Upon arriving back home to New York, I must confess that the idea of unemployment held a certain romantic mystique for me. After all, this is the city of Rent and unofficial capitol of la vie boheme. My lack of work presented a unique opportunity to enjoy the city without responsibility, while using my apartment as a personal zen chamber in which I could pass the days bettering myself through quiet, thoughtful introspection.
But as with so many plans that begin with "I'll just quit my job and hang out for a while...," there's always a rub. And in my case, it has come in the form of a 245 lb recovering drug and alcohol addict that has taken up permanent, half-naked residence in my living room. The human equivalent of the great Exxon Valdez oil spill of 1989, he sprawls out like a giant, harry tarp, rendering any hope of coexisting life futile. Not a moment goes by that he isn't posted up in the middle of my sanctuary, blaring noise at a near deafening pitch. Whether it's the most incoherent drivel that basic cable has to offer, or even better - an endless loop of electro-pop-rock crap: I can count on my daily auditory bombardment beginning promptly at 10:00 a.m and continuing on for the next 8 to 10 hours.
It's look of contentment as it flagrantly wastes its days - wallowing in its own sloth, oozing out a total indifference to any kind of self betterment or movement of any kind - never fails to shatter my chi in a million different directions, leaving me in a perpetual state of repulsion.
Do I resent it? HELL YES. This is my time - my opportunity to find clarity. And that time is being ruined day after day by a massive, omnipresent, inescapable blob.
But the worst part is that at the end of the day, there's really no tangible difference between the two of us, At the end, it... is ME. And regardless of how romantic my vision of my unemployment may be, when the cards are down, I am this human oil spill - no better. Its presence serves as a constant reminder of my own refusal to sack up and get moving. Because regardless of how I'd like to justify my lifestyle, every time I look down at that couch, I can't help feeling like I'm staring my alter-ego square in the eye. Like looking at one of those distorting mirrors at the State Fair fun house, it's difficult not to feel just a tad nauseous.
In the words of the legendary Snoop Dogg, "He is I and I am him."
And I fucking can't stand it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
You down with OPP?
A few too many drinks combined with the promise of riches beyond our wildest dreams set off a chain of events that ended with two upstanding young do-gooders being dragged from the jewel of New Orleans' downtown skyscape and crammed into a patrol car like evil spirits into Pandora's Box. It was the first time either Tammer or I had breached the doorway of famed Harrah's Casino Resort, but we never got the chance to lay eyes on the roulette tables that had called out to us with their siren song. Our removal was unceremonious, and by the time we reached the notorious Orleans Parish Prison (or OPP as it is less than affectionately known) our anebriation had long since plateaued and we were suspended in a state of groggy fear. It was around 5:30 a.m. when our personal effects were taken and we were led into what would be our home for the next 20 hours.
My first observation upon assuming a post in the corner nearest the cell exit was that this was no college drunk tank. I quickly scoured the room, looking for the requisite group of frat boys who had been picked up for being a little too forward with their requests of the Burboun Street ladies. Alas, none to be found and thus, no obvious candidates for commiseration. Instead, what my eyes found was a collection of about 60 men that looked like they'd been pulled straight out of central casting for "The Wire." Then there was Tammer, who like myself, was shaking like a pale, sickly leaf under the blinding fluorescent rays.
My second observation was that I was freezing my fucking scrotum off, and that if I didn't start making things happen in a hurry, I was going to have to be excavated from the cell. Most of the crowd had already attempted (with varying degrees of success) to tuck themselves into their tee shirts, rendering them as chattering amputees laying or standing in whatever spot they had convinced themselves was least susceptible to the industrial AC vents. Tammer and I quickly followed suit.
My third observation was that the man next to me had commenced masturbating and that I had better find a new place to shiver, should I value remaining out of the line of fire. At this point, I would have started to cry, but dehydration saved the day.
