Alternate States

The following reports are written in response to this, and to a very similar email I received this morning.

—Sean Kates, Pimlico, May19th—

They call him Big Brown, a worthy moniker not just for his color or for his size, but for the effect he’s had on the race so far this season. He’s packed them in in record numbers, trying to make the masses forget the disasters of the past couple of years, where hard choices were made by soft people. He promises a different kind of ending to this seemingly mindless national tragedy, an ending unexpected even a few months ago.

A non-factor only one year ago, Big Brown showed that he had scarcely begun fighting, and quickly reeled off win after win, in evermore spectacular fashion. In the most crucial race of all, he beat a filly who was the talk of the world before he stole her thunder. And while he was technically the favorite, it was nice to treat him as an underdog, because no one wants to root for the odds-on bet. And true, the filly needed to be destroyed by the end of the run, but that is the harsh reality of this horse race.

What matters most is the people under Big Brown’s thrall. They came on Saturday to watch another dominating performance, as Brownie (a name only those closest to him can use) rocketed away from his closest competition as they neared the final straightaway. 112,000 people paid their way to catch a glimpse of the stud, and prayed that he wouldn’t be hamstrung by his makeup or the close circle of friends, confidantes, and advisors seemingly always on hand. Yes, most of the 112K were simply college kids or young white elites using the race as an excuse to get intoxicated and throw beer cans at each other, the meaning of the number is significant. We can bring horse racing back, and send it higher than ever. Yes, We CAN!!

————————————————-

There was a definite buzz around the country today as the fiery young politician with the silver tongue lashed out at the humiliations brought upon this once great nation. Tens of thousands gathered around him, and enjoyed an afternoon of intense speech and heightened emotion. Videographers on hand remarked that the sheer spectacle of it all was movie-like, a tour de force unlikely to be replicated for at least 73-75 years. As the man for whom the masses silenced themselves inveighed against the fractious political climate, and emphasized the need for togetherness, the feeling that he may be “THE LEADER” to take us back to the heights of nationhood grew stronger, both within this reporter and the crowd as a whole. The economic struggles, the rule of many unwilling by the few uninspiring, the sheer ennui with life….all of these promise to be overcome by the sheer will and personality of this new man, so long as we freely give our allegiance over to him. Ja, Ja, Ja, Wir Koennen.

–Nuremberg, Germany, 1934—-  

Vegas, Maybe

So I return from Vegas for the second time, with the same fundamental questions: “Why do people like Las Vegas?” and “Why would I not hesitate to return, given even the slightest of justifications?”

After thinking hard about these questions at 2 a.m. while sitting in Phil’s car in Long Term Parking B (Long Term Parking A is a rip-off, and I hear is run by terrorists to support the homosexual agenda), and then again this morning, while sitting in Phil’s parents house watching Phil eat Cheerios (you know, ’cause he lives there now), I think I have come up with the following answers: “America Brett Favre Bush 9/11 America” and “Irony,” respectively.

Vegas is America and vice versa. Period. Khakis. Period. Etc. Period. Every single thing done is a thing done, if not well (and in fact, almost NEVER done well), then at least ginormously. Casino/Hotels stretch for miles, and walking “next door” means girding your loins for the onslaught of 110 degree heat, pamphleters handing you cards with reproductions of Van Gogh’s famous “Starry Boobs,” and endless advertisements for Danny Gans, the douchiest douche in Vegas, or entertainingest entertainer, or somethingest something.  Meals come in three sizes: large, extra large, or Super Midwesterner.

Themes are taken to the most illogical of extremes. Casino based on Roman times? Have an endless number of 30 foot tall statutes located haphazardly around your betting floor, the people at the nickel slots need some goddamn culture (and uncircumcised penii). Old school Venice more your style? Replicate San Marco square and sparkle it with a football field-sized baby pool of 2 inch-deep water, then stick gondoliers in the pool and take unsuspecting/Asian tourists for the longest 7 minute trip they’ve ever taken/spoken highly of once they were home for reasons unknown. 

If you can’t match the themey goodness, then by all means, use animals. Best suggestions: lions, flamingos (best if your Casino is actually called the FLAMINGO), and go-go dancers on rotation.

No themes, no animals? Offer insane betting possibilities like Casino War (exactly what it sounds like…high card wins the bet) and beer pong (also exactly what it sounds like). Give people free cookies and “dealertainment” while bleeding them dry at varying speeds. Basically, casinos print money, and they, like the rest of America they entertain/use/represent/crush to soullessness soullessly, have NO IDEA HOW TO SPEND IT.

And….we love them for it. We don’t want to go where things are good, we want to go where they are big. We want to pay 30 dollars for a breakfast buffet and eat until we have to take a nap 3 hours after waking up, ESPECIALLY if there are hundreds of less expensive, more delicious, but LESS LARGE options. We want to see replicas of the Eiffel Tower, paintings on the 50 foot high ceilings, and enough fake breasts to choke a motorboating gorilla, because we are a terrible people. We are, well, America, and so is Vegas.

So, then, given all this, why would I go back, and not for a second think twice about it? Why do I feel bad that the last paragraphs make it seem like I am COMPLAINING?

