Feb GQ arrived in the mail earlier this month. (I even skipped the surprisingly nonsexual Rachel Bilson interview, which, for a moment, made me actually want to rent "The OC.") Really, it is that good. Hell, the teaser title abstract reads, "The greatest threat to civilization in the next half century is not nuclear arms or global warming or a superresitant virus that will wipe us out by the millions. John Jeremiah Sullivan contemplates the coming battle between man and beast." C'mon! How apocalyptically gripping is that? Particularly when it is taken in tandem with the opposite- and full-page image of a lamb, whose maw (literally) is smeared with blood, obviously fresh from the kill. Wait - the lambs are now carnivorous?!? See, I haven't even read one word of the feature and already I've committed to the last sentence. That's a helluva hook.
Pair the titillating subject with Sullivan's Revelation-like tone and you have for yourself a delicious narrative, complete with real-life news accounts, terrific characters, and the prospects of an interspecies conspiracy. The turn at the end is questionable, but I can't fault Sullivan for that. He took what could have been an average list of coincidental "accidents," and turned it into a decisively fear-evoking-for-all-the-right-reasons flashing red warning light. If only all writers had his cuts and creativity.
I don't know why this essay isn't online; I've looked, and I've failed to find you, dear reader, a suitable link. So shell out the $3.99 and buy Miss Bilson's cover copy. After all, you really are reading it for the articles.
Kaling aside, a select group of essays need to have some things said about them. As such, I've alloted this space to do just that.
1. "Colby Buzzell's State of the Union 2008," by (who else?) Colby Buzzell. Esquire, February 2008. - Can somebody please tell me when it will become officially trite to send a reporter around (parts of) the country so as to gather a so-called definitive perspective on how things are and what people are thinking? Oh, it's already trite? Perfect. Then this is just stupid writing and bad editorial practice. Can this stated intention even be successfully accomplished in essay form? The answer, of course, is no. If you want such a product, read On the Road (1957) or Travels with Charley in Search of America (1962), or find a similar, book-long consideration that follows the tested and true Kerouac/Steinbeck formula. But don't patronize me with eight and a half pages. C'mon, Buzzell - stop going straight for the stereotypes. Oh, they drink and hunt heavily in Texas? I had no idea. Thank God you were there to witness this anomaly of culture. My advice: read the first two pages, get it, and then move on. (On the positive: Do consider with care Paula Scher visual map work, which is fresh, and clear evokes the influence of Jasper Johns.)
2. "The Lost King of France," by Michael Paterniti. Gentlemen's Quarterly, February 2008. You've heard a similar story before: a rogue member of the royal family leaves or flees or is disposed from the country for which he is the rightful heir to the throne. Years later, one of his children returns, bring with him much ado, to reclaim what is rightfully his. (You haven't heard this one? Well, stop being ignorant and read some Shakespeare or any other English courtier story.) So what's the new twist for a new reader in the new age? The rightful heir to the French throne (which no longer exists) is a 48-year-old, brown-skinned Indian lawyer, living where Indian lawyers live - in Bhopal, India. Informed nearly a half-century into his life that he is first in line for kingship (should the monarchy ever be restored), the nobleman? undergoes a pathetic psychological transformation. It is a story of one man's real and imagined identity, the ramifications of race in royalty, the self-destructiveness of a particular self-image, misplaced ethnocentrism, and basic human hypocrisy. And it's simultaneously fantastic and heartbreaking.
3. "Violence of the Lambs," by John Jeremiah Sullivan. Gentlemen's Quarterly, February 2008. - I'm a sucker for "When Animals Attack!!!" anything, so it really is no surprise that this is the first feature I read when the Feb GQ arrived in the mail earlier this month. (I even skipped the surprisingly nonsexual Rachel Bilson interview, which, for a moment, made me actually want to rent "The OC.") Really, it is that good. Hell, the teaser title abstract reads, "The greatest threat to civilization in the next half century is not nuclear arms or global warming or a superresitant virus that will wipe us out by the millions. John Jeremiah Sullivan contemplates the coming battle between man and beast." C'mon! How apocalyptically gripping is that? Particularly when it is taken in tandem with the opposite- and full-page image of a lamb, whose maw (literally) is smeared with blood, obviously fresh from the kill. Wait - the lambs are now carnivorous?!? See, I haven't even read one word of the feature and already I've committed to the last sentence. That's a helluva hook.
Pair the titillating subject with Sullivan's Revelation-like tone and you have for yourself a delicious narrative, complete with real-life news accounts, terrific characters, and the prospects of an interspecies conspiracy. The turn at the end is questionable, but I can't fault Sullivan for that. He took what could have been an average list of coincidental "accidents," and turned it into a decisively fear-evoking-for-all-the-right-reasons flashing red warning light. If only all writers had his cuts and creativity.
