Well I guess this is growing up

Today, we all are (apparently) Arcade Fire fans.

Please, don't confuse my snark for displeasure. Arcade Fire are a great band and deserve whatever accolades come their way. But somehow this feels less like a victory and more like watching something you love slip away.

For what feels like the past ten years, the Grammys have meant almost nothing to any serious music fan. And even less to casual music fans. Serious music fans are lucky if a handful of artists considered "good" win anything of merit (and it's always off-camera anyway). Mainstream fans already know what they like. A trophy changes no one's mind. I am sure the Academy Awards committee has a good laugh over the music industry's most important night of the year -- the one which manages to celebrate the most safe and mainstream manifestations of it's art form and still screw it up.

Think of all the iconic Grammy moments. Milli Vanilli. Alicia Keys winning a number of trophies far too large for her to carry. Elton John and Eminem. I list these disparate things with less than 100% certainty they didn't happen during MTV's Video Music Awards or some other music award show no one cares about for more than the day after it airs.

But last night one of us -- one of the good guys -- finally broke through, took down the Biebers and the Gagas and the Antebellums and changed the music world forever.

The thing is, Arcade Fire is pretty fucking popular. And I don't mean just with the cool kids. I mean, they won a Grammy, they must be popular. Kidding aside, they cracked your parent's subconscious by attaching "Wake Up" to Where the Wild Things Are (a film which I am sure falls into "the trailer is markedly better than the feature" category). Their songs were used in NFL broadcasts. Honestly, they are just a slower-developing, more critcally accepted Kings of Leon at this point. Now, with a trophy to show for it.

As fans of any degree of something labeled as "indie" (or counterculture or whatever tag you choose) will tell you, the day you watch your favorite things grow up and are co-opted by the masses is a sad, angry one. I bet this is how Watchmen fans felt. Or Nirvana fans. On the one hand, yay! Success for the thing you like! On the other, "these people don't like X like I do." But once things go from writing on the wall, to watching the acceptance speech, well it's tough to go back.

It can be done. I watched M.I.A. go from unheard of, to "Paper Planes" becoming every college girl's anthem, to obscurity again. "So, what do you guys think of MAYA? Oh, you remember M.I.A., right?" I'll stop the hypothetical there. Radiohead half did it, performing at the Grammys while still being awesome. But even they are in the Guitar Band video games, where a new generation can learn how mediocre Pablo Honey is via "Creep."

I don't love these artists any less than I did pre-breakthrough (well, a little). But they lose...something. An edge? A mystique? A feeling of intimacy? They won't mean as much to me as the bands I love who will (hopefully) never breakthrough (sorry, guys).

I've learned nearly all my Facebook friends are Arcade Fire fans today. Who knew? It's the most pretentious thing one can do -- decry something once loved after it becomes popular -- but I feel it happening. Arcade Fire just seems less special now that millions of people are listening to Funeral for the first time. The chances I hear "Ready to Start" or "Month of May" in some bar just went up by 1,000 percent.

I want to wish them well. To wish them all the best on whatever wonderful opportunities await them post-Grammy. But I can't. I won't wish them ill, but indifference. I'll buy (pirate) their next record and probably enjoy it. But I'll scratch them off the list of "bands to see before I die." I don't feel like fighting hundreds of thousands of people through Ticketmaster the day they go on sale, selling out Madison Square Garden.

Welcome to the mainstream.

Untamed Might

Since it's inception, there have been many Youtube all-stars. Players who exist for the 30-second highlight. Players who once would have been lost in obscurity even 15 years ago, now find themselves cult heroes.

Captain of the Youtube All-Stars as of 2010? Blake Griffin.



By now, most of you have seen the way he ruthlessly murdered a Russian. But how about poor DJ Mbenga? Jeff Green, Blake Griffin. Scouring Youtube, one would think Griffin has been playing for ten years -- there are just that many insane highlights. One more, full embed:


"It's an unbelievable dunk, but based on all the other dunks..." Yes, Griffin's dunks are compared to one another. In the same game.

The phrase "Griffin on the break" is enough to elicit euphoria from even the most mild-mannered announcers, in the most one-sided of contests. That was laughter you heard in the above clip. Some things are impossible to describe with words.

I found myself gasping at the prospect of Griffin throwing one down on a three-on-two the one time I've been able to watch the Clippers this season. Shawn Kemp, a young Amare (who himself realizes this kid is something), whoever Griffin is compared to, there is always one common thread: power. Unlike the next Jordan or Magic or Bird, Griffin is not compared to greatness, but to unbridled strength.

Griffin is what makes the NBA great. And it's more than the myriad highlight reels. It's his ability to astound multiple times on a nightly basis, to take your breath away at the idea of what might be. Football games have their high-octane violence, but rarely display feats of amazement outside of wide receiver catches (and those guys all wanted to play in the NBA anyway). Baseball has it's pastoral appeal and "no margin is big enough" tension, but nothing compared to even one alley-oop.

You can bet I circled March 19th -- the one game the Clippers visit the Celtics this season -- as a must go-to game. Because while he will live forever in Youtube highlights, it is almost certain that those who see Blake Griffin in person will not soon forget it.

I am reminded of Kanye West: No one man should have all that power.

Also, he's a motherfucking monster.

Indie rock :: The NBA as Peanut butter :: Chocolate

In his latest column Bill Simmons wrote the following: "When you watch Miami, it's like watching a White Stripes concert -- tons of talent, great music, but still just a little bit gimmicky because it's only two people."