Easy answer: Sean theory. Originally devised in College Park while watching another endless game of college football, it’s premised on the basic idea that “Not only is this specific form of X terrible, but ALL forms of X are terrible.” Obviously, this is true of college football teams.

Not only was Maryland terrible, but the team they were playing is terrible, and in fact, all college football teams are terrible. Go backand watch the USC-Texas championship game that people claim is the greatest college game of all time (which may very well be a true claim, but a sort of pointless one once you finally give in to Sean theory). I dare you. Now explain to me why either of those teams was “good.” Evenly matched? Sure, I grant that. Great individual performances? Absolutely. Was it particularly good football? Of course not. There could not have been more missed tackles, errant throws (if whatever Vince Young does is considered throwing) and mindblowing defensive brainfarts that have to, at some point, be ascribed to terrible coaching. And THAT in a game between two of the greatest teams since Notre Dame 2009.

Well, slowly the theory coalesced. More categories began to fit the mold. First, college basketball teams, then all sports teams, then sports itself. As ever, it turns out that my view of sports as a microcosm of the world is correct and, in fact, ALL THINGS satisfy the basic rationale. That is, ALL THINGS are more or less terrible. 

Some would think this is a pretty empty life theory, but it is insanely rewarding for me, given a few other character traits of mine. First, I LOOOOOOVE being right. And a life theory that basically predicts everything failing you at one point in time or another is more often than not going to be right. Then I throw it in the grieved party’s face, and can also prove that all friends are also terrible. Second, I am unbelievably delighted in the sorrows of humanity. Maybe not specific people as much, but I do have a fairly unusual sense of shadenfreude towards other people, especially if I think they deserve it (and, given that people are a thing, they usually do in my eyes). In fairness, I also quite frequently think that I deserve it, so this amounts to a pretty equal view of the world and humanity, and a pretty “stiff upper lip” in the face of personal tragicomedy.

The end result is perhaps best explained in an example from the gambling world (or, more likely, I was just gambling somewhere for 4 days, so it’s the first thing that comes to my mind other than “old people falling asleep in front of electronically beeping instruments of death”): a blackjack table. In some very clear ways, the outcomes of the players are tied together. If the dealer busts, there is very likely going to be multiple players who win, if not the entire table. In general, this makes people happy.

Sean theory, on the other hand, taken to its natural conclusion, basically sets the preferred outcomes like this (from most preferred to least preferred):

Everyone, including Sean, loses;

Sean wins, everyone else loses;

 

 

 

Everyone wins.

As you can see, the theory rarely makes rational sense, at least not in traditional “people like to reward themselves and only SOMETIMES punish others” way. Still, it is what it is. So I enjoy Vegas for containing literally EVERYTHING that I hate, in overwhelming abundance. Fat people with fat kids, check. Guys who talk to you about “beating the system” in a game with a 10-12% house edge, check. Douchy frat guys who ogle women professionally, drink all night and slur the gays before striking out at the strip club and falling drunkenly into bed together with their penises touching? Check. Good-looking women with hard-looking faces? Black people only where attached to brooms, mops or guns? Paying seven dollars for a beer you could get next door for free if you sacrificed 4% of the “atmosphere?” Check, Check, DOUBLE CHECK. The list goes on, and maybe one day I will post every single facet of Las Vegas that drives me insane enough to visit again. It will very likely mirror the list of ways Vegas is like America above. Still, the IRONY of enjoying myself there while every terrible part of America is reenacted writ large is so strong, it needed a blog post. Please enjoy the list of Vegas hilarities below while a Matchbox 20 song plays in your head and I fade away to sleep:

 Lions in the MGM that are driven hundreds of miles a week to make appearances for tourists that mostly consist of the lions being stroked and prodded until they half-roar and everyone claps.

The correct answer to every single “Where is X…?” question being: “Across the street from Caesar’s”

Guys on the street cannot verbally advertise for hookers. But they can wear T-shirts that promise the hookers will be at your room in 20 minutes or less, and hand out phone cards with hardcore pornography to anyone passing by….which is made funnier/sadder because….

Millions of parents now bring their kids to Vegas, despite there being, at last count, ZERO things for a kid to do that doesn’t involve growing up way too fast, Kentucky-style.

See-through Tattoo shops located inside casinos. Seriously, try to explain.

84 year-olds who claim to never have drunk water….IN THEIR LIVES. And everyone smiling because it’s only the 17th most bizarre thing they’ve heard or seen at that particular Pai Gao table. (number 16: Andrew failing to correctly set his Pai Gao hand twice in 35 minutes)

People unashamed to tell you how rich they are/poor they are at a poker table, especially if their meager resources are the reason they couldn’t afford to buy a hooker to double team themselves and their significant others.

Slot machines in the airport….which is somewhat refreshing because its the only place you can bet in Vegas without sucking on the tailpipe of every cheroot- and cloves-smoking idiot on the greater West Coast.

Wherein the Author Compares Black People to Cuban Terrorists

I am an unabashed fan (and subscriber) of The New Yorker, largely because of articles like this. There are few things in this life that I don’t naturally know everything about, but the magazine does a great job of finding them and presenting them in an interesting and educating fashion. Shockingly, my knowledge of African-American churches was scant, despite my deep amount of caring about both blacks and religion.

