Banal Stories

Part I: Summary and Review of NBC's Community, the last 37 seconds.

2009-09-27T13:37:00.013-05:00

Incomplete Thought: ...and that's why the last 37 seconds of NBC's Community are the sharpest, smartest, and funniest 37 seconds of network television in the last, oh let's say, decade...

***

According to Wikipedia and basic deductive reasoning based on already public information, Community is an American comedy series on NBC. More colloquially, however, it's that show on after The Office that stars Joel McHale (that guy from The Soup) and is produced by Dan Harmon (that guy behind The Sarah Silverman Program). Only two episodes have aired as of this writing, and while the critical reception and ratings have been good, there is no telling of it's broadcast future. Situational comedies and their brothers and sisters in the written-television format are a dying breed, easily replaceable by cheaper and often-but-not-always more entertaining "reality" television. But whatever the future holds for Community, the last 37 seconds of the second episode have - at least for this viewer - cemented its place among the small-scale-model Parthenon of Funniest First-Run TV Series of the Aughts. Now there's an award trophy.

The genius of this half-minute - inserted as a closing-credits scene not linked directly to the main plot of the episode - is located in its combination of relevancy and density. Everything from the staging to the dialogue and back again and in between retains a perfect appropriateness and resonance, doing so in about as little of a space of time as one could think a story could be told.*

Let's review the action of the clip, first.

As the scene opens, two guys sit loungingly on a dated couch in the student lounge of a typical, Californian community college. The one on the left, Abed, is the personification of a multiethnic American, an apparent Caucasian/South Asian mix; the one of the left, Troy, is your standard, non-threatening middle-class black guy. They sit close enough that we know they are not strangers, and so we wait for the inevitable dialogue between friends who are studying together yet would rather do anything but.

A second in, Abed - played with brilliant and perpetual energy by Danny Pudi - spontaneously begins a surprisingly good beat box. He doesn't do it for show or for attention, but more for what appears to be self-entertainment. The moment was right.

Troy, who knows he is cooler than Abed but likes the guy nonetheless, is taken by the rhythmic quality of his new friend's beat. And after only a moment's hesitation, he launches into a hodgepodge Spanish rap, the lyrics of which pluck random bits of vocabulary from what could only be the first unit of the introductory course textbook.

"Donde esta la biblioteca? Me llamo T-Bone la arana discoteca," he raps with increasing enthusiasm and physical energy. As the words flow effortlessly out, an English translation appears and disappears on the screen, neatly delay-timed to his verse:

Where is the library

My name is T-Bone

the disco spider.

Abed rises to the challenge and picks up on his couchmate's last line, echoing the established rhythm thanks in part to Troy's willingness to sustain the same beat-box beat. Abed, however, is not simply mimicking; he punches out a new rhyme scheme to the very same rhythm, making this rap as much his as it is Troy's:

"Discoteca, muneca, la biblioteca, es en la bigote grande, perro manteca."

Now, if I may use the phrase, Troy is "feeling it," thrilled by both the beat and his partner's skill. He becomes more animated, his right hand directing both the scansion and the speed of the words and phrases he is now pulling from the page in front of him. He honors Abed's mirroring technique, and launches into...

"Manteca, bigote, gigante, pequeno, cabeza es nieve, cerveza es bueno."

By this fourth verse, it's apparent to all that this is no longer a chance bit of linguistic luck but a capital-M Moment, a discovery. It's not a battle, but a collaboration wherein each participant pushes the other beyond where he may have stopped on his own. Abed knows exactly where to resume, and Troy allows rap to finally emerge as what it has always been for him: a total kinesthetic experience, mind and body unified for one expressive purpose.

"Buenos dias, me gusta papas frias. El bigote de la cabra es Cameron Diaz."

With Abed's excitement marked by his increase of volume, Troy complements the excitement of the climax. He pantomimes the most commonly associated movements of the DJ - scratching the record with his right while bracing his headphones with his left - all the while improvising an impressive scratch-echo-repeat of "cabra," Abed's longest and most punctuated word so far. And so it is because of this awareness of his partner that Troy knows when to blow it all up, to demarcate the end of that which has progressed naturally to its own end. When Abed finds "Cameron Diaz" as the comic parallel to his opening "Buenos dias," his partner vocalizes the sound of an explosion, which contains its own denouement and resolution. And as the intensity flows out of Troy's coup de grace, the pair asserts their success:

"Yeah, boi. Boi," Abed declares, hitting each word with force.

"Yeah," Troy concurs.

"What," Abed asks rhetorically to whomever is listening, only to remind them all that "it's 2009."

At with that, Troy confirms it's true: "Word."

[End Scene] & [End of Part I]

* Though one wonders how long Hemingway took to deliver his genre-introducing flash fiction wonder. A safe, conservative estimate would be about five seconds, I'd guess.

To be continued...

...by Part II: Analysis and Criticism of NBC's Community, the last 37 seconds. Stay tuned.

Serena v. Korea ?!?

2009-09-13T18:08:00.006-05:00

I, for one, am particularly tired of race as a subject of American conversations. I'd like to think liberally that we are "past that," and I cringe every time someone plays the card in a game that is theretofore and should be color free...if you know what I mean.