First off: fuck you. The White Stripes are not a gimmick and will go down as one of the best bands of the 2000s and are certainly seminal for almost everyone my age. Second of all: fuck you for not going further.

If we are to believe the Heat are the White Stripes (which is wrong anyway, because see one Bosh, Chris), then who are the Lakers? Celtics? Thunder? Hornets?

LA Lakers = Animal Collective

Simply the best. Anyone who argues otherwise is a fool. They both have ruled the 2000s and remain stronger than ever, often with different iterations as the years wore on.

For reference:
Kobe = Panda Bear - Unquestioned leader/most talented. Capable of going solo to great success, but achieving true transcendence as a part of something greater.
Artest = Geologist - Willing to do the dirty work. The eccentric.
Pau = Avery Tare - Is the actual alpha while ceding the spotlight to Kobe/Panda Bear.
Odom = Deakin - Unrealiable, but when he's on, they go to another level.

Boston Celtics = New Pornographers

While individual members from both found success apart, together they embody the term superteam/supergroup. Able to supplant egos and personalities for the greater good. Rondo is obviously Neko Case, while KG is Dan Bejar, and Pierce is A.C. Newman.

OKC Thunder = Sleigh Bells

Led by/composed of two uber-talented stars (KD as vocalist Alexis Krauss and Westbrook as everything else-ist Derek Miller), also may be a victim of too much hype. Frenetic, up-tempo, and fun to watch. Still much to prove.

Utah Jazz = Vampire Weekend

Safe, white, rooted in traditions that came before them, and sneaky great. Both have very annoying fans.

New Orleans Hornets = Kanye West

A sublime talent supported by a revolving door of guests. Both West and Paul should be considered all-time greats by those who don't and both still have more bullet points to add to the resume.

San Antonio Spurs = Spoon

Sustained, subtle greatness. Every year it seems they remind everyone how rock-soild they are, only to fade in the background amidst our lust for the new. Eventually we will look back and realize how defining they were.

Miami Heat = Arcade Fire

Each have two all-timers (Funeral as Lebron, Neon Bible as Wade) and one question mark (Bosh and Suburbs), along with not much else. When they are on, there is absolutely no one better. Not nearly as deep as most contemporaries and historically, may be destined to fall short.

Magic: The Neverending

I grew up on games. I think our entire generation did, whether it was Monopoly or Risk or Pong. Even things like Hide-and-Seek, Tag, or, my personal favorite run-around-kids-game, Ghost in the Graveyard are simple games that teach kids rules, social interaction, and (some level of) critical thinking.

As we grow older, games fade in the background and work rears it's ugly head. “Play” becomes “try to get a girlfriend” or “go to a party” or “*insert whatever teens do*”. But for us – the gamers of the world – games never go away.

And as we move toward the end of 2010, video games are quickly becoming exponentially more mainstream. They're featured in movies, referenced in TV shows, promoted by celebrities and have generally moved from “niche” to “insanely popular.” They generate billions of dollars, create ad revenue, and shatter entertainment records. They have their own television channel, countless web sites devoted to them, and have spawned a retail giant. Games are a big fucking deal.

I, of course, am a gamer. So are all my friends. But as we inch toward (shudder) thirty years old, some of us find it harder and harder to game. This past year I found it very difficult to game. But not because of awesome things like a new family or an exciting career, but because someone took that option away from me.

I had my current-generation gaming consoles stolen.

Now, that fact in and of itself is not a huge deal. After all, my games were not taken and a Wii/360 costs, what, $300 to replace? Suck it up and get back to it! But about a thousand other factors factored in to my decision to not replace (as of writing) my consoles. Money was one (I'm poor). Losing my first writing job was another (that sucked). Moving to a new city was yet another (rent, poor, etc.).

But the biggest one was a reappearance of an old, old friend. Magic: The Gathering.

See, now you see how much of a true gamer I am. Anyone can play Wii Sports of Call of Duty. It's now completely socially acceptable. Even a legendary game like Dungeons and Dragons has some allure to it. At least my parents have some vague idea of what it is and maybe even tried it once. But those of us who play MTG? Let me tell you, there is still the good old stigmas – the sideways looks, the stereotypes – that once existed with video gaming.

Just before I moved to Providence, RI, I was getting “the itch” as people who play the most popular and successful collectible card game ever call it. “When was your break?” is a common conversation topic between MTG players. You never really quit the game, you just take a vacation.

A little history regarding my MTG experience. I have been playing since about 1998. I am 24 years old and the year is 2010. So I have been playing the game roughly half my life. That is insane. I remember playing in grade school during lunch and indoor recess or even after/before school. I had a friend who played so much he won $1,000 scholarship and the local newspaper wrote an article about him, calling the game “a mix between Poker and Chess.” One of my earliest jobs (and, truth be told, most rad) was at a baseball card store – which I got solely on my near-encyclopedic knowledge of Magic cards. In short: Magic was a huge part of my development as a person, not just a gamer.

But back to playing it. I had found a place that held events near my new apartment and decided to check it out. In the blink of an eye I was back. Chatting with people about how long I had been playing or arguing about strategic decisions. Even my background working at a similar shop. A great thing about the game is you always have something to talk about with someone who plays it. Unlike music (or even video games, there are so many), taste is not really a factor when it comes to MTG conversations. You can just as easily give a ten-year-old kid a tip on what cards he should put in his angel deck as you can argue with someone about pick orders in M11 draft. I've never had such easy and interesting conversations with complete strangers as I have when talking MTG.