I don't know why this essay isn't online; I've looked, and I've failed to find you, dear reader, a suitable link. So shell out the $3.99 and buy Miss Bilson's cover copy. After all, you really are reading it for the articles.
"For Me, It's All About KFC"
I have no real desire to write extensively about this follow-up, except to say that it is exceptional. Perhaps beyond exceptional - say, exceptionally brilliant.
O'Connell has it all down: the vocal cadence, the laughter, the hand-slapping, and the facial ticks, all the way down to the movements of the brow.
Satire at its very finest - when you can quote lines from the piece all day and never tire.
O'Connell has it all down: the vocal cadence, the laughter, the hand-slapping, and the facial ticks, all the way down to the movements of the brow.
Satire at its very finest - when you can quote lines from the piece all day and never tire.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
"Either You're on Board, or You're Not on Board"
We are only sixteen days into the new year, but I have no qualms about declaring this the "Most Interesting Video of the Year" (so far). (Is it cheating if I add that last qualifier?)
At least four thoroughly interesting posts could come from an analysis of these nine minutes. So stayed tuned. In the meantime, enjoy.
At least four thoroughly interesting posts could come from an analysis of these nine minutes. So stayed tuned. In the meantime, enjoy.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
My New T-Shirt Reads: "Still Time Before the Trade Deadline"
Twenty-twenty hindsight is a bitch, especially in sports. (Think: Blazers picking Bowie over Jordan in '84; every one of the Bears quarterbacks since Favre first started for the Packers in '92 (there have been 19 different starters, versus just one up north); and Tomlin's recent decisions to go for two when he should've clearly gone for one twice.)
But the most frustrating hindsight for me this winter-sports-season is the reconsideration of the the Bulls/Lakers trade for Kobe, which daunted us fans for months before the first of November. Admittedly, I was against it. Give up Deng, Thomas, Gordan and Noah for Bryant? Ridiculous, especially considering our core (if you can call it that) took us to the playoffs last year, along with Big Ben in the middle.
But two and a half months into the season, I'm itching for a Kobe trade. Chicago sits at the bottom of the central in the East at 13-20, while L.A. remains only one game behind the Suns in the pacific in the West at 23-11. And who is supporting Kobe? Odom, Radmanovic, Walton? C'mon. A Chicago roster and salary cap can support players of equal (if not better) caliber, especially with Wallace at center.
This borders on blasphemous, but I'm going to say it anyway: Kobe is starting to look like Jordan in terms of making the shitty players around him look good. (I give you juking Jud Buchler.) Of course, Kobe isn't Jordan (even if he does drop 81), but he's the closest thing to Jordan since Jordan, with no apologies to Lebron. It's unmissable. It's a symphony of physicality. It's the best basketball in the world right now.
But (which is the buzzword of this post) it might be too late to bring Kobe to one of the few markets that could sustain him, to one of the few teams to which the Lakers would trade him, and to one of the few teams to which he would OK a trade. Winning, for Kobe, is all that matters, and the Lakers are winning, and winning big. He's got Phil and Hollywood and a supporting cast that is starting to give a shit. Chicago has twenty losses and a new coach who doesn't appear much better than the last coach.
In a season and a half, when Kobe is a free agent, all of this might be moot and I'll be sending flowers to Paxson's office promising to name my firstborn son after him as I watch Kobe hold up a Bulls jersey with a bold, red 24 on the front. But I doubt it. Dammit.
But the most frustrating hindsight for me this winter-sports-season is the reconsideration of the the Bulls/Lakers trade for Kobe, which daunted us fans for months before the first of November. Admittedly, I was against it. Give up Deng, Thomas, Gordan and Noah for Bryant? Ridiculous, especially considering our core (if you can call it that) took us to the playoffs last year, along with Big Ben in the middle.
But two and a half months into the season, I'm itching for a Kobe trade. Chicago sits at the bottom of the central in the East at 13-20, while L.A. remains only one game behind the Suns in the pacific in the West at 23-11. And who is supporting Kobe? Odom, Radmanovic, Walton? C'mon. A Chicago roster and salary cap can support players of equal (if not better) caliber, especially with Wallace at center.
This borders on blasphemous, but I'm going to say it anyway: Kobe is starting to look like Jordan in terms of making the shitty players around him look good. (I give you juking Jud Buchler.) Of course, Kobe isn't Jordan (even if he does drop 81), but he's the closest thing to Jordan since Jordan, with no apologies to Lebron. It's unmissable. It's a symphony of physicality. It's the best basketball in the world right now.