Seeing this spectacle, Tammer's survival instinct kicked in and he quickly slid along the wall to a spot underneath a bench, where he could watch the scene unfolding while hiding underneath the feet of a few unknowing inmates. Sharing his nook with discarded bologna sandwiches and stale urine, Tammer had the look of a lemur that had been smeared in fish guts and thrown into a polar bear cage. Watching him balling up into the fetal position, I was equal parts disgusted by how quickly he'd sacrificed his dignity and admiring of his will to live through the day. Regardless of which sentiment was most appropriate, the fact remained that I was left to my own devices for the next several hours.
Still freezing, still nearly blind from the intensity of the bulbs above, I commenced a feeble effort to play nicely with my fellow inmates. There was 'Spoon, the pocket sized thug who passed his time hurling half eaten sandwiches at anyone who dared fall asleep in his line of vision (each time squealing with laughter and then running over to comfort the disoriented victim). Then there was Shiloh, one of the few white inmates and a guy who was just a little too willing to recite his history of petty assault charges. All in all, a pleasant enough crowd, but not one that I was eager to make happy hour plans with upon our release. I couldn't speak for Tammer, though, who had now reached an uneasy sleep on his bed of soggy rainbow bread. 
Over the subsequent 15 hours, I watched: a Korean American guard beat the shit out of a mentally challenged Mexican inmate for reasons unknown, a black inmate calling said guard a "chink faggot that should go eat a fucking egg roll," a female guard tell me that I looked like a deer in headlights and that I needed to "sack up," more men shitting than I wish to see in my entire life, a 300 pounder and a 150 pounder huddling together for warmth, a mad scramble for mystery meat and the total emasculation of my friend Tammer.
When we were finally released sometime during the middle of the next night, we kissed the free ground like we'd just escaped from Shawshank. After a 45 minute walk back to the parking spot where the car had been left 24 hours earlier, we two novice convicts made our way to the nearest all night diner. We then straggled back to our respective apartments, burned our clothes, showered... 4 times... and went to sleep.
Neither one of us plan on visiting to OPP ever again. For that matter, I don't think we'll be making a return visit to Harrah's New Orleans Casino anytime soon either.
My first observation upon assuming a post in the corner nearest the cell exit was that this was no college drunk tank. I quickly scoured the room, looking for the requisite group of frat boys who had been picked up for being a little too forward with their requests of the Burboun Street ladies. Alas, none to be found and thus, no obvious candidates for commiseration. Instead, what my eyes found was a collection of about 60 men that looked like they'd been pulled straight out of central casting for "The Wire." Then there was Tammer, who like myself, was shaking like a pale, sickly leaf under the blinding fluorescent rays.
My second observation was that I was freezing my fucking scrotum off, and that if I didn't start making things happen in a hurry, I was going to have to be excavated from the cell. Most of the crowd had already attempted (with varying degrees of success) to tuck themselves into their tee shirts, rendering them as chattering amputees laying or standing in whatever spot they had convinced themselves was least susceptible to the industrial AC vents. Tammer and I quickly followed suit.
My third observation was that the man next to me had commenced masturbating and that I had better find a new place to shiver, should I value remaining out of the line of fire. At this point, I would have started to cry, but dehydration saved the day.
Seeing this spectacle, Tammer's survival instinct kicked in and he quickly slid along the wall to a spot underneath a bench, where he could watch the scene unfolding while hiding underneath the feet of a few unknowing inmates. Sharing his nook with discarded bologna sandwiches and stale urine, Tammer had the look of a lemur that had been smeared in fish guts and thrown into a polar bear cage. Watching him balling up into the fetal position, I was equal parts disgusted by how quickly he'd sacrificed his dignity and admiring of his will to live through the day. Regardless of which sentiment was most appropriate, the fact remained that I was left to my own devices for the next several hours.
Still freezing, still nearly blind from the intensity of the bulbs above, I commenced a feeble effort to play nicely with my fellow inmates. There was 'Spoon, the pocket sized thug who passed his time hurling half eaten sandwiches at anyone who dared fall asleep in his line of vision (each time squealing with laughter and then running over to comfort the disoriented victim). Then there was Shiloh, one of the few white inmates and a guy who was just a little too willing to recite his history of petty assault charges. All in all, a pleasant enough crowd, but not one that I was eager to make happy hour plans with upon our release. I couldn't speak for Tammer, though, who had now reached an uneasy sleep on his bed of soggy rainbow bread.