It wouldn't be hyperbole to say nearly every person I've met since I've lived in Rhode Island has been because of Magic. Go to enough of the same places, and you get to know people. Hell, you even get that thing where people go from “Magic friend” to “real friend.” It's the best part about the game – the social aspect. Sure, you can play Xbox Live and “meet” people, but it isn't the same as matching wits across the table, shaking hands after, swapping bad beat stories, talking about the latest set's rumors, or pulling out your trade binder. The face-to-face, sportsman aspect is a huge part of what makes MTG great. I love competition – and don't get me wrong, Halo can be (and was) very competitive – and I think it is something that most gamers can relate to. But the perfect balance of decision-making, preparation, and a little luck, MTG has makes for an intoxicating mix.

But beyond that, the ritual of going to your local card shop every week for a tournament or after work to pick up some packs or singles or playing with some friends at some 24-hour restaurant – it's these things that keep people hooked for decades.

I can happily say I'm firmly entrenched in Magic again. I consume articles the way I did video game blogs. I think about the game constantly at work. I look forward to tournaments and release events. Cards are (much to the lady's chagrin) strewn about my apartment. I even dabble in writing about the game. And I love it.

Magic has filled the void left by having little to no video games. And it's not for lack of trying. I still have my DS but rarely play it. I find Magic just an overall more fulfilling and pleasing hobby. There will always be a place in my heart for video games and, if they're anything like Magic is, I will find my way back to them someday soon.

But for now, I am happy slinging spells with some great people. Long live tapping the cardboard.

The blog... MUST CONTINUE!

I give you, Hot Drinks:

The basement must live!

As Grish said, we can't let this blog die. Unfortunately, all I do these days is work, go to the gym, and try not to spend money. This makes it really difficult to write anything of substance. Plus, DC is a city that is difficult not to spend money in.

For some entertainment I pose this question:

What movies have you seen this past month and what'd you think?

I did drop $10 and go see Surrogates cause it seemed somewhat interesting. It was in fact somewhat interesting, but they took the action movie route way too soon instead of letting the ethical debate flow. Killed pretty much any emotional connection to characters or potential connection. That was a bit of a bummer, but not bad if you go to rent it.

Not dead yet

[I refuse to let this blog die. Not on my watch. Possible spoilers, definite formatting laziness ahead]

As far as pop culture is concerned, I think I owe the horror genre a lot of credit in sculpting my personality. I have a dark sense of humor, the seeds of which were cultivated by Freddy Kreuger one-liners. I find violence and gore more entertaining than disgusting, in no small part due to Evil Dead’s Ash and the elaborate kills of one Jason Vorhees. My teenage brain was fostered on games like Doom and Halo – blessed amalgamations of the horror, sci-fi, and action genres.

Thus, it’s broken my heart that there has been this dearth of quality horror films in the mainstream over the last decade or so. I am young enough to have no moment I can point to when I was actually frightened seeing a film in theatres. I’ve had to traverse the world for films like Audition, Man Bites Dog, and Oldboy to find my thrills. In US theatres, The Descent and (don’t laugh) Cabin Fever were probably the closest I’ve come to thinking “damn, that was scary.”

That streak has now ended. It’s unbelievable that if you are reading this you have not at least heard of Paranormal Activity. The hype surrounding it has reached Blair Witchian (or, for a non-genre comparison, Snakes on a Planeian) proportions, becoming drive-a-few-hours appointment viewing for anyone with even the slightest bit of pop culture curiosity.

If you are the one among your group of friends who has no idea what I am talking about, the set-up is simple. Guy sets up camera in bedroom to catch what his girlfriend claims is a haunting. Activities of the paranormal variety ensue. That’s it. Just like Blair Witch’s “people run around in woods, horror ensues” tagline, there isn’t a whole lot of complication here. But it’s this “it could happen to you” feeling that makes both films effective.

And is Activity ever effective. As the day/night cycle continues (camera timestamp and all), the audience’s feeling of dread grows. What starts off as doors creaking and objects moving inexplicably, turns into disturbing sleepwalking and, later, let’s call them “physical actions.” By the sixth or seventh night you are really on edge, expecting anything and everything, or possibly nothing. By the last clip of footage you’re really just ready for it to be over, unable to handle much more escalation.

It’s really this slow build that makes Activity shine. Much like Audition (and really, all good horror), it lulls you to sleep somewhat, leaving you to question whether anything will ever happen. But you know it will. Just when and what becomes the tension.

The film is far from perfect though. There are shifts in tone that take away from the terror on screen. Boyfriend Micah jokes far too much (his lines, far too clever to be unscripted), eliciting too many laughs from the audience. The very end of the film also falls into one of the worst trappings of the real-but-not-real horror films – the “they were never found” cop-out. By now most people know Activity is the work of some very enterprising filmmakers, not some unearthed documentary footage of a real haunting, so save the Unsolved Mysteries ending. No one’s buying.

But really, one cannot put a price on what Activity delivers on – genuine scares. I would label what happens more disturbing, unsettling, tense than terrifying, but for a modern horror movie, one cannot ask for much more.