The article as a whole is well-researched and very even-handed, if not in every statement, then at least in the extremes in which it portrays individuals. Reverend Wright, for instance, is alternately prophetic and a product of the past, a man of great passion who sits reserved when asked pointed questions; he is “gifted,” but “churlish.” He is, in a word, human. If nothing else, the article is worth reading for its investigation of the dynamic between Black Islam and Black Christianity over the past thirty or forty years.

However, what struck me most about the article was the following passage:

“Though preachers might be more careful now, the dominant rhetorical mode is defiance: Moss and the other preachers cannot afford to be seen as capitulators. During the Good Friday marathon, Reverend Gibson had declared Wright to be “one of the most generous men you will ever meet.” Then he said, “Print that! Put that on the blog!”

It means a lot more if you read the entire article, which is exceedingly easy because it doesn’t near the standard million words of a typical New Yorker lead piece. However, I am reminded by this passage, and the tone of the article in general, of the scene in The Godfather, Part II, where Michael first decides to part ways with Hyman Roth in Cuba. Michael describes the scene which he witnessed earlier in the day, where rebels effectively blew themselves up to take out a Cuban authority figure. To him, it’s a sign that the rebels might win…because they care THAT MUCH.

The analogues are a little squishy at this point, because Black Liberation does not equal Black Separatists (at least, not necessarily), so the church members are technically fighting for something different than the rebels were. However, there will be a point where this anger and these feelings boil over, in a very similar pattern. I have not decided whether I am impressed and deeply moved by their refusal to change their fundamental beliefs in the face of majoritarian outrage (perhaps righteous outrage at that), empathetic because I vaguely understand their situation and know it’s not going to end well for them, or angered by a stubborn anti-rational stance. But I know that I somewhat care in some fashion, which is something.

Cuba was a horrible place before Castro, and the rebels may very well have been justified in their feelings AND actions. However, their homeland wasn’t better afterwards, either. When Roth and Corleone (or their real-life counterparts) pulled out, all that was left for the island was hope, and much like most of these church members seem to have discovered, that isn’t nearly good enough. It’s unclear what would be.

It’s Not Pronounced “I-ern-ic”

There’s a scene in one of the greatest movies ever where Garland Greene, an infamous serial killer who once drove through three states wearing a woman’s head as a hat, attempts to boil down one of life’s trickier literary devices. As Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” plays, Greene (portrayed by Steve Buscemi) remarks to Cameron Poe (who, despite the name, is not a woman….or a mascot for a terrible football team): “Define irony - A bunch of idiots dancing around on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.”

He may be awesome at killing women and wearing hats, but Greene is not particularly adept at defining irony, in either its classic or modern form. What Greene describes is not verbal irony, dramatic irony, or situational irony (which in the author’s opinion, isn’t really irony at all). No, it’s just one of those Morisettian coincidences that augurs poorly (didn’t think I could slip a second use of “augur” into a blog post this week, did you?) for the future of the term “irony.” Oh well.*

Most people have a decent understanding of verbal irony, but generally call it sarcasm, a technically incorrect equating of a thing with the largest subset of said thing. Still, close enough. Dramatic irony (what Greene was going for here) is more generally confused, and maddeningly so. At its simplest, dramatic irony is “a disparity of expression and awareness: when words and actions possess a significance that the listener or audience understands, but the speaker or character does not.” Soooo simple.

Using this definition, you can argue that Greene isn’t entirely wrong, though you’d largely be wasting your breath. The dancing to the song seems to be his problem, the “action possessing a significance the listener understands, but the character does not.” However, the dancing does not possess any significance…the plane does eventually go down, but not for a few minutes at least, and not due to the dancing. We are not given to think that the idiots are unaware of Skynyrd’s fate, just that they don’t care because IT’S A FUCKING SONG. At best, this is situational irony, a contrast between expected results and actual results, but that’s a large stretch as well.

ANYWAY….this was all a long intro into a rant about politics and the long-anticipated release of my number 1 ranked all-time most ironic event. First, the rant:

Over the past eight years, President Bush has proven himself to be every bit the monkey he looks like. His approval ratings have fallen quicker than Eliot Spitzer’s pants (HAY-OOOOO!!!).** And so, 8 years after mistakenly electing a man who appealed to voters for his down-home personality, his approachability, his seeming disregard for high-falutin language and deep policy discussions, his lack of national experience, and his common manness, all traits we have come to learn are TERRIBLE traits for a president, we are given another chance to right our (and his) wrongs.

And the two top candidates as of today are, respectively: 1.) an approachable guy from a Southern state who doesn’t really “bother”much with or “understand” the economy, whose friendliness with the press helped him beat back a technocratic (and boring) challenger who had a pretty decent record with forward-moving thoughts, and who would love nothing more than to continue a disastrous war in a foreign country because it “feels right” and would seemingly be the “right thing to do;” and 2.) an extremely likeable guy with little to no real political experience running as an “outsider” despite being a multi-millionaire Ivy-educated Senator, whose chumminess with the press and perty mouthwords have allowed him to escape most criticism and beat back a technocratic (and boring) challenger who has a pretty decent record with forward-moving thoughts, who is being supported (vote-wise) almost entirely by richer, more-educated people with confusing/confused motives (and poor blacks, but they don’t exactly count, do they?), and whose devotion to his god and pastor knows almost no bounds.***

WTF, America? Seriously, were we even trying? And here is where irony comes in, or maybe doesn’t. A situation like this MIGHT be ironic if you expected America as a whole to rise up and learn their lesson, reject everything they hated about the last guy as strongly as all their busted polls seem to suggest they feel, only to find they are basically RACING to decide between two guys running with Xeroxed copies of Bush’s CV, and beating back a leftover Clintonite with actual experience in the process. However, I am not sure that anyone can expect anything other than what has happened.