(E.g., this month's GQ, p. 176, sec. 4 of 4 on "How to Feel Good," entitled, "The Good News Pages." As a rough year plods along, we had to ask: What's the good news? Tossed oddly among an odd assortment of interviewees is our old friend Alfred Sharpton, who informs us that "this spring, James Young, an African-American, was elected mayor of Philadelphia, Mississippi, a town known to all of the world only because two Jewish men and a black man were killed there in 1964 for registering African-Americans to vote. In that same place, in the Deep South, where we once saw a crucifixion of people based on color, we're now seeing a resurrection of people based on getting past color." Now in defense of Sharpton - who I don't normally defend - the election of Young is a good thing, yes, a very good thing indeed. As is "getting past color." But can't we all recognize that the most ironic and problematic and frustrating part of Sharpton playing his usual role is that he keeps talking and talking and talking and talking about color in a manner that disallows us to ever get past it?)

And so it is with serious reserve and fear for my postracial hopes that I bring up here what no one seems to be talking about elsewhere: That the "outburst" of Serena Williams on Saturday night in Flushing certainly has an obvious racial subtext.

And, no, no, no: that is not what I'm thinking. Not a cheap, Sharptonesque subtext wherein Ms. Williams feels somehow disenfranchised because she is black, that somehow her blackness is being worked against by all members of the U.S. Tennis Association or the cultural superstructure at large. That's too conscious, too last-generation, too 1950s America.

No, what I'm talking about is that Gladwellian subconscious racism, the kind that you can't fear until you first detect it through one of those deeply unsettling Implicit Association Tests. And once you find out about it you work really hard to control it, but you can't help but wonder about those who don't really know...you know...maybe what you think you know.

Here I'm thinking about Serena, and the lineswoman, and the chair umpire, and the tournament official. Their fears, prejudices, and perspectives.

(Internal Aside: Part of me wants to end this post here because it feels like I've been treading water for the last four paragraphs. I'm not overly comfortable floating into the deeper end of the pool where conjecture and suspicion swim. But before I take the easy way out through the shallow end, permit me to make the point that stands contrary to the assertion in my first sentence:)

Thus, it's hard to watch the aforementioned outburst without thinking of the LA riots, of Menace II Society, of Do the Right Thing, of a particular M.E. Dyson lecture, the title of which escapes me.

We're all too aware of the Korean-American and African-American fued/conflict/distrust/history/call-it-what-you'd-like-here to not at least fear a maybe.

And while the specific Asian ethnicity (and name, which often dictates you-guessed-it) of the lineswoman remains unreported (why exactly?), I'm quite sure I'm not the first to think about what she or Serena or the others may have thought - consciously or subconsciously.

A.A.o.C.E.f.V.C.A.D.b.V.(WROtKB).a.W.b.Y.T.,P.H.f.Y.E.a.A.

2009-06-01T20:48:00.002-05:00

Editor's Note: Excuse the atrocious title above, but the word-limit refused my full title and I simply couldn't stand abridging it by an means, and thus have presented it in full below. Also, while I have your attention and this note to bring things to it, allow me to note that I was going to annotate these selections with pithy and witty rejoinders (e.g. "We are all leaders" - No you are not. / or / "We are the proud bearers of a solemn pledge for a better tomorrow." - Adjective overload! Adjective overload!) but thankfully decided against this plan, as it was decided to be cliche in and of itself and also detracting from the subject herein. Let the cliches "speak for themselves," why don't you?

An Assortment of Cliches Excerpted from Various Commencement Addresses Delivered by Valedictorians (Who Really Ought to Know Better) and Witnessed by Yours Truly, Presented Here for Your Enjoyment and Astonishment

"You are the class that upsets the apple cart of bigotry of soft expectations."

"We are all leaders."

"We stand at the crossroads of life."

"I am part of something greater than myself."

"Friends, family, mentors."

"Tomorrow will come in its own time and in its own way."

"We are the proud bearers of a solemn pledge for a better tomorrow."

"May we remain essentially true to who we are today."

"We are the millennial generation, the children of a thousand years, poised to embark on an incredible adventure."

"The one thing you can expect out of life is the unexpected."

"Open your eyes to the world."

"We have ideas that could one day be revolutionary."

"The energy shortage is not a crisis but an opportunity."

"We do not have a financial crisis but a challenge."

"It's not a question of whether we will do great things; it's only a question of how many we will do."

And my favorite...

"As the legendary Bono once put it..."

What Was All That Shit About Vietnam?!!?

2009-01-21T19:36:00.003-05:00

God only knows why there are no shot-by-shot clips on YouTube of the penultimate scene in The Big Lebowski - you know, the one where Walter and The Dude traipse down to the beach to eulogize Donny and "commit his mortal remains to the bosom of the Pacific Ocean, which he loved so well." That is, unless you count this reenactment, which cannot be criticized for lack of accuracy, but somehow still feels dumb. So I cannot post the original scene (nor in good conscience post the gereric version).

Which sucks because I have something to say...

I'd like to believe that I'm the first to put this in writing, as I haven't seen it anywhere else yet, which means either I am completely off-the-mark, or I am an internet trailblazer! Believe that.