I am not going to tell you to believe the hype. I am telling you to discard it. Forget the “scariest movie ever” or “the new Exorcist” talk. Just know that if you see Paranormal Activity you will not forget it. You will talk about it with those you saw it with. You will be compelled to pick the box up when it comes out on DVD, just to see what the film is like in your darkened apartment, as opposed to a crowded theatre.

And yes, there are a handful of moments you will be genuinely scared. You may even jump once or twice. And you will definitely get goose bumps with some regularity. Yes, Paranormal Activity has reached this jaded, desensitized horror fan’s heart.

I can’t imagine what it was like for normal people.

Interesting Promotion

Can't believe the candy companies didn't think of this.

New Yankee Stadium

I finally set foot in New Yankee Stadium this past Saturday. Upon arrival, the first thing you will realize is that The House That Jeter Built is gigantic. Walking into the the entrance hall took my breath away. In the hall towering banners line the wall showcasing the teams history. It is hard to go anywhere without seeing a picture of Ruth, Mantle, Gehrig, etc. staring at you. It seems that beyond updating the amenities, preserving history was the most important thing to the orginization. One of the new additions is the Yankee Musuem. Though small, the museum packs a hefty punch. Lining the room are display cases documenting the history of the team Ruth to Jeter. Not only is Thurman Munson's locker on display, but there is a recreation of the current Yankee lockers that can be customized with your name for a photo. The middle of the room has a giant case of autographed balls bookended by Yogi Berra and Don Larsen statues. The autographs range from people who barely touched a Yankee uniform (Mike Lowell) to the most famous Yankee of them all Babe Ruth. If you don't get excited to see an autographed Ruth baseball you aren't a fan of the game.

The food, oh the food. The New Yankee stadium did food right. Sure two cheesesteaks and sodas will run you $30, but god damn it is good. Basically every food you could want is there. Pizza, cheesesteaks, burgers, fries, shakes, sushi, noodle bowls, nachos, a steakhouse, sweets, everything. I regret not eating the garlic fries, next time they are first on the list. I found the prices comparable to other stadiums and events, $8 beers $5 bottled water. New Yankee Stadium is top notch.

My ass was happy to find an extremely padded seat waiting for me. There are cup holders for every seat and plenty of space (there are actually less seats).

My favorite part of the new stadium is the same as the old stadium, The Bleacher Creatures. The roll call, the Ric Flair woos, and the hilarious heckling of the right fielder were all fantastic. Rocco Baldelli was in right for most of the game, and he heard some good ones. In the funniest voice I have ever heard, somebody screamed "Baldelli, your mother's a drunk!" with such speed and passion. When J.D. Drew came into the game later, there was never a moment of silence. Between the usual "overpayed!" and "you suck!" chants were some real winners. My favorite was "Hey Drew! You should change your name to Baldelli (long pause) BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!", great delivery. Nick Swisher was treated like a god of course. If you go to New Yankee Stadium, sit in right field. The Bleacher Creatures are the heart and soul of Yankee Stadium old and new.

I have nothing bad to say about the stadium. While it isn't cheap to go, I can't say I didn't get my money's worth.

The Sunn O))) also rises

I am fully aware what that the following paragraphs you are about to read sound hyperbolic, foolish, and/or just plain wrong.

But Sunn O))) (from now on, Sunn because I’m lazy) was, by far, the most unique live experience I have ever had. When I am old and grey, my memory fading, there is no chance I will forget even one aspect of what I saw that night.

I am no Faulkner or Hemingway, and even if I were, the English language does not have words to properly describe what transpired 9/19 at AS220 in Providence, RI. I was hypnotized, mesmerized, flabbergasted, horrified, stunned, and amazed all at once. If you don’t feel like reading why, let me summarize: if you, in even the most minor way, love music, go see Sunn. Do it. Pay the $15 and drive an hour and a half. Make a friend go with you. You don’t even have to have heard one song by them. Just go. You will not regret it.

Now, one man’s feeble attempt to encapsulate just what it was like.

As my friend and I turned the corner on Empire Street a good two hours before the scheduled start time, we heard it: a fuzzed out, booming, feedback-filled note that sounded like some sort of primordial creature’s roar. We were at least a half block away from gallery/restaurant/venue AS220 and we heard the sound check. At that very moment I knew much of the rumors about Sunn were true.

Sunn is a doom metal band—a genre they probably didn’t invent, but sure as hell carry the flag for. They can be defined in a few words. Heavy. Loud. Slow. This is not the home of blast beats and face-melting guitar riffs. This is the home of one note stretched to the point of numbness, of bass so heavy you can feel them in your stomach and of songs longer than some films.

The band’s reputation precedes them. Stories of fleeing concertgoers, unprepared for what was unleashed upon them, are not uncommon. Loosened bowels and stomach contents from the sheer sonic weight coming out of dozens of imposing amps, was something I fully expected. And the black cowls, heavy fog, and minimal lighting creating a nightmarish vision.

To my knowledge, no one puked or fled the scene in terror on this Saturday night. But what did happen is nearly as strange. As the plodding, cavernous sounds of Sunn’s Monolith’s and Dimensions filled the small venue, everyone stood motionless. Unlike most shows, earplugs were standard issue. The twenty or so amps, along with the band’s rep, caused everyone to wear protection. The earplugs, along with the bled together nature of Sunn’s music, had a strange isolating effect on everyone present. You were relegated to your own head and whatever sounds Sunn decided to subject you to. No talking (no one could hear you if you tried), no dancing (difficult without a drum beat), nary a fist pump in sight (your arms were too heavy).