Over the subsequent 15 hours, I watched: a Korean American guard beat the shit out of a mentally challenged Mexican inmate for reasons unknown, a black inmate calling said guard a "chink faggot that should go eat a fucking egg roll," a female guard tell me that I looked like a deer in headlights and that I needed to "sack up," more men shitting than I wish to see in my entire life, a 300 pounder and a 150 pounder huddling together for warmth, a mad scramble for mystery meat and the total emasculation of my friend Tammer.
When we were finally released sometime during the middle of the next night, we kissed the free ground like we'd just escaped from Shawshank. After a 45 minute walk back to the parking spot where the car had been left 24 hours earlier, we two novice convicts made our way to the nearest all night diner. We then straggled back to our respective apartments, burned our clothes, showered... 4 times... and went to sleep.
Neither one of us plan on visiting to OPP ever again. For that matter, I don't think we'll be making a return visit to Harrah's New Orleans Casino anytime soon either.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Mt. Russ-more
I'm going to keep this short and sweet. The Tim Russert coverage has gone WAY overboard - not "a tad." Not "slightly." Not "moderately." And certainly not "understandably." It has bounced off a trampoline and done a full gainer off the edge of the ship into arctic water below and is now paddling frantically somewhere in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay.
Tim Russert was a good reporter, no doubt about it. By today's spectacularly low standards, he might even be considered a great reporter. And you know what? It sounds like he was a damn good guy too. His passing was no doubt a loss to the increasingly impotent television news industry. But Edward R. Murrow he was not. Not for one second.
You would never know that, though, from the nob slobbing festival that MSNBC and to a lesser degree, every other television news outlet in the country has engaged in over the past 7 days (and counting).
Tim Russert was a good reporter, no doubt about it. By today's spectacularly low standards, he might even be considered a great reporter. And you know what? It sounds like he was a damn good guy too. His passing was no doubt a loss to the increasingly impotent television news industry. But Edward R. Murrow he was not. Not for one second.
You would never know that, though, from the nob slobbing festival that MSNBC and to a lesser degree, every other television news outlet in the country has engaged in over the past 7 days (and counting).
I for one have reached the point of nausea, dizziness and paralyzing fatigue as a result of this coverage, symptoms I normally associate with taking an over abundance of prescription male enhancement medication. Unfortunately, THIS nausea does not come complete with an erection lasting more than four hours.
I'm gonna be honest with you, Beltway media: After day 2, the barrage of funny Tim anecdotes, references to his "everyman appeal," and constant reminders of how much he taught you begins to grate on those of us who have watched your total emasculation at the hands of an extremist administration.
How dare you use Russert's death as an excuse for such blatant self-congratulation even as you're being exposed for failing to seriously cover the Iraq war, failing to cover climate change before hurricanes and tsunamis smacked you in the face with it, failing to cover the global oil shortage before $4/gallon gas sprayed up your ass, and failing to cover the sputtering economy before Europeans flooded over our borders to use our currency as toilet paper.
I hate to burst your bubble, BUT THERE ARE NO CONGRATULATIONS IN ORDER HERE. And quite frankly, if in all the infinite wisdom that Tim bestowed on his colleagues, he never taught you the value of serious, issue driven reporting during, then the praise should be muted for him as well.
At the end of the day, despite his clear knack for reporting the political game, Tim (like all the rest of you) failed to address any of the actual real-world issues at hand beyond a passing catch phrase. He, like the rest of you, was so obsessed with the political game that he lost sight of the fact that journalism means more than "We Report, You Decide," it means separating TRUTH from nonsense and reporting it to the people, regardless of whether the truth happens to be liberal or conservative.
In watching highlights of the funeral coverage (yes, you showed us highlights of the coverage after you showed us the coverage in its entirety), it was striking what a star studded affair it was. G-Dubya was there. Barack was there. McCain was there. I half expected William and Harry to show up. The event was a veritable who's who of Washington elites.