In short, I'm convinced that Obama's inaugural address contained a hidden allusion to Lebowski. It's subtle:

PRESIDENT: "For us, they fought and died in places Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn." (emphasis added)

WALTER: "He died, like so many men of his generation, before his time. In your wisdom, Lord, you took him. As so many bright, flowering young men at Khe Sahn, Long Doc, and Hill 364. These young men gave their lives, and so Donny. Donny who loved bowling." (emphasis added)

To be continued...

What We are Thinking re: What She Said After Seeing 'Slumdog Millionaire'

2008-12-24T12:19:00.001-05:00

'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.

Now Is The Winter of Our Content?

2008-11-30T18:01:00.002-05:00

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.

Some Thoughts on Certain Feminine Sartorial Trends:

2008-11-29T21:41:00.003-05:00

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.

Flash Fictionist Flotsam

2008-11-29T19:02:00.002-05:00

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.

David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008, Vol. 2

2008-09-16T17:56:00.009-05:00

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.

David Foster Wallace, 1962-2008, Vol. 1

2008-09-15T22:06:00.003-05:00

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...

In Defense of USA Basketball

2008-08-16T12:46:00.004-05:00

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.

Seven All-Too-Obvious Observations Made Aloud During the 2008 State Farm Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium

2008-07-15T10:15:00.004-05:00

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?

Heavenly Wanderlust

2008-07-14T20:10:00.003-05:00

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.

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

2008-02-17T19:17:00.007-05:00

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.

A Running Commentary on the season premiere of LOST

2008-02-06T00:23:00.001-05:00

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 Few Thoughts On Contemporary American Men's Magazine Feature Essay Writing

2008-02-05T23:23:00.001-05:00

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.

"For Me, It's All About KFC"

2008-02-05T23:17:00.000-05:00

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.

"Either You're on Board, or You're Not on Board"

2008-01-16T16:15:00.000-05:00

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.

My New T-Shirt Reads: "Still Time Before the Trade Deadline"

2008-01-09T23:29:00.000-05:00

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.

New Hampshire '08

2008-01-09T00:23:00.000-05:00

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....

Essays I've Read That I Love

2007-11-15T15:03:00.000-05:00

Mindy Kaling writes occasionally on a blog, the name of which I like: "Things I've Bought That I Love." Her prose is sharp and therefore worth reading even if I couldn't give two shits about the topic-of-the-post, as is often the case. But, again, I like the title, and will borrow its skeletal syntax to describe this post: "Essays I've Read That I Love."

Book reviews require significant thought and skill, so I write them only when they are assigned or paid for. (My last, I wrote on Blink, almost a year ago. Damn good, too.)

But article reviews are much easier, perhaps because they aren't really reviews. More like abstracts, but with a bit of force that says to the reader, "Turn off the fucking TV and read a bit; you'll be surprised and happy with my suggestions, I promise."

That being so, what follows: essays I've read (or am reading) that I love.

1. "Dangerous Minds: Criminal Profiling Made Easy," by Malcolm Gladwell. The New Yorker, 12 November 2007. - A wonderfully Gladwellian (of course) investigation of the FBI's seemingly crackerjack Behavioral Science Unit, which thanks to Hollywood and copious true-crime hardbacks has developed a reputation for producing near-hit criminal profiles almost every time. The key word here is "seemingly."

2. "Mad About the Boys," by Bryan Burrough. Vanity Fair, November 2007. - Fraud, obesity, boy bands, probable pedophilia, willingly unsuspecting investors, and blimps - this story has it all. Chronicling the rise and fall of Florida entrepreneur Lou Pearlman (the impresario behind the Backstreet Boys and 'NSync), Burrough discovers just how many willingly buy into the American Scheme while chasing their American Dream.

3. "Tonight on Dateline This Man Will Die," by Luke Dittrich. Esquire, September 2007. - Admit it: you love (or at least can't turn away from) Dateline's "To Catch a Predator." It's justice-filled schadenfreude, plus public-humiliation. That's a two-for-one, and it isn't even Tuesday. But take away the justice and replace it with an unnecessary and preventable suicide, and you're left with an uneasy guilt, reprimanding yourself for once again buying into the too-good-to-be-true network sales pitch. It is never as simple as forty-four minutes makes it seem, is it?

4. "A Death in the Family," by Christopher Hitchens. Vanity Fair, November 2007. - For my money, the best essay of 2007. I cannot begin to do it justice here, in this restricting space, save to say this: it won't give you answers, so don't search for them as you read. Just expect tears. Read it. Please.

Reentering the Fray

2007-07-29T14:09:00.000-05:00

The ubiquitous internet-access has returned now that I am back from England. Posting, then, becomes all the more easier. Of course, I think that I must have something important to say before uploading, but I am giving up on that idea. Writing whatever makes me happy, and putting it out there seems efficacious if but for the mere reason that it proves that at that moment I was thinking. Post away, then, Brian.

* * *

I had a most lovley conversation with my friend, Zsuzsa this morning. Two points to note and remember from it:

Who, at this moment, would I consider my three heroes? I answered: Jesus, Shakespeare, and Lincoln. Tomorrow I may change my mind.