This was a wholly unique experience for me. No matter who it was, I had always seen some sort of movement during concerts. Not so here. One well-placed push would have knocked over the entire crowd, that’s how paralyzed we all were. The volume of the music—the waves of sound actually hitting you—made your clothes vibrate. For the vast majority of the show I stood with my arms at my sides just absorbing the wall of sound. There were moments where I had to shake myself in an effort to snap out of this trance Sunn had created.

And then, like something out of a Hitchock movie, Sunn decided to really mess everyone’s night up. As had happened a couple times earlier, guest vocalist of the night Attila Csihar made himself scare while the other members played on. In what seemed like an instant something appeared on stage. It was Csihar, but instead of his cowl, he was adorned in a full-body burlap sack, complete with a crown of sticks and an arm covered in bark. The scream he unleashed as his faceless visage scanned the crowd was unearthly.

For at least thirty seconds I was legitimately scared of what I was seeing. This also marked the only time my friend and I acknowledged each other during the show, as he turned to me, mouth agape and eyes wide open. We were lulled into such a stupor that this costume, this stark change in what we thought we were beginning to understand, was horrible.

Just as the shock of the tree monster had worn off, the show was over, the band finally lifting the veil and accepting applause. There was no encore (there never is), nor did there need to be. We were all spent.

The combination of a cold New England night, it being past midnight, and my body readjusting to not being bombarded with sound, stepping outside was like jumping into a lake in January. “If a car hit me,” I remarked as we crossed the street, “I don’t even think I would feel it.”

As I started the two-hour drive back to Cape Cod at 1 a.m., I knew it was just what I needed. The lonely highway and silence allowed me to process what had just gone on. I probably would have failed a field sobriety test had I been pulled over.

If that doesn’t make you want to see Sunn O))), I don’t know what will.

Pretty Hate Machine

Before his now infamous Hall of Fame speech, if you asked anyone to describe Michael Jordan, they would have used words that amounted to some combination of reverence, awe, and worship. He was the best basketball player ever. It's really not a debate. He was an assassin, ending the championship dreams of many. He remains the most famous player the NBA has ever seen – at least until the internet/ESPN/24-hour news cycle beneficiary, LeBron James. His HOF induction seems like more afterthought than affirmation.

But a funny thing happened during his acceptance speech. The real Jordan showed his face.

Here are some highlights from his speech:

• On being passed over in high school for the taller Leroy Smith: “I wanted to prove to the coach who actually picked Leroy over me, you made a mistake dude.”

• On roommate, Buzz Peterson: “He ain't never played against me yet, how did he become player of the year?”

• On not being picked as a starter at UNC: “From a basketball sense, I deserved to be on that Sports Illustrated. And he understands that.”

• Responding to “organizations win championships”: “I didn't see organization playing with the flu in Utah. I didn't see him playing with a bad ankle.”

• On his kids: “You guys have a heavy burden. I wouldn't want to be you guys if I had to because of all the expectations you have to deal with. I mean look around you, they charge $1000 for this whole event. It used to be $200.”

• On scoring 20 straight points to win a game: “There's no 'I' in team, but there is one in win”

Jordan reminded all of us – not even hoops fans, but anyone aware of pop culture – that Jordan was the most single-minded sportsman ever.

As Al Davis says, just win baby.

Look at that line about his children. He actually feels bad for them, that they have to live in his enormous shadow. He's a minute away from “good fucking luck.” At this point, it's not even an ego. It's a school of thought. No one is safe from Jordan's wrath.

Jordan was the greatest player of all-time because of this. He holds grudges. To this day it appears as though he would play Bryon Russell – a man whom he probably spent the most time talking about, not say, Scottie Pippen – in a pickup game simply because he had the audacity to question his retirement. He says – in all seriousness – that he may play when he's 50 years old. Because “limits, like fears, are often an illusion.” Are you kidding? Jordan comes off like your dad after a few too many Fourth of July beers. “I can take you. Come on, let's wrestle.” The thing is, no one would be really shocked if he tried to comeback.

Unlike a certain #4 we are all sick of, Jordan doesn't simply know and love the game he played for years and years. He needs it. He needs to be slighted. Mocked. Doubted. It comes across in his love of golf and love of (presumably) high stakes gambling. “You don't think I can win this hand? Nail this chip? I'll show you.” It's no stretch to picture Jordan in a high-priced retirement home at age 75, hustling fellow residents at Bingo, shuffleboard, checkers – anything competitive.

Before his Hall of Fame speech, we remembered Jordan in snapshots. The Shot. The Pushoff. The Tongue. Free Throw Line. 63. The Shrug. 6 Fingers. Air. All these moments were what a Hall of Fame speech should have been: a celebration of moments of greatness and being gracious toward those who helped him get there.

Like John Stockton and David Robinson – the pictures of grace and humility in their speeches. There was a small movement when it came time to induct Jordan that thought he should have been inducted alone, that such a mammoth figure would overshadow all other deserving candidates in his class. I was in favor of that sentiment. Now? Without Robinson and Stockton, Jordan's speech would have been so soul-crushing it may have tainted what should be an untaintable career.

As the years passed and the highlights became deeply ingrained in our memories, we seemed to have forgotten the greatest player in NBA history was an asshole.

WANT.