People want to elect people like them. This is what makes them stupid, and, Q.E.D., what makes the people they elect stupid. The people they elect either (a) actually ARE like them, mindless idiots with no sense of history or rationality or (b) the kind of people best suited to selling to morons, so they can rule morons. Awesome. 

Anyway, I’m running out of steam, because I only care in as much as everyone is being ridiculous about this. Can anyone explain to me what one of the presidential candidates would do in his first year that (a) would be remarkably different than the other candidates?, and (b) would be something demonstrably positive? History says “Eh, I’m sorry, I…uh…have a boyfriend, but I DO think you are an awesome person and all, but, to answer your question….no…I don’t think so…no.”

And now, the moment you have all been waiting for: Sean’s MOST HYSTERICALLY IRONIC THING EVER award…..

And the winner is….

 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT!!!!

(Voiceover) “Mary earned this award by writing a little ditty called “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman,” a plea for men everywhere to recognize that women are equal to their male counterparts (not naturally inferior as was thought before) but lacked the education necessary to express it. Super-ironically, though, Mary was forced to include her thoughts in novel storybook form for the women because even the educated ones refused to read pamphlets, histories or philosophy due to those forms being “too boring” or “stuffy.” To top it all off with an ironic cherry, the novel (Maria: or, The Wrongs of Woman) was published posthumously because Mary died in childbirth, an exquisitely hilarious means of death for the first real feminist. Oh…and her daughter’s writing sucked and paled in comparison to that of her husband.”

 * I am aware that the picture has nothing to do with Garland Greene, but I do love shirtless men.

** I am unaware of any scientific study that proves Spitzer’s pants would fall faster than mine would. Galileo might even suggest that, in a frictionless environment, his pants would fall EXACTLY as fast as mine, even though my pants are made of heavy hooker-proof material. Fortunately, friction exists (mostly in my pants, which is why I can afford to make them hooker-proof), so this joke still works.

 *** I also have it on good authority that both candidates are fathers to black children.

Hardwood…The Boring Kind

So I lived through six (6, for those who can only read numbers, which seems idiotic given that you can read the rest of these words, presumably) live-action college basketball games. I would write about them, but then this post would be doubly boring, and in two temporal spaces. So I will only use the past to sparingly flavor the future, the way I only use my man juices to sparingly flavor your mother’s mouth. Yessss (strokes chin approvingly and/or sexually).

So, because there aren’t enough people covering it, here’s a preview of the Sweet 16, done in order of individual teams I can think up jokes for:

Western Kentucky – One great player with a girl’s name (Courtney Lee), a good player with a black name (Tyrone Brazelton) and some other guys. In other words…a team. They beat a mid-major with a Korver on it, then another mid-major with no Kutcher look-alike. Congrats. Now they get UCLA. Wrap up the baby and throw it in the dumpster, this Southerner’s prom is OVER.

UCLA – Their ”best” player is a white guy who can draw fouls inside. They are my co-favorites to make the final/win the tournament. These facts are not unrelated.

North Carolina – Their “best” player is a white guy who can draw fouls inside. They are my co-favorites to make the final/win the tournament. These facts are not unrelated.

Xavier – Their PG is 5′7”, at best, and has two “variations” on his shot: a deep three when no one guards him, and a running floater (I call it a “teardrop” because it makes me cry to watch…and not in the “autistic kid making eye contact with House in the episode of House where the autistic kid makes eye contact with House” way). They have one other good player (Duncan) and spare pieces. I picked them to the Elite Eight, a pick I still agree with, and one which suggests something about this tournament and college basketball in general. Hint: It’s a thing….

West Virginia – Their “best” player is a white guy who shoots nothing but terrible fadeaways from 13 feet out. They are going to be beat by the team described above. These facts, too, are not unrelated.

Michigan State – They beat two teams from Pennsylvania, a feat almost certainly equalled by plenty of teams in the past. However, judging from the coverage of their upcoming match with Memphis (the number one team in the country entering the tourney, but now only slight favorites to win), it is also apparently a feat that Maurice AUGERS well for their future. (See what I did there…I took a guy from Michigan State’s past (Maurice AGER) and used his name as a pun for “predicts things for”…fucking brilliance). Anyway, they suck, and are boring. Luckily for them, Tom Izzo is an excellent coach and can probably point to a Memphis player and say “foul him.” Probably. I’m still taking Memphis.