And then I thought to myself, "Why do all these politicians like this guy so much?" Should a reporter really be so beloved by the guys he is reporting, especially given that a number of them have gotten away with borderline felonious acts that have gone virtually unnoticed by the press? What does that say about the state of journalism when our most revered journalist is beloved by the people to whom he is charged with speaking truth?
Which brings me to another beef. In case you've forgotten, news media (and it wouldn't surprise me if you had, given your complete disinterest in covering it), there are still people DYING in Iraq today, and YOU were the incompetent boobs who have failed halt those deaths by refusing to hold anyone accountable for anything. Although that's really not fair of me to say - you did hold some people accountable. You held Al Gore accountable for saying he invented the Internet. (Even though he didn't.) You held Howard Dean accountable for going crazy after a primary loss. (Even though he didn't.) You held John Kerry accountable for being a phony war hero. (Even though he wasn't.) But you never held anyone accountable when it came to the war. And you still don't, even now that you've been called out by the President's own henchman.
You mourn for Tim. You talk about Tim the sports fan and Tim the family man and Tim the blue collar guy from Buffalo. Meanwhile, another soldier dies overseas.
But please, don't let that stop you from the LIVE funeral coverage. Because what could be more important than yourselves?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
NBA Final....ly
Another NBA season mercifully concludes, leaving me to ponder yet again why I almost always end up sleeping through the last two rounds. It seems like every goddamn season, David Stern must be calling his deputies into his office and asking: "How can we make this one even longer than the last one???"
This year was a two month marathon that began in April with scintillating match ups like Celtics/Hawks (yes the Hawks team that fell well short of winning 40 games) and Lakers/Nuggets (yes the Nuggets team whose opponents averaged 237 point a contest against them). Ten years ago, when the first round was best 3 out of 5, series' like these would have been painful enough. Now, with every round featuring grueling 4 out of 7 marathons, they're downright unbearable.
Let's get one thing straight. These are BAD teams in the first round. Regardless of the rise of the Celtics in the East, that is still a horrible conference top to bottom, and things ain't changing anytime soon. We have reached a point in professional basketball - like in baseball - that expansion has diluted the talent pool beyond the tipping point. The difference with pro baseball is that they don't allow 16 freakin teams into the post season regardless of record, so there's a buffer in place to prevent fans from having to endure Red Sox/Royals in late September.
At the end of the day, there just aren't enough quality players to fill 16 playoff rosters. And with the increasing financial viability of the European leagues (plus the decreasing viability of the all mighty dollar against the Euro), the number of quality international players eager to jump the pond has likely plateaued.
The NBA's insistence on subjecting us to such a ridiculous post-season itinerary demonstrates a flagrant disrespect for the fans as far as I'm concerned. Yes, its about the money with any big time sport, but nowhere is such filatio of corporate sponsors so transparent as in the NBA playoffs. Even as a self-described sports aficionado, it would take a 60 day aderol binge for me to stay tuned in to this Batan Death March of a schedule.
And I don't think I'm alone in this sentiment, whether others chose to admit it or not. Consider the following:
David Stern is the only professional commissioner forced to perpetually pray to the heavens that he has big market franchises in the finals. Only during the NBA playoffs does talk surface of the "need" for LA or New York or Chicago or Boston to make a run. Only the NBA does one hear a barrage of speculation about the need for a clash of mega-cities to lift the nation's interest after from the Stage 5 disaster that was Spurs/Pistons in 2005. God forbid any mid-market franchise make a run, lest the fans lose interest faster than a black kid watching PHIL as the main attraction at the British next month.
At the end of the day, it's not because the fans don't want to see good basketball - its that they are so goddamn bored by the time the finals role around, that nobody has the energy left to pay attention unless their team or their favorite player is left standing. Of course, there's bound to be a fluxuation in ratings/interest in any televised sports tournament. (Nobody's disputing that Bud Selig wouldn't love to see Yankees/Dodgers or Sox/Cubs every year.) But we're not talking nearly the same extent as occurs in pro hoops. The NFL draws big numbers regardless of what teams play, as does the World Series, as do both the college football and basketball post season events. Only in the NBA is the entire viability of the playoffs determined by whether or not the big markets teams are involved.