But (which is the buzzword of this post) it might be too late to bring Kobe to one of the few markets that could sustain him, to one of the few teams to which the Lakers would trade him, and to one of the few teams to which he would OK a trade. Winning, for Kobe, is all that matters, and the Lakers are winning, and winning big. He's got Phil and Hollywood and a supporting cast that is starting to give a shit. Chicago has twenty losses and a new coach who doesn't appear much better than the last coach.
In a season and a half, when Kobe is a free agent, all of this might be moot and I'll be sending flowers to Paxson's office promising to name my firstborn son after him as I watch Kobe hold up a Bulls jersey with a bold, red 24 on the front. But I doubt it. Dammit.
New Hampshire '08
Two things to admit: First - every damn month or so I write a blog entry and claim that I'm going to write more on this page. And then I don't (which at least shows some consistency). But this time I've got the handy and always reliable New Years Resolution to support my delusional promises, so I'm betting that these entries come quicker and sharper than before. Especially now that I've more time to spend avoiding my thesis than ever before. Any wagers?
Second - I was wrong on New Hampshire; I had Obama and Romney winning. And now, save some incredibly awesome (and unprecedented) statistical anomaly happening in the next hour within the final remaining ten percent of unreported precincts, it appears that Ms. Clinton and Mr. McCain have taken the state. To be fair to me, however, Obama took half of the counties, including my own (and by a large margin in all five). But I was way off on Romney's appeal, as he was essentially clubbed to death in Grafton by over twenty-five percentage points. Ouch.
Fortunately, as a matter of course, nearly everyone political was wrong about everything political in the last two weeks: Novak had Romney rallying in NH; McAuliffe had Clinton losing by twenty here, and winning by twenty in Iowa; Drudge had Hillary dropping out of the race as early as this evening.
Still, I wasn't too far off. Obama only lost by three percentage points, and Romney only by five. Sure, it is a slight momentum shift for Hillary after the Iowa loss and the predicted collapse, but she shouldn't get too damn cockey, especially after losing a twenty point lead in less than two months. As for Romney: well, two solid second-place finishes (oh, and a win in Montana) in a race with no clear front-runner could highlight his general electability and push him ahead in Nevada and South Carolina, thus making him a real threat to Giuliani come Super Tuesday.
That's all the analysis I am up for, but I'll end with this: how great was it to see Chris Matthews and Keith Olberman hate each other all night? Fantastic.
And one last thing: Can someone please tell me how Hillary crying at a campaign rally is a "human" moment? Why is this not a bigger news story? It is simply unprecedented for a national presidential candidate to cry on the campaign trail while commenting on the process of running. Can you imagine if a man had done this? Is it that easy to play such simplistic and trite gender politics? I'm not saying she shouldn't have cried or didn't have a reason to cry or even that I wouldn't have cried. I'm sure it is damn hard - man or woman. But publicly? Very odd, indeed. Who knows, maybe it did help....
Second - I was wrong on New Hampshire; I had Obama and Romney winning. And now, save some incredibly awesome (and unprecedented) statistical anomaly happening in the next hour within the final remaining ten percent of unreported precincts, it appears that Ms. Clinton and Mr. McCain have taken the state. To be fair to me, however, Obama took half of the counties, including my own (and by a large margin in all five). But I was way off on Romney's appeal, as he was essentially clubbed to death in Grafton by over twenty-five percentage points. Ouch.
Fortunately, as a matter of course, nearly everyone political was wrong about everything political in the last two weeks: Novak had Romney rallying in NH; McAuliffe had Clinton losing by twenty here, and winning by twenty in Iowa; Drudge had Hillary dropping out of the race as early as this evening.
Still, I wasn't too far off. Obama only lost by three percentage points, and Romney only by five. Sure, it is a slight momentum shift for Hillary after the Iowa loss and the predicted collapse, but she shouldn't get too damn cockey, especially after losing a twenty point lead in less than two months. As for Romney: well, two solid second-place finishes (oh, and a win in Montana) in a race with no clear front-runner could highlight his general electability and push him ahead in Nevada and South Carolina, thus making him a real threat to Giuliani come Super Tuesday.
That's all the analysis I am up for, but I'll end with this: how great was it to see Chris Matthews and Keith Olberman hate each other all night? Fantastic.
And one last thing: Can someone please tell me how Hillary crying at a campaign rally is a "human" moment? Why is this not a bigger news story? It is simply unprecedented for a national presidential candidate to cry on the campaign trail while commenting on the process of running. Can you imagine if a man had done this? Is it that easy to play such simplistic and trite gender politics? I'm not saying she shouldn't have cried or didn't have a reason to cry or even that I wouldn't have cried. I'm sure it is damn hard - man or woman. But publicly? Very odd, indeed. Who knows, maybe it did help....
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