And, a great quote from Oscar Wilde: "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh, otherwise they’ll kill you." I'm not quite sure if this makes sense, but I like it nonetheless.

So take that, blogosphere.

Everybody Look At Your Hands!

2007-06-04T12:24:00.000-05:00

You know, your friends don't dance and if they don't dance
Well they're no friends of mine...

I miss the '80s.

Urinal-ysis

2007-05-30T11:36:00.000-05:00

All this talk of bathroom design has forced me away from my real work and demanded that I engage in internet research about urinal-design. Though it remains a goal for 2007, I still do not possess the proper technical vocabulary to be able to accurately describe the artistic, functional, and theoretical triumphs and failures of the following pieces. Thus, I will let the urine-soaked images speak for themselves, save for what I image to be their respective titles:

"Persian-American Relations"

"Just Another Chance to Laugh at Your Manhood"

"I Really, Really Hated Catholic School and My Therapist Said This Might Help"

"Serenity"
or
"God Wanted Men to Piss on Flowers"

"Paging Dr. Freud, paging Dr. Freud. Oral Fixation on Line 1."

"Gender Equality"
or
"Vag-U-Suck"
or
"I'd Rather Wait For a Booth than Stand at the Bar"

Trying to Stay Negative

2007-05-30T11:14:00.000-05:00

I should try harder to be happier. Happiness is a choice? Ah, no more philosophy for now.

Instead, how about we introduce A New Banal Stories Feature?!?! Yes! Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for: My Daily Annoyances: A Retrospective of All That Annoys.

Today's Daily Annoyances:

The Single-Sex Bathroom that Exists Without a Companion Bathroom.

When I stumble upon a Ladies' Room, I expect a Mens' Room to be within striking distance. But on occasion, the drunken architect wishes ill and the risk of bladder infection upon his patrons, and decides against putting the complimentary facility nearby. Instead, he dreams: Let us make it an adventure, a urine-filled scavenger hunt of sorts! Will he make it on time? Oh, I doubt it, for I have been crafty! You see, my dear reader, I trust the general (and foolish!) instinct of the would-be-peeer to waste precious time looking in those "obvious" spots, like across the hall or to the left or the right of the discovered bathroom. But, oh, that would be too easy, now wouldn't it?!? My bathrooms eschew symmetry and ordered design; in fact, they eschew all forms of modernistic efficiency and logistics. They remain separate, unique, independent of another for form, function, and identity. They are the precursors to postmodern gender politics! Ahahhahahahah - just try and find two as one! You will fail. Men, to the basement, where your precious urinal hides at the end of the hall near the Janitor's Closet. Women, to the second floor, where the door to your porcelain thrones appears awkwardly at the landing of a stairway foyer, just close enough for general patrons of the building to hear you flush. You will go where I say, or you will not go at all. Amen.

(Special thanks to the Carpenter Hall at Dartmouth College for the painful inspiration for this feature. My the gods of architecture damn you to the eleventh level of prefabricated Hell.)

The Indy 500

2007-05-25T12:07:00.000-05:00

It is race weekend, and although I care nothing for the sport of racing, I love the Indianapolis 500, mostly because it is the most famous, has the fastest cars, draws the most fans, and because my uncle and aunt have been gracious enough to take me twice.

Essentially: extreme excess fascinates me, and Indy is as extreme as one can get - size, speed, attendance, cost, interest, importance, etc. Plus, I like the catch-phrase, "the greatest spectacle in racing." Wow, they couldn't have chosen a better descriptor: spectacle. Amen.

Where else can you see Lance Armstrong, the guys from American Chopper, Third Eye Blind, David Letterman, and Patrick Dempsey all in the same place on the same day?!?

Which reminds me: I was at Indy last year, and the "celebrities" were taking the slow laps around the track in convertible Chevys. I was walking down toward the infield, near the fence, not more than 25 feet from the slowly passing cars. I saw Patrick Dempsey and yelled out "Hey, Patrick, we both know ER is the better show." I'm proud to say I got a laugh from him.

A final image about the spectacle of just how big Indy is: the track's infield can fit Yankee Stadium, the Wimbledon Campus, the Roman Coliseum, the Rose Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, and all of Vatican City within its borders. See here for an image of comparison.

Oh, and I'm not from Indiana, but I understand the hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-stands-up feeling of provincialism when Jim Nabors sings "Back Home Again in Indiana" before the start of every race. It is warm and beautiful and quintessentially American. Unfortunately, Nabors won't be there this year, but the fans (all 350,000) are slated to sing in unison in his place. What a spectacle that will be!

Avoiding Working on My Final Papers

2007-05-25T10:35:00.000-05:00

Billy Bass was funny (read: freaky) for 10 seconds before it became tirelessly unhumourous. This little diddy of American Inventions fails to make it even that long. It isn't hard to see why the Terrorists hate us.

***

When I burp in a room by myself, why do I say excuse me? (Paging Mr. Pavlov...Mr. Pavlov, call for you on Line Crazy!)