A Great Start

Here are a few videos to start the week off right.

I just caught the documentary "Tyson" last night, a must see for any boxing fan. Here are some of the great moments of his career.



Blur still rules. Here is their best song, "Coffee and Tv", from their reunion show.



I think the fact that somebody looped this is funnier/more absurd than the actual video.

How 'Major League' changed baseball forever

[Author's note: I felt this aside was necessary. If you're a writer, just get/use Twitter already.

Twitter is a lot of things. But it's best use is an inspiration receptacle. See exhibit A, from my feed:

Was the film "Major League" the root cause of the deification of closers? I say yes.
11:05 a.m. July 26

Nearly a month ago I wrote that. Now, notebooks are for dorks, so pre-Twitter that thought would have been awash in a sea of daily errands, song lyrics, Team Fortress 2 strategies, and movie quotes.

Now, that thought is a full post. That's Twitter for us non-celebrity writers.]

Major League is not a particularly great film. It's funny enough, especially among typical sappy sports affairs. But it is a movie I have probably seen at least twenty times. Probably much, much more, but I need to maintain some veneer of coolness.

For the uninitiated: Major League follows the story of a shitty Cleveland Indians baseball club. There is a wild and varied cast of characters who represent all manner of MLB stereotypes. From the Dark Continent-hailing Sorano to the fast-talking, base-stealing Willie Mays Hayes to the crotchety, mustachioed manager -- they're all here. There's a bitchy owner, who wants the team to lose so they can relocate and make more money. But it was really to make her seem more bitchy.

But guess what!? ::SPOILER ALERT:: Against all odds, they win the pennant in a dramatic and satisfying fashion! There were bunts. Strikeouts. Hugs. It was glorious.

Everyone who saw Major League remembers one thing more than anything else. Wild Thing.


It really doesn't lose that much in Spanish.

Charlie Sheen played Rick Vaughn, the team's hot-tempered, mohawk sporting closer. He entered the game to a cover of The Troggs' "Wild Thing" (due to his penchant for outside pitches and outrageous hair).

If any of this sounds familiar, it should. While Major League came out in 1989, it changed the course of baseball forever. In positive and negative ways. All because of one little song.

*****

When I say the name Mariano Rivera, a few phrases should pop into your head. Dominant. Yankees. Cutter. Even G.O.A.T. If "Enter Sandman" does not come to mind, you don't follow baseball closely enough.

Or Trevor Hoffman. Changeup. Padres. All-time saves leader. "Hells Bells."

Did you know nearly every closer in baseball (at least those who are worth a damn) have some sort of supposed-to-be-intimidating entrance theme?

And it all started with Hoffman and Rivera (or the P.A. guys) -- some ten years after the film -- emulating Sheen and Major League. Now, the relationship between closer and entrance theme has reached wrestling status, becoming a mini-theme song to the narrative film that is The Closer.

As cool as that is -- a movie affecting real life! -- there is a bigger issue at work here. Major League -- in all it's closer-as-God postulating -- single-handedly elevated the closer to the ridiculous heights the position has reached.

*****

I am no film scholar, but I can tell Sheen is the main character of Major League. He has sex with a woman. Punches out a guy. Does a lot of silly things. Main character stuff.

It stands to reason -- he was/is a big actor. But what is interesting is his position in the film. He's a relief pitcher, which is by far the most boring position in baseball (with the exception, maybe, of second base). He's not the big hitter. Or the tough-as-nails catcher. Not even the flashy center fielder. He's the closer.

I can't imagine many Average Joes knew what the hell a closer was in 1989. I suppose images of Eckersley-to-Gibson still resonated, but Eck was probably the most iconic modern closer. The non-baseball fan populous wasn't inundated with ESPN and highlights of 9th inning strikeouts with fistpumps yet.

But if you watch that above clip -- the way the stands are bumping, everyone ecstatic that Vaughn is entering the game, the music blaring so loudly -- it might as well be in 2009, in Fenway Park or Yankee Stadium or Dodger Stadium. Rick Vaughn was the best, most exciting, most entertaining part of that film and that fictional Indians team.

Just like Eric Gagne was in 2002.

"Steroids? Fuck yeah!"

The similarities between the fictional Vaughn and the real-life Gagne are startling. The Dodgers closer chose a ridiculous goatee/rec spec look, compared to the equally ridiculous mohawk/horn-rimmed glasses. They were both clearly dominant pitchers, Gagne recording 84 straight saves spanning two seasons, while Vaughn struck out that mean-looking Yankee who spit a lot.

But the similarities between Vaughn and Gagne's entrances is what gets me. Gagne had his own graphics featuring "Game Over" and a silly pixelated avatar of the Canadian closer. Fans began wearing the goggles and the goatee during games, just in the off-chance he'd come in and close. The man was a superstar. A real-life Vaughn some twenty years later.

The cult of Gagne -- all "Welcome to the Jungle" and Game Over -- would not have existed without the precident set by Major League. Concious or not, the fingerprints of Rick Vaughn's entrance theme, the fans going bananas over one of the most overrated position in sports, the costume-y getup, can still be seen today.

*****

Today, nearly every closer looks like a descendant of Vaughn. Boston's Jon Papelbon sported a mohawk for a time, even mentioning the film's icon. The closer position is home to some of the most flamboyant, borderline crazy players in all of baseball. Just look at Francisco Rodriguez (whose celebrations push the limits of good sportsmanship), Brian Wilson (in all his tattooed glory), or Fernando Rodney (who just threw a ball into the press box after nailing down a particularly tough save). Even if your team stinks, at least you have that ninth inning song, that cartoon character coming in at the end of the game, to cheer for.