Memphis – Hi kids! Do you like Memphis? (Yeah yeah!)
Wanna see Billy Packer stick a sharp knife through each one of his eyelids? (Uh-huh!)
Wanna copy Derrick Rose and do exactly like he did?
Try punching fans and get messed up worse than Joey Dorsey is?
His brain’s dead weight, he’s tryin to get his head straight
but he can’t figure out which stripper he wants to impregnate.
And John Calipari said “CDR, you wasted”
Uh-huh, so get him the ball, you fucking basehead.

Texas – Players on Texas >>> all other teams in country not named Kansas or “UCLA”
Rick Barnes <<<<< All other Coaches still in the tournament
Splitting the difference makes them a Final Four loser to Kevin “I don’t” Love “to look clean”

Louisville – Their “best” player is a white guy who can draw fouls inside AND passes well. They are my sleeper pick to make the final/win the tournament. These facts are not unrelated.

Stanford – Their “best” player is a white guy who can draw fouls inside. And his just-as-gaily-named brother is also on the team. Brook and Robin go home in a blaze of Texas 3’s and androgeny.

Davidson – His name is apparently pronounced “STEF an.” That’s really all I got. Focusing on names and colour of skin here, folks. This shit doesn’t always write itself.

Wisconsin – Probably the best team with absolutely no freaking shot of winning the title. So, uh, they got that going for them. If they were named the “Beavers” instead of the “Badgers,” that would be two things they had going for them. As it is, though, they really only have the one.

Villanova – I work with a kid who went to ‘Nova, and I live 25 minutes away from Philly. Just thought you should know.

Kansas – The team that likely has the best athletes, the best sense of playing as a team, and the most actually GOOD defenders who PLAY defense. They also have Bill “Rick Barnes” Self. I will lose money on them, and I will hold it against them for, say….at least 5 years.

Washington State and Tennessee – D    o    n    ‘   t      c     a   r    e…but for Phil’s sake: PENIS PENIS PENIS

Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

by Sean Kates, Wilmington, DE — Sad news today in the sports world, as the last bastion of moxie, fun and painkillers finally hung up his cleats. Flashing that sexy, boyish grin one last time, ultimate master of teammery Brett Favre told his agent, Buss Cook, to tell his team’s coach of his plans.  Fan darling and Green Bay idol Favre has no plans to hold a press conference to explain his departure from a team that nearly went to a Super Bowl just 2 months ago, though speculation runs rampant that he is currently busy having his knob slobbed by Peter King for the 17th consecutive offseason. If these reports hold true, this will mark the end of an era, a distressing thought for columnists who could previously practice closeted racism by holding up Favre (a gunslinging painkiller addict with a taste for the unsavory interception) as the paragon of all that is good in the league, but now may be forced to rely on reports about Daunte Culpepper’s sexcapades.

Favre began his career as a hick from a busted Southern school, under the wing of the single most wronged coach of all time. He has come a long way, and is now a dashing hick from a busted Southern school, career leader in touchdowns, interceptions, and any other stat that rewards throwing a ball for an unequalled length of time and in unequalled numbers. What a long, awesomely white, trip it’s been. Critics have pointed to Favre’s proneness to making big mistakes in pressure situations, especially over the past few years, but have been roundly answered with cries of “Great White Hope,” “Addiction Overcomer” and “What type of word is ‘proneness,’ anyhow?.”

The National Football League will miss Brett Favre, not just because he went to the Pro Bowl nine times, or because he’s the National Football League’s all-time leader in giving me erections, but because deep-down, he knew what it took to be a winner: guts. He gutted out year after year, taking the field for an insane 253 consecutive regular season games (275 including the playoffs). Sure, he was probably hurt a couple of those times, and he may have even cost his teams some very important wins. But that’s not what matters. What matters most of all is heart…and fun…and uh…guts. Yeah…he rocked. So all haters can, in lieu of flowers, send busts of their lips to Brett Favre’s house, because now that he is retired, he has plenty of time to apply them to his ass.

The Devolution WILL Be Televised

Because I am waiting for Laura to come home from her Happy Hour, perhaps with pretzel covered hot dogs, I turn on the T.V.  SportsCenter has not one, not two, but THREE “Breaking News” items to start their show. First, Asante Samuel signs a deal with the Eagles. You may be asking yourself “Whozee did what now?” and this would be the correct response. However, since I live in Philly’s news zone, I care because I will have to hear about it endlessly, interspersed with talk about how the Eagles should trade the Black Quarterback and put in that kid from Houston, because uh…(insert rationalization to hide Philly’s racism). Awesome.

Second bit, Johan got lit in Spring Training, by Juan Gone of all people. Coming off last year’s mediocre second half (by his standards) and the upward-trending HR rate, I am slightly terrified that Johan will only win 25 games this year against the beasts of the National League.

Finally, and the catalyst for this rant: Barry Bonds’ 2003 testimony will be unsealed/released to the public. OR something. Look, I am a huge baseball fan. And I happen to be a lawyer. But more than anything, I am BORED. Bored of terrible “legal” analysis by some guy ESPN unearthed from the mass graves of unemployed lawyers to give some credence to the anchors’ claims that Barry Bonds is in “BIG TROUBBBBBLLLEEEE!!!”