***

LOST is (potentially) going in a whole new direction, and the Season Finale left me personally troubled and unsettled. I want to make two points: first, that the title may refer metaphorically to the characters lives before landing on the island, while on the island, and after being rescued from the island. Second, a theme of the first half of the show has been the "failed father figure." Drawing what we can from Jack's "flash-forward" in the last episode, it is possible to hypothesize that a theme from the second half of the show may be "repeating the sins of the father."

***

It is sunny and 81 in New England. I'm going outside...

Noah 2.0

2007-05-16T17:56:00.000-05:00

In an attempt to raise awareness of "global warming," Greenpeace is reportedly building a new Noah's Ark on top of Mt. Ararat in modern Turkey.

I'm confused as to how building an ark raises awareness, and am wondering about the following:

1. How many trees did Greenpeace have to cut down to get enough wood to build an ark?

2. It seems like a lot of unnecessary CO2 will be emitted in the process, from plane trips to Turkey, to delivery truck loads of lumber hauled up Mt. Ararat, to deforestation. Could we just hold a press conference?

3. If sea level is only projected to rise 18cm over the next 50 years if nothing is done about "global warming," isn't an ark a bit superfluous? Shouldn't we be building small dikes or filling sandbags instead?

I look forward to Greenpeace's next project: the rebuilding of the Tower of Babel in Iraq as a protest against globalization.

Dare I wonder if they, next year, will celebrate the Passover with fervor anew after recognizing that the killing of the first born may be an answer to the dreadful and increasing problem of global overpopulation?

God help us when they finally get to Leviticus...

American Royalty

2007-05-08T12:51:00.000-05:00

The London Daily Mail is reporting that Bush gaffed during a welcoming ceremony for Elizabeth Alexandra Mary at the White House yesterday.

In short, it seems that among other things, it is in bad taste to ;-) WINK ;-) at the "queen."

With a few exceptions, I find the rules of etiquette rather silly and passe, which, if I recall correctly, is the word the French use rather often to describe those things which have "gone by."

Like these aristocratic manners, so too has the "queen's" time passed. The very idea of having a monarchy, however limited or symbolic it is, troubles every democratic sensibility I have. (Related: I laugh a bit whenever the Queen speaks of freedom in the world. Her family/royal tradition has done little for individual sovereignty in the last five hundred years.)

Thus, allow me to make the central point of this post: Many critics, notably high-brow critics, will chide Bush for again failing to act in a manner that could be described as "dignifiedly formal."

But I'm proud of this wink. Perhaps inadvertently, it says: we do things different here in America. We are a little more laid back; we have a Bill of Rights and the right to free speech. If we want to decry the King or President, we can, and not worry about having our balls cut off and hung up as door knockers on the Tower of London. In Texas, we spit, swear, sweat, shoot, shit, and swanker. We do it because we can, because we fought for that freedom, and because such individual expression is the zenith of personal sovereignty in the history of human experience.

You may not like it - many don't; but don't come over to my house and tell me how to act. Margaret Thatcher once put on a cowboy hat and rode horses with Reagan. Why, then, are we putting on White Ties and Tails for a Monarchist who represents the very opposite of Americanism?!?

Time to roll on back to England, Queenie, to the mansion that you didn't build, to the fortune that you didn't earn, and the country that you have done nothing to earn the right to lead. Oh, and enjoy the fact that you don't have to pay any taxes, unlike, say, our President, and every other American who doesn't get to choose whether or not it is proper to be winked at...

I Be Likin' What You Be Saying, Part 2

2007-04-22T21:07:00.001-05:00

A seemingly infinite amount of ink has been spilled over the fact that our president isn't the best with words. We now have seven-years worth of Bushisms - a convenient term that does a lot, signifying a lack of intelligence as demonstrated by a malapropism or grammatical blunder.

I use the word convenient because attacking Bush via his speech pattern is an easy (albeit an ad hominem fallacy) technique by which to allude to the overall ineffectiveness of him as a leader and to the untrustworthiness of the policies he supports.

But what if Bush were black? What if Bush were a black conservative who frequently employed Black English Vernacular, a "language" which is teeming with malapropisms, slang, simplifications, and grammatical inaccuracies? Would Bush be dumb then?

Are not those same academics who support the teaching and accreditation of BEV contradicting themselves when they laughingly mock Bush's admittedly non-prescriptive use of English?

Interestingly enough, I've heard from numerous blue-collar workers an appreciation of Bush's linguistic style, for, as these men have said, "He talks like I talk."

Judge all or judge none, but don't judge some and not others. That, again, is called hypocrisy.

I Be Likin' What You Be Saying, Part 1

2007-04-22T20:32:00.000-05:00

Save for in a few African-American Studies departments still grasping for legitimacy, the debate over whether or not Ebonics should be taught in schools is over.

But is there a new debate on the horizon, and it depends solely on the issue of whether or not one views Black English Vernacular as a verifiable and legitimate foreign language: should political candidates engage in "Black Talk" when addressing black voters?

The following clip presents such a case:

If BEV is a foreign language, then such a strategy is sensical and in principle no different than when a politician records campaign commercials in espanol.

If BEV is NOT a foreign language, then such an act is blatantly racist.

---------------------------------------------------

That said, hypocrisy is in the air.