In the seminal book Moneyball, Oakland GM Billy Beane admits he would pump up the value of his closers by making sure they recorded saves, despite thinking the stat was pointless. For the amount of "work" they do, the closer is probably the highest paid position in baseball. Somewhere in the long history of baseball it became necessary to have that end of the game guy. Someone to nail down those close games.

That moment may not have been when Major League hit theatres, but how else can you explain the unbelieveable similarities between and Vaughn and nearly every closer in baseball since?

Closers are rock stars and it's beacuse of Major League.

Free the Basement Fantasy Football League

Who wants in?

Bill Withers

This is such a solid groove that I had to put it up. It's been stuck in my head for days and I'm happy to have it. Also Bill Withers is one of those "That's them too!?" artists who secretly did "Ain't no Sunshine", "Lean On Me", and "Just the Two of Us". Dig on it.

Why the NFL is #1 (hint: it's nationalism)

This post is, in part, a response to Bill Simmons' "Soccer is so much cooler than anything else and I am cooler for liking it" column up on ESPN. I have no problem with soccer or those who love it, but Simmons comes off as pretentious and, shall we say, late to the party (soccer has gone from chic to trite in terms of fringe sports to love).

But it did get me thinking: we (Americans) fucking love football. Way more than baseball, hoops, or especially hockey. And it's because of one reason.

Nationalism.

That and violence. But mostly nationalism.

Internationalization -- that is, the ever-growing presence of players not from the States -- seemingly grows in sports every year. The numbers may not back it up (which I cannot find, dammit), but it seems as though there are more and more international stars in the NBA, NHL, and MLB. If there's not more, I guarantee it's not going down.

Think about baseball. Pujols, Ortiz, Ramirez (both Hanley and Manuel), Rodriguez, and Ichiro are some of the biggest, most famous stars in the sport. And not one of them is American.

Or the NBA. Still firmly entrenched with American superstars, there is still a host of successful and famous international stars from far away lands. Dirk, Manu, Parker, Duncan (kind of), Nash, Gasol, Hedo (sort of), and at least 1-2 role players per team.

I don't follow the NHL, but they've got a ton of Europeans and Canadians. One of the sports two best players is Russian.

But oh the NFL. I challenge you to name a single player of any repute from another country. The way the NFL is structured -- U.S. college star or nothing -- effectively kills any chance a poor kid from, say, Spain, can even have a chance at breaking into the sport.

Does the NFL even have a single Asian player?


Well-off American athletes go to college, play football, get drafted, get rich and get famous. Football is so painfully American -- expensive/difficult (in terms of organization) to play, necessary to attend college to turn pro, a good number of white people playing -- it's priced out international talent.

And we wouldn't have it any other way.

The draft/farm system of other sports is much more conducive to grooming oversea talent. The MLB -- with their wild west, "sign you out of Cuba when you're 14" system. The NBA -- where international leagues are gaining more and more cred (see Rubio, Ricky). And the NHL -- where kids are born stick in hand, skates on feet, any cold climate will do.

But the NFL? "Oh, you didn't play for Florida/USC/*other enormous NFL feeder system*? No thanks." Hell, American players who can ball, but are from tiny schools, are often overlooked. Forget about being from another country.

Secretly, or honestly, a lot of American sports fans probably don't like international players. And it's not too hard to explain. It's easier for me to relate to oh, Tom Brady, than it is for me to relate to Yao Ming.

He doesn't speak English well. He looks funny. He's not like me.

Is that an ignorant, wrong, foolish, outdated point of view? Yes, yes, yes, yes. But it's true.

That's why the NFL is number one. If you're a white kid from Wisconsin, you've got your Bret Favre. The South? Eli or Peyton. Maybe you relate to T.O. or LDT. Or Brees, Palmer, Ochocinco, McNabb, Moss, Roethlisberger, Polamalu, Fitzgerald, Peterson, or every fucking star in the league.

Whoever it is they share one thing: they're American. And that's why we love football the most. It's one of the few vaults those scary foreigners haven't broken into yet.

Famous Folders, Celebrity Crinklers

Health care schmealthcare, wiping technique is something that effects everyone. Whether you are a toilet paper folder, a toilet paper crinkler, or the rare switch wiper, you take great pride in your method. It is impossible for the folder to fathom the primitive crinkle, improbable that the crinkler will evolve to the fold. There may truly be no right or wrong way to wipe, at least you are wiping, but the debate will surely last until the end of days. Free the Basement has uncovered some famous folders and celebrity crinklers.

Ric Flair
One of the greatest humans to ever live, Flair has won countless professional wrestling championships. Every woman's dream, Flair has not wiped his own ass since he hit puberty, his harem does that for him. We have learned that Flair's women are strictly told to fold his silk toilet wipes. Folder

Andrew W.K.
This man loves to party, and while he may be an eloquent speaker and the voice of a generation, he is also wild in the bathroom. Crinkler

Ichiro Suzuki
Baseball's best hitter comes from a meticulous Japanese culture, it should be no surprise that the outfielder is a folder. What may surprise the reader is that Ichiro folds his t.p. into origami cranes before use. Folder

Megan Fox
Girls don't poop.