The fact is that the NBA playoff format is just plain tiered and headed for a serious decline in relevance should the League not look to pre-emptively reinvent its post season.
I saw today that the Finals helped boost ABC above FOX last week for the first time in like twelve and a half years. Well no shit. It's easy to be #1 in the middle of June when your chief competitor is running "Malcolm in the Middle" marathons 3 days a week.
This is one of the single bleakest stretches in the sporting calendar: no football, baseball still months away from any having any import and no marquis college sports. Really we're talking basketball and hockey, and with the NHL drawing less interest than your average Bravo reality series, the Stanley Cup hardly qualifies as real competition.
Sports fans should be excited about the finals REGARDLESS of who is playing.
The NBA has got to tighten this thing up if they expect to maintain fan interest over the long term. At a minimum, the first two rounds should be reduced back to 3 out of 5. That's just a given. But if the commish had half the balls I do (even though we all know he does NOT), he would consider a more dramatic face lift.
That is why I am (stealing from those who have already voiced this idea) formally proposing that Mr. Stern take a page out of the NCAA playbook and re-structure the NBA postseason as a single elimination tournament. Invite all 30 teams, seeded according to regular season record, regardless of conference, and let the chaos begin! I mean, if you're willing to let teams like Atlanta into the playoffs, you might as well give them a chance to advance - otherwise not only are the early match ups horrible, but they are also irrelevant. The single elimination tournament gives every entrant a shot at moving on. (If you want, you could make the semi-finals and finals best 2 out of 3, but even that probably isn't necessary.)
Don't tell me this format wouldn't send ratings through the roof. If everyone made the playoffs, each regular season game would be critical to seeding, giving fans a reason to cheer all the way through the final buzzer of the 81st contest, regardless of a team's shitiness. Think of the boost this would give to lower-tiered teams, whose fans generally tune out after the all-star break. And what about the perpetual creation of new marketable stars through such a format. Who'd ever heard of Davidson's Stephan Curry before this year's NCAA tournament?? Probably Andy Katz and the editor of Colonial Hoops Weekly. Two weeks later, he was the darling of the basketball universe. A single-elimination round could have a similar king-maker effect on lesser known NBA standouts. And you wouldn't have to rely on a bankable Celtics/Lakers finale,because the underdog stories would undoubtedly be just as intriguing to fans.
As an added bonus, this format would take care of the league's concern about teams tanking games down the stretch to secure a higher draft pick, because regardless of their ineptitude, they would still have something to play for, even if it was only the remote chance of a first round upset.
So please, commissioner, take head of my plea. I cannot fathom the idea of another tortuously long NBA post-season. With the rancid taste of Tim Donaghy fresh our mouths, your credibility is hanging by a thread. What better way to put your enduring stamp on the league than undertaking an overhaul that would reinvigorate the teams, the fans, and even the bookies who your refs hold so dear?
I'd also like you to buy the rights to "One Shining Moment" and encourage ABC to bring on Patrick Raferty to replace the INANE Doug Collins on its broadcasts. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
This year was a two month marathon that began in April with scintillating match ups like Celtics/Hawks (yes the Hawks team that fell well short of winning 40 games) and Lakers/Nuggets (yes the Nuggets team whose opponents averaged 237 point a contest against them). Ten years ago, when the first round was best 3 out of 5, series' like these would have been painful enough. Now, with every round featuring grueling 4 out of 7 marathons, they're downright unbearable.
Let's get one thing straight. These are BAD teams in the first round. Regardless of the rise of the Celtics in the East, that is still a horrible conference top to bottom, and things ain't changing anytime soon. We have reached a point in professional basketball - like in baseball - that expansion has diluted the talent pool beyond the tipping point. The difference with pro baseball is that they don't allow 16 freakin teams into the post season regardless of record, so there's a buffer in place to prevent fans from having to endure Red Sox/Royals in late September.
At the end of the day, there just aren't enough quality players to fill 16 playoff rosters. And with the increasing financial viability of the European leagues (plus the decreasing viability of the all mighty dollar against the Euro), the number of quality international players eager to jump the pond has likely plateaued.