One cannot imagine Mitt Romney addressing a black crowd in BEV and not be called a racist by black leaders or the media, even though supporters of BEV-education, who would probably be the first to decry such an act, would be logically trapped by doing so. Of course, logic never seems to matter in cases of race these days.

Why, then, does Hillary earn a pass on this? It seems too simple: because she is a Democrat which somehow is synonymous with black issues, because she is a woman (read: fellow minority), and because she probably supports BEV-education.

"I'ma gonna be work'n real hard fo' y'all up der at dat whyte 'ouse."

It's pandering. It's racism. It's unconscionable. And it's unacceptable for Hilary, for Romney, for Barak, and for the rest.

Somebody - black or white - needs to stand up and put an end to this.

The Lovely Ms. Noonan

2007-04-20T09:23:00.000-05:00

During my early twenties I had a love-affair with the prose of Peggy Noonan. I read every word she wrote, losing myself in the simplistic beauty of her words. That time has passed for reasons perhaps unconsidered.

Still, in times of tragedy and human suffering, I always, sometimes unknowingly, find myself searching for her observations, like a lonely lover finding the photograph of an old flame and believing that if he stares long enough, he can for a moment bring back the safety and passion that he once had with her.

In my middle twenties, Peggy often disappoints.

This morning, she did not.

Left, Right, Wrong...

2007-04-19T11:40:00.000-05:00

I noted in my last post that certain lobbyist groups will inevitably attempt to appropriate the Virginia Tech shootings for their specific political goals. A quick Google News search for "Virginia Tech" + "Gun Control" (or) "Violence in Films" (or) "Immigration Policy" confirms this prediction.

I once had a professor who drew the political continuum (on which the Far Left and Far Right lie) as a near-complete circle instead of a straight line. In such a rendering, the Far Left and the Far Right were positioned incredibly close to each other at the bottom of the circle, thereby suggesting a similar ideology or modus operandi.

Such a manner of thinking strikes me as particularly apt vis-a-vis the present situation. In response to the VT shootings, the Far Left is crying out for more gun control, and the Far Right is hinting at immigration restrictions and the violent efficacy of Hollywood and the entertainment culture.

Both want more control; both want to identify the specific cause of the shootings; both want to establish their ideological positions (and potential policy) as the measure which preempts future shootings.

Both are wrong.

Both should learn from the position of those Centrists and Libertarians at the top of the circle, who right now are sitting back, mourning, and NOT tarnishing the memories of the dead by suggesting their death was in vain unless we respond politically.

The human potential for evil has been, is, and always will be great - it's intrinsic to our nature. We will continue to suffer from and inflict tragedy, despite efforts to control guns, immigration, and culture.

Tragedy Always Equals Opportunity For Some

2007-04-18T09:44:00.000-05:00

I said it on Monday evening, when the reporting frenzy over the Virginia Tech case was at its height: the media, politicians, lobbyists, and ideologues are going to milk this for all its worth.

This case is fertile soil for issue-politics (gun-control, immigration policy, school safety measures) and identity-politics (isolation of minorities, Asian-American assimilation, social outcasts.)

Michael Daly over at the New York Daily News understands this: there is no time to mourn when minds are ripe to be changed. Mr. Daly had enough gall to run this column on Tuesday, the morning after the shooting.

It's lead paragraph read, "Still love those guns, Virginia?" and proceeded to make a "case" for stricter gun control.

What a disgrace.

A Journalist's Libel Loophole

2007-04-18T09:22:00.000-05:00

I am reading an article about Mitt Romney that takes the former governor to task for his CEO-mentality, questioning whether or not the hard-nosed, let's-make-a-deal business-mindedness will work either on the campaign trail or in the White House. One paragraph strikes me as particlarly problematic:

But some colleagues found Romney to be manipulative. Romney had an "ability to identify people's insecurities and exploit them to his own benefit," says a source who worked with Romney bur refused to be quoted for "fear of retribution."

There is no way to confirm the validity of this quote. The journalist is unwilling to name the source so as to protect the identity of the source; and even if the writer did name the unnamed source, the person in question could easily deny that he made any such statement at all.

This is a serious problem, and we saw it in the Duke case. The accuser or source goes unnamed, and effectively seizes the power of anonymity to make claims for which there are no consequences.

I recognize, of course, that specific quote above is not incredibly damning. But what if it were? What if an unnamed source claimed that Romney was prone to make racial slurs during board meetings. Would the same journalist be willing to print this information if he could only cite an unnamed source? Probably not, as as case for personal defamation and libel would have a greater chance of succeeding in court than, say, one that merely claimed Romney was manipulative.

But the problem is the same in both cases: journalists get away with printing material that is difficult to defend. But the damage is done, the words are in print forever. The writers may eventually offer an apology or a retraction, but more people are likely to read the first article than some "correction" that is buried at the bottom of page 12 next to an article on this fall's latest runway fashion.

In my not-so-humble opinion, publishing "facts" or quotes about an event or individual without naming their source(s) is shotty journalism. Whenever I read "said one source who wished not to be identified," I disregard the purported statement or fact.

If the source isn't willing to publicly stand up for the truth, they aren't reliable in my book.

We are living in a world of sloppy journalism, where fact and truth have become whatever one works hard enough to make them.