No, he’s not. Moreover, no one cares if he is. I dare anyone to tell me correctly what this case is about and what its current state is. I guarantee that, outside of the prosecutors (MAYBE, though they too seem completely fucktarded), no one could. Given 100 random people who are “fans” of baseball, 75% would tell you that he’s being tried for use of illegal steroids, 10% will say he lied in front of Congress, with maybe 15% knowing he is on trial for perjury during testimony before a federal grand jury. However, that 15% would likely be unable to tell you what the original case was about, or what “lies” Barry is supposed to have told.

However, I can guarantee that 100% of them wouldn’t give a shit. And those that say they do will be lying, and mostly from  that 75% who think he is being charged for doing drugs. Oh, and they would be whitey white white. But that goes without saying.

Seriously, when the most interesting sports news of the day involves football free agency (entire NFL FA process boiled down into one sentence: “I would like to sign you to a contract for 12 years, 300 (non-guaranteed) million dollars, with a 2.4 million dollar signing bonus, which will of course comprise the entirety of the money you see from this deal after we randomly cut you to offer someone else 400 (non-guaranteed) million dollars of fake money”), and the signing of the player who two-handedly lost the Patriots the Super Bowl.

The Unbearable Terpness of Being

Watching a live ESPN GameCast (on ESPN.com, brought to you by ESPN Sports on ABC) of a game between Wake Forest and my alma mater last night, I had a sudden, startling and partially crushing realization. I AM Maryland Basketball. No, not in the Nik Caner-Suckley way. Nor in the way that my best players through the past 5-6 years are: a Snakeman ala James Earl Jones in Conan: The Barbarian, a cross-eyed point guard who may or may not have punched a gay guy in the face for being gay, a guy whose best chance of getting a shot off in the NBA came in a car while driving near the White House, and the nephew of the mayor for the “Greatest City in America.”*

No, I mean it in the metaphorical way that people mean things when they are trying to come to a point, and want to use an inanimate object or non-sensical antecedent to obfuscate their point, albeit poetically. I mean it in the way that I could just have easily replaced the 200 words above with: “I am probably the most maddeningly inconsistent person I know.” But I didn’t, so now you will read through at least a few paragraphs stretching the limits of personification of a sports team, all to find out that the one sentence above, combined with a “I am also great at times” would have sufficed. So it goes. If that all becomes too boring, go look at this (warning, PDF), and realize your life could be more boring…you could find that page exciting, like I do.

So, Maryland. They’ve beaten UNC in Chapel Hill, and lost to the mighty Bobcats of Ohio (4th in the MAC, bitches!!!) in Comcast. They are 4-3 in road games in the ACC, but still rest firmly on the bubble to make the NCAA tournament. Even within games, they take 10 point leads, then piss them away with failed alley-oops and off-the-foot dribbling. (Note: That means dribbling the ball off one’s foot, not a white boy’s misbegotten attempt to use some version of “off-da-chain”….though of course if you read critically for context, you would know that, and wouldn’t need this note, moron)

Such is my life, and in all facets. I can be an extraordinary worker for extended periods of time. I finish in hours what takes others weeks. I routinely solve the long-standing problems of a team with 2-3 sentences delivered after minutes of thought. However, I also will sit around and blog about how great a worker I am when others around me are helping each other prepare for an enormous project vital to the continuation of our group. I take entire days off of real work to look for jobs and read about basketball similarities, but even then, I don’t DO those things particularly well or consistently.

Case in point: I own a fantasy baseball keeper team with Phil. We are defending champs (by “we,” I of course mean our pooled money, since I do 99% of the work and he bitches about Matt Holliday not even being a real person), and have a studly rotation of keepers that give us a leg up on competing again this year. I LOVE fantasy baseball, and am very good at it (those two are completely unconnected, I’m sure). I took a free trial of Amazon Prime in mid-January just so I could pre-order 9 different baseball books, at least half of which are in some ways predictative of the coming season. And yet…I have barely read the predictative books; I have started, but not completed, a spreadsheet that would make things easier for me to follow at the draft; and I have yet to formulate any sort of plan for the coming season, or sense of what others’ plans might be. The draft continues to approach, and I do nothing, hoping that Phil will somehow contribute, which is basically like risking my entire team on Cole Hamels staying healthy (if Phil even knew who Cole Hamels was).***

On a personal level, I have to assume that Laura and my friends have figured out that I will be a pretty average friend or lover, respectively (hah…that means I have sex with my friends, see), about 50% of the time, with the other half of the time clearly split between “careless douche” and the “greatest person in America.”** (Yeah, my asterisks are out of order…screw off) I also have to assume that this is probably a fucking annoying-as-hell trait. Luckily, today is not in the 25% of the time I don’t give a shit about your feelings.

Anyway, this post has no “catch,” or really a “point,” per se. Just a note that I am somewhat heavily invested in the Terps doing well the rest of the year, but not necessarily for the common reasons.

 UPDATE: Ouch.

*Everything written on street benches is 100% accurate, so I have no worries that Baltimore can fully back this claim up. Also, that Freddie both “wuz heer” and “sux dix.”