Barack Obama
The chain smoking, blackberry toting, super smooth, ruler of the free world is clearly short on time. When Mr. President gets the job done he doesn't waste a second. Crinkler

Threefor

I am slightly obsessed with sequencing when it comes to albums. I think (foolishly, probably) which songs are first, fifth, last, etc. is very important. It's probably because I am neurotic.

I twittered that Wolf Parade's epic three-way of "Shine A Light", "Dear Sons and Daughters..." and "I'll Believe in Anything" is the best three songs in a row of the past *span of time*. That is what spawned this list.

The one rule: the three-span has to surpass the overall goodness of the album. I don't care if *album X* has ten great songs and you pick three in a row. In the Wolf Parade example, I believe those three songs destroy the rest of the (fucking great) album.

That's it. In most albums you'll find great songs are rarely three in a row. Smart artists will spread them out, with average to below-average songs in between. It's the smart move. So when there are three in a row, giving my skipping thumb a much needed rest, it's great.

Here are some I've found in my iTunes.

Blood Brothers - Young Machetes - "Set Fire to the Face on Fire", "We Ride Skeletal Lightning" and "Laser Life"

I've been listening to these crazy bastards a lot lately (for some reason, incoherent screaming and squealing guitars makes for awesome basketball music) and found out the three openers off their 2006 album are 500% better than the rest of the album. Luckily for them, they rode that momentum wave to create a solid album. Still, nothing beats those three.


Fuck, I miss music videos

Bon Iver - For Emma, Forever Ago - "The Wolves (Act I and II)", "Blindsided" and "Creature Fear"

On the complete opposite end of the sonic spectrum from the Blood Bros., Bon Iver's heartbreaking '07 album is full of wonderful, slow-building folk songs. And while only nine tracks, he constructed the album like a baseball lineup, with the 4-5-6 hitters (of course, stand out "Skinny Love" is third. I am pretty sure Mr. Iver is a baseball fan) being the big boppers. Well done sir.

Fucked Up - Hidden World - "Crusades," David Comes to Life" and "Invisible Leader"

If you like hard rock/punk/hardcore/anything with guitars and yelling go out and buy/steal/burn/torrent this album. It's one of the best punk albums of the past five years. It's so good, it actually has two spans of three spectacular songs. Here -- again, the first three songs -- Fucked Up flex their "punk with brains" muscles. "Crusades" is a seven-minute anthem that people probably would have bashed each other's skulls in to in 1987. And "Invisible Leader" has some of the most insane and awesome lyrics I've heard in any song: Rip the flesh with the gnashing teeth / Search the insides of the dying beast / From the book of Enoch / To the Bible codes / We'll spend our final days still looking for that gold.

What?!?!


Not for the audio, as much for the 300+ pound bear yelling

Titus Andronicus - The Airing of Grievances - "Upon Viewing...", "Titus Andronicus" and "No Future"

Similar to Fucked Up, I have no idea what this band is talking about most of the time. There's some Camus in there (like actual excerpts from The Stranger). There's some Seinfeld references. Whatever. One thing I do know is they sure know how to construct a rock song. The 5-6-7 on this nine-tracker are the best, with the self-titled anthem sandwiched between two sprawling, weird-yet-great songs. They may scream pretension, but damn if I care when the songs are this good.


Again, I really miss actual MTV

Jay Reatard - Blood Visions - "Oh It's Such a Shame," "Not A Substitute" and "Nightmares"

It just wouldn't be right of me to not include the man I am listening to on constant rotation in this list. I happen to think Blood Visions is a fantastic album. But if I were to sell some on Jay, it would be, without a doubt, these three. Clocking in at just over five minute total, these three tracks embody everything I (and every American music fan should) love about Jay Reatard. Fury. Cleverness. Truth. Seriously, I want him to be mainstream popular. And I am not just being an indie asshole (even though that's what one would say).


Just spend 20 minutes with the man and get a good cross-section of his tunes. Oh, and he's a genius.

Games, fun and you

The above video (from by far the best games site out there) is long and more than a little soap-boxy, but it gets at something I have been mulling over a lot lately.

Do video games have to be "fun" to be "good"? I use quotes because those terms are very fluid and kind of meaningless, but the basic question -- does the act of playing a video game have to be pleasurable for said game to be deemed worthy of your time/money -- is a valid one as the world's newest medium of art moves forward.

I just finished a review for the DS title Flower, Sun, and Rain. It was not a fun game. The main gameplay conceit is sifting through a large collection of information to find a numerical code to unlock story elements and move the game forward. This was not fun. At all. There was no thrill of discovery in solving the puzzles, no joy in finding the solution. But the story is compelling.

I ask, is this game worth playing? Despite giving it a 2/10, I say yes, it is. If only because it's one of the first games I have ever come across (reading about or playing) in which playing it was not fun, yet I wanted to keep going.

The above video argues that fun is not enough, that games need to be more serious, even unfun, in order to succeed and mean something. I struggle with this, as I find it very difficult (puns always intended) to play a game which is difficult to have fun with. I look at a book like Gravity's Rainbow. When it came out, it was deemed "unreadable" and "shitty" (the Pulitzer board may have used cleaner language) and yet, is undeniably important and looked upon as one of the best novels of this century.

So we wait. We wait for the day when a game is so great, has such an amazing story or commentary on life, but is not fun to play. Will anyone want to play it?