This is What You Get for Making "Runaway Bride"

2007-04-16T10:33:00.000-05:00

This might be the shortest post ever, but the opportunity to write the following sentence only comes along once in a lifetime:

They are burning effigies of Richard Gere in India.

Amen, my Indian brothers, Amen.

Duke Boys, Imus, Race, Political Correctness, and on and on and on...

2007-04-15T21:15:00.000-05:00

I've been busy as of late, thus spoiling any chance I have had to sit down and drum on the old keyboard. Fortunately, the old mind hasn't been cluttered with any that necessarily had to be put down in writing. But I have read a lot over the last few days on the Imus debacle, the Duke Lacrosse Case, and the always volatile discussion of the climate of race relations in America. Nothing I have to say hasn't alread been said; thus, I offer links to a number of articles that best represent brilliant writing and thinking about the topics at hand.

1. In my admittedly hyper-critical opinion, this article says almost everything that can be (and needs to be) said about the Imus Incident. It is one of those pieces that I wish I had written - thoughtful, challenging, astute, and impressively comprehensive.

2. Cultural critic Dick Meyer steps back from the madness in this article, and considers the American (perhaps human?!?) problem of American schadenfreude.

3. And, finally, ladies and gentlemen, may I present the always entertaining Kinky Friedman, whose irreverent defense of Imus might not be spot-on, but nevertheless provides a great read. Is there anything better than spitfire Texan prose? Besides, the title alone makes it worth reading: "Coward's Kick Away Another Piece of America's Soul." I suspect Kinky titled his own piece, but if not, some headline writer at the Post deserves a raise.

Justice (Finally) Prevails

2007-04-11T11:26:00.000-05:00

For over a year, justice, fairness, and the presumption of innocence have been dragged through mud in North Carolina. Finally, thanks to the resignation of Mike Nifong months ago, some real prosecutorial work has been done by the State's DA office, which has seemingly come to the non-political conclusion that no real crime was committed in erroneously-titled "Duke Rape Case."

ABC News is reporting that North Carolina Attorney General Roy Cooper will soon announce that he is dismissing all charges against three Duke Lacrosse players. The question remains, however: What took so long?

Nightline ran a segment last night recapping the key events of the case. It is well done, and credit must be given to ABC News for being one of the first and most vocal investigators of the real facts. It's fitting that it is the first mainstream news organization to break the news of the dismissal of charges:

KC Johnson appears in this video. His blog has been an invaluable resource for justice in this case, functioning both as an archive of the incredulous comments and actions of the prosecutors and lynch-mob mentality of the accusers, and as a shining example of the possibilities of effectual blogging.

Ahmadinejad's Artists

2007-04-09T16:22:00.000-05:00

No thoughtful nation, person, or government of the world wants Iran to develop nuclear weapons. But beware of the formidable Iranian propaganda machine, for it makes some convincing, if not heart-wrenching arguments. And now they've cornered the market on nuclear graphic-design artists.

I don't know about you, but this picture just makes me want to say, "You know what, maybe it isn't a good idea theoretically, but doesn't President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad just look so damn cute in front of the flag? It's like a high-school science fair, and he gets high marks for showmanship! Somebody get this man a blue ribbon and some high-grade plutonium!"

The Imus Issue

2007-04-09T16:12:00.000-05:00

I have no interest in commenting on Imus' "nappy-headed hoes" remark - enough has already been written on the wrongs and general melee of the incident as a whole.

But I will post the following video and pose the following questions:

1. Why are there innumerable photographers/videographers in the studio?

2. What does Sharpton hope to accomplish by having Imus on the show?

3. Was anything accomplished?

4. Is an identifiable punishment required for a racist/stupid comment, or is general public scorn sufficient enough?

5. As noted by others, if Imus' show really is a comedy show, and racist comments (both by blacks and whites) proliferate comedy clubs across America every night without comparable outcry, why is Imus held accountable and comedians are not? Is the medium of radio different from stand-up comedy in terms of appropriate material?

Doral Frost Was Right and I Was...

2007-04-07T14:49:00.000-05:00

Spend five or ten awkward minutes in the Men's Magazine section at your local Barnes & Stables, and most likely you will discover that either the publishing industry or the consumer market has decided that American Masculinity in the early 21st Century concerns itself mainly with: boobs, ab-workout programs, near-naked chicks, motorcycles and hotrods, high-end material goods, and extreme sports. On the rarest occasion, some fearless feature writer will slip in a piece about literature.

But it is not often that spirituality weaves its way into Men's Magazines. Yes, I suppose one could make the argument that there is a subtle spirituality to all of this - a spiritualism or faith in masculinity itself. But the fact that we have to turn to an argument that draws on the wholly symbolic, figurative, or metaphorical demonstrates the overtness by which faith-based issues are left out of Men's Magazines.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled upon the following passage in the most recent edition of Men's Journal-Adventure Life:

So who is responsible for the evolution of Mark Wahlberg? Let's start with Jesus. Wahlberg has gone to church every Sunday for years, and he has a tattoo of a rosary and cross around his neck and chest. "I listen to the sermons on the radio on Sunday, and they all seem to be speaking direclty to me," he says. While filming the upcoming Shooter in rural British Columbia, he still sought out a place of worship. "Sometimes I'd be like, 'Mark, do you know even what kind of church they have?'" says director Antoine Fuqua. "He didn't care." Wahlberg's eyes lit up when I asked him if David O. Russell's Buddhist leanings had influenced him on the Huckabees set. "Not only did it not rub off on me," he said with glee, "but David Russell is now officially rolling with Jesus."