** I scrawled this on a park bench I passed in Baltimore today, so it is true.

*** Phil, this is what Cole Hamels’ ass looks like, just FYI. I know that’s how you remember men. See….’cause you’re gay!!!! Beware of any Steve Blakes in the area.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

This is an exciting time of the year for me, with two of my favorite “three-week spans” occurring nearly simulateously. Unshockingly, they both revolve around sports and are largely scoped by hatred. First up, the three weeks of every year that I look forward to the coming baseball season. Spring training starts, fantasy baseball drafts are held (and dominated by me), and there is promise that this season will be different…that this is the season where baseball is not ungodfully boring, where going to games means more than a sunburned neck and a stomach bloated with beer and hotdogs, where…well…where I actually LIKE baseball. I know it’s stupid, and that by the end of July, I will find it hard to care who is getting the most time at 2B for the Colorado Rockies, but for now, it’s comforting to think that baseball exists as anything but a soul-crushing game worth very little outside of number crunching fantasy. I might write again about (fantasy) baseball as the season nears, but for now, will focus on the second reason to love March:

 College basketball ends.

Put in its simplest form (which I will immediately complicate with words and “explanation”), this is how I view NCAAB:

College Basketball:Sports::Microcosm of X:X

Actually, that about does it so far as explanation goes. I LOATHE much about sports, but find they ultimately redeem themselves with some small bangle that sparkles my eyes. It’s like sports is an abusive, yet rich and good-looking boyfriend with a diamond necklace in his hand, and I am any woman ever. The NCAA tournament is a very, very shiny necklace.

It probably helps that my analogy holds true even during the trying months of college basketball (i.e. the REST of the season). I slavishly pine over regular season matchups, I look forward to special occasions (“THIS SATURDAY ON ESPN!!! #2 TENNESSEE AT #1 MEMPHIS….THEY’RE NOT JUST FIGHTING FOR TENNESSEE ANYMORE (ESPN)….THE SOUTH HAS RISEN AGAIN!!!!…WE MEAN THAT IN A NON-RACIST WAY!!!! ESPN!!!!”), and I know every hair on the back of my lover’s hand, even if it took getting slapped again and again with it.*

The NCAA tournament, then, is my day in the sun, when I can cart around my charming little lover, and everyone praises me for the choices I’ve made relationship-wise. All that being said, I have developed some coping mechanisms over the years, and learned a few things to make that day in the sun just a little bit brighter. And, because I’m this far into an extended post about a sport I openly hate, I will share them with you:

1.) White stars both a.) happen in college basketball and b.) are important in tournament success.

Their teams may not win the whole enchilada (I’m only trying to prepare you for the endless Tex-Mex references, since this year’s Final Four is in San Antonio…other phrases to slowly immunize yourselves for: any version of “Riverwalk” to discuss a traveling call, or a team’s passage to SA; “alamo” used in reference to a team making a valiant last-second stand, or really any time a team does anything; “deep in the heart of” used to refer either to long range shooting at the end of a shot clock, or a way of nicely saying that black players on the Final Four teams will mostly stay in their hotel rooms after dark, for safety reasons), but there will be one or two white led teams that way overachieve in the tournament and they will be, in hindsight, ridiculously easy to predict. Think Wallyworld time for Miami (Ohio) a few years (almost a decade now) back. Generally, these teams will have EXTREMELY good white players, but they will also a very good second or third player who can pick up the slack when the white guy gets tired, and they either play in terrible conferences where no one sees them, or achieve just above mediocrity in great conferences where more athletic teams dominate the coverage. Teams that fall under this category currently include: Stanford (hah…their parents named twins Brook and Robin…did they not know whether they were males?), Notre Dame, Butler (depends on their seed, really…if they get shafted with a 4 or 5 and end up in a bracket with Tennessee or Duke as the 1, I could see an Elite 8 appearance), St. Mary’s and Purdue. Teams that seem to fit this mold but actually suck: Vanderbuilt and Brigham Young. Hilariously, one of the teams I almost guarantee will not live up to expectations is Georgetown, who historically REFUSED to recruit or play white players, and who seems to have a reverse racist on its current roster.

P.S. I know that is not a picture of Wally Sczczczerebizak. It’s Todd MacCulloch, if you really have to know. He’s just a funnier picture than Wally.

2.) Teams whose success is tied to their “playing as a team” or “playing hard, scrappy defense” will not win…anything.

If you do not have at least 1 blue chipping college star, it will be nearly impossible to earn your seed. Failure to have at least one (and in most cases, 2 or more) NBA caliber players will doom you to watching Gus Johnson ejaculating all over himself about how a better team than you was just SPURred to eternal remembrance (his words, not mine) by a guy who is promising to forgo many millions of dollars in the coming months to get one more chance to lead his alma mater (if one calls a school they never graduated from an alma mater) to victory. (I DARE you to follow that sentence). Teams that should worry: Duke (who might also defy the white boy category above, but I think their two best players are Nelson and Henderson over Singler), Tennessee, Wisconsin, and Xavier. Teams that probably fit, but might still have a chance (read as: I irrationally love them for another reason): Louisville and Rhode Island.

3.) Don’t be Kansas.

Look, I know that Kansas has reached about a hundred consecutive Elite Eights, and people use that as an example of how they aren’t REALLY underachieving in the tournament, but…Kansas is routinely one of the best 2-3 teams in the country come tournament time, and they are almost always a top 2 seed. It’s been 5 years since they made the Final Four and 20 years since they won a tournament. In that time, they are the only MAJOR program (UCLA, Kentucky, Duke, UNC) to not go through some sort of slow period, and yet, they have nothing to show for it, while each of those other schools won at least one title. Teams that should worry about this: Kansas.