Admittedly, I almost missed this paragraph, as it was buried near the end of a rather engaging piece on America's Favorite 1990's Rapper-Turned-Movie Star (with apologies to Ice Cube). When I realized what I was reading, I stopped, and read the paragraph again. This is a remarkable section, I thought. And here's why:

1. Mark Wahlberg, arguably a solid archetype of a guy's guy, is openly and cooly talking about his spirituality and general commitment to Christianity.

2. The feature writer was so impressed by such religious dedication that he marked it first in terms of what transformed a troubled-youth with self-destructive behavioral patterns into a "Hollywood Power Player."

3. Neither Wahlberg nor the writer dwell on the point (or any other point for that matter) so as to make the piece solely about religion, thereby suggesting that masculinity, identity, and personality are multi-faceted indeed.

4. Doral Frost was right.

Of course the first three points speak for themselves, but the fourth requires explanation.

King Doral Frost, you must know if you have not heard, is an old friend of mine. Like many old friends in very good stories, he posses an identifiably unique characteristic: a certain penchant for the ridiculous, as demonstrated by such acts as training for a marathon in LUGZ boots, burning his college notes and textbooks a priori graduation, and baking a cake for a prospective mate with the hope that she holds a special (if not strange) place in her heart for the romanticism of Napoleon Dynamite. Naturally, I encourage these things in his life so as to feed my archive of interesting-cocktail-party-stories.

But perhaps above all else, Doral yearns to believe in the general goodness of men worldwide. A practicing Christian himself, the King looks for the slightest shred of evidence that may suggest that some public figure believes in the saving power of Jesus Christ. Consequently, many nights at the bar are filled with Doral's insistence that he heard from a friend whose cousin lives in LA and works at a night club where Sean William Scott sometimes comes in for a drink that Johnny Knoxville might be a Christian.

I will be the first to admit skepticism for these stories, and often deride their telling publicly, using phrases like, "That's the stupidest fucking story I have ever heard," or "Do you know what the mathematical probability of that story being even remotely true is?"

And to his credit, Doral usually either laughs and says, "Well, you're probably right, but here's to hoping that it is true," or he offers yet another even more ridiculous story about the reliability of the evidence of the first story based on a just-as-if-not-more impractical set of circumstances.

All of this becomes important when you add to the mix the fact that Doral's greatest celebrity hero is Marky-Mark Wahlberg. And while I cannot remember specifically the dates and times of the insistences, I am positive that King Doral has encouraged all of us to believe that Mr. Good Vibrations became Mr. Good News of Jesus on numerous occasions.

To which I am almost surely positive that I responded, "So you are telling me that Marky Mark, underwear model for Calvin Klein, porn-star in Boogie Nights, and all-around bad-ass and sex-God who carries himself in a way that seems to suggest that he doesn't give a shit about anybody but Wahlberg and his boys, is a Christian? That's the stupidest fucking story I have ever heard."

In writing and in speaking, there are many sentences I aim to avoid; one is "Doral Frost was right, and I was wrong."

But I'll be damned: Doral Frost was right, and I was wrong.

Here's to you, Doral.

And another one for your optimism.

Don't stop believin'...

The First Post

2007-04-03T20:21:00.000-05:00

After I had the idea for this blog and before I settled on a topic for this first post, I attended a dinner discussion that set out to explore the relationship between intellectualism and faith. At said meeting, I proffered two positions: first, that the theoretical and practical mutual exclusivity of the two concepts is both artificial and intellectually dishonest; and second, that somehow the act of taking offense - either intellectually or emotionally - to a faith-based or intellectual position may have contributed to the aforementioned divide between the two abstractions.

A comrade of mine picked up on this latter point, affirmed it, and extended it by suggesting that those who take offense to a particular intellectual, moral, or even general perspective/expression demonstrate either a personal insecurity or a less-than-resolute ownership of an intellectual position, to which a fine young woman responded by crying and whimpering through the tears that it "hurts her feelings when someone disagrees with her," for she "really cares about what other people think [about her]."

Well break out the lollipops and songbooks and let's all dance around the rainbow of happiness, consensus, and downright communal agreement.

When did disagreement become taboo? When did free expression of thought, opinion, worldview, and criticism become an act to be avoided at all costs? When did impudence find itself unfairly linked to free speech?

I have neither the will nor the time to explore the history of political correctness and speech control and the effect of each on our present culture. But I offer this story as a starting point for the following blog; may this forum be a place for the open exchange of ideas, the confrontation of grim realities, the critical analysis of difficult but fascinating theories, and the reflection on our own convictions...

...and may it also be a repository of the generally fatuous, boorish, and downright hilarious that inevitably weaves its way into our daily lives.

So with a nod to both the ironic and prescriptive reading of this blog's title: Here's to the Banal Stories.

Cheers.