4.) Freshmen until the Final, older guards after that.

The final nugget for now (over 1100 words by the end of this, somehow) is probably pointless this year, since basically ALL teams are run in some non-negligible way by freshmen. However, it’s something to thnk about when filling out the last few bars in the pool, especially the very last. Greg Oden and Mike Conley lost to 5 guys who had been around the block before in the first year post-bullshit NBA draft rule. I expect something similar this year. Maybe something like Derrick Rose and Memphis losing to UCLA (guided by Kevin Love, true, but LED by Collison). I could also see Kansas State making a run to the final under this rubric, but can’t see them winning it all for the same reason.   

*This analogy is now sort of disturbing, both in the way I recognize my obsequience to college basketball and because I don’t believe that domestic violence is ever funny, or warranted. I mean, unless she REALLY deserves it, of course.  

Morning Routine

Every morning I do the same thing…..your mom!!!! OOOO!!! See, it works two different ways, ’cause I have sex with your mom AND I imply that she’s not even a person. See?!??!

Anyway, I do the same thing. I wake up and have a bowl of cereal splattered with milk out of one of the two open containers of milk we have in the refridgerator because Laura won’t drink out of the older one. I shower, dress and walk 2 blocks to the train station.

Once the train pulls into Baltimore, I either wait on the Penn Station platform or walk past the He-She to the UB/Mt. Royal station to catch a train to Lexington Market and the home office.

When I get to work, the real fun (and by that, I of course mean “monotony”) starts. I turn on all the lights, as my co-workers won’t be there for at least another hour or so, to carp about how they have tons of work to do, then sit around and discuss whether John McCain’s wife is hot or not. In the silence before the inanity, however, I can almost enjoy myself, so I settle down for the first of many hours staring straight ahead at a computer screen.

Invariably, the first site I visit is imdb.com, which also happens to be the focus of my first post (man, I bet you thought I was leading nowhere, but oooohhhh no, I am leading places…important places). I go there to start my day for a variety of reasons, including their ”Truly Trivial” and “Movie/TV Quote of the Day” quizzes, and the roll of 10-12 movie related links at the bottom. As a man who loves to watch movies instead of, say, writing a law review article, I can get behind this hardcore focus on the uniquely self-serious world of the ridiculously useless, aka Hollywood.

However, I also go there to learn. For instance, yesterday I went to the site and found out that Simon Pegg is much older than I thought. This could be good news, because it means that a 38 year old man can thrive mostly off of zombie movies and acting like a complete retard, albeit a British one. However, it could also be bad news if he spends the next/last 5 years of his productive life doing Star Trek movies, conventions, and sexing (make sense of that), until he’s a fat middle-aged wanker with nothing to offer me.

I also learned that Johnny Depp’s butt buddy, Freddie Highmore, turned an astounding 16 yesterday. He still looks 8, so I imagine he doesn’t have anything to worry about for a while. However, in a year or two, his age might start to creep through, and Depp might start to “find neverland” somewhere else other than Highmore’s East End. If you are asking whether I am implying that Depp is a homosexual pedophile, then you are a moron. Also, I am jealous of Highmore, mostly for the fudgepackery.

The real benefit of imdb.com, however, are the sections delivering “news” from around the world, straight to my cubicle. Did you know Jane Fonda said “cunt” on television yesterday? This marks the second time in a year (Andrew showing me the clip of her on Colbert’s show in one of Andrew’s Comedy Central fugues) where I was shocked, shocked at Ms. Fonda’s behavior…I mean, aren’t corpses supposed to be, you know, more dead? In more “news,” some chick who was apparently in “The Crow” 14 years ago pulled a Winona Ryder on a LAX gift store, the Coen brothers are attempting to cement their reputations for being genius writers and directors by co-directing (i.e. doing half the work of a normal director) a movie based on a book by someone else….AGAIN (this time Chabon’s Yiddish Policeman’s Union), and Jason Biggs, who was briefly famous for fucking a pie, is having a child. Splendid.

The best news item of the day, however, was this:

“Actress Michelle Williams opened up about her failed relationship to Heath Ledger just weeks before the death of the tragic star. In an interview with Britain’s Wonderland Magazine published this month, the Oscar-nominated Brokeback Mountain beauty discussed how much her life had changed since her September 2007 split from fiance Ledger, admitting she has learned not to plan too far ahead in the future.”

Two things immediately jumped out at me from this. First, they called her a “beauty.” I will try to say this politely…she’s…uh…fucking disgusting, like a walking duck parading as an ugly human. Second, I’m not sure the lesson to be learned from some guy taking about 7 different pain killers and sleeping pills is to “not plan ahead.” Especially if, you know, you’re the mother of a 2 year-old child who just lost her dad to his having ingested 7 different kinds of prescription medication. I’d suggest, instead, planning way ahead…like for the psychiatrist to normify (the best word) a kid whose dad died when she was 2, and whose mother is an ugly whore duck who was famous for making out with a cereal box.  The End.