The NBA's insistence on subjecting us to such a ridiculous post-season itinerary demonstrates a flagrant disrespect for the fans as far as I'm concerned. Yes, its about the money with any big time sport, but nowhere is such filatio of corporate sponsors so transparent as in the NBA playoffs. Even as a self-described sports aficionado, it would take a 60 day aderol binge for me to stay tuned in to this Batan Death March of a schedule.
Before
TNT boasts about its "40 games in 40 nights" (not including the finals mind you), but they fail to answer WHY?!?! WHY 40 GAMES?!?? WHY 40 NIGHTS?!?! This isn't fucking Lent!! Watching basketball isn't supposed to be equivalent to a prolonged period of self-deprivation! You don't even show 40 Law and Order episodes in 40 nights - why the fuck do we need 40 games, especially when half of these teams are reliant on Vladimir/Boris/Hanz/Uliaf [Fill in the Blank]ovichs that NEVER show up come playoff time anyway?!?! WHY DO I NEED THIS MANY GAMES?!?!?
After
And I don't think I'm alone in this sentiment, whether others chose to admit it or not. Consider the following:
David Stern is the only professional commissioner forced to perpetually pray to the heavens that he has big market franchises in the finals. Only during the NBA playoffs does talk surface of the "need" for LA or New York or Chicago or Boston to make a run. Only the NBA does one hear a barrage of speculation about the need for a clash of mega-cities to lift the nation's interest after from the Stage 5 disaster that was Spurs/Pistons in 2005. God forbid any mid-market franchise make a run, lest the fans lose interest faster than a black kid watching PHIL as the main attraction at the British next month.
At the end of the day, it's not because the fans don't want to see good basketball - its that they are so goddamn bored by the time the finals role around, that nobody has the energy left to pay attention unless their team or their favorite player is left standing. Of course, there's bound to be a fluxuation in ratings/interest in any televised sports tournament. (Nobody's disputing that Bud Selig wouldn't love to see Yankees/Dodgers or Sox/Cubs every year.) But we're not talking nearly the same extent as occurs in pro hoops. The NFL draws big numbers regardless of what teams play, as does the World Series, as do both the college football and basketball post season events. Only in the NBA is the entire viability of the playoffs determined by whether or not the big markets teams are involved.
The fact is that the NBA playoff format is just plain tiered and headed for a serious decline in relevance should the League not look to pre-emptively reinvent its post season.
I saw today that the Finals helped boost ABC above FOX last week for the first time in like twelve and a half years. Well no shit. It's easy to be #1 in the middle of June when your chief competitor is running "Malcolm in the Middle" marathons 3 days a week.
This is one of the single bleakest stretches in the sporting calendar: no football, baseball still months away from any having any import and no marquis college sports. Really we're talking basketball and hockey, and with the NHL drawing less interest than your average Bravo reality series, the Stanley Cup hardly qualifies as real competition.
Sports fans should be excited about the finals REGARDLESS of who is playing.
The NBA has got to tighten this thing up if they expect to maintain fan interest over the long term. At a minimum, the first two rounds should be reduced back to 3 out of 5. That's just a given. But if the commish had half the balls I do (even though we all know he does NOT), he would consider a more dramatic face lift.
That is why I am (stealing from those who have already voiced this idea) formally proposing that Mr. Stern take a page out of the NCAA playbook and re-structure the NBA postseason as a single elimination tournament. Invite all 30 teams, seeded according to regular season record, regardless of conference, and let the chaos begin! I mean, if you're willing to let teams like Atlanta into the playoffs, you might as well give them a chance to advance - otherwise not only are the early match ups horrible, but they are also irrelevant. The single elimination tournament gives every entrant a shot at moving on. (If you want, you could make the semi-finals and finals best 2 out of 3, but even that probably isn't necessary.)
Don't tell me this format wouldn't send ratings through the roof. If everyone made the playoffs, each regular season game would be critical to seeding, giving fans a reason to cheer all the way through the final buzzer of the 81st contest, regardless of a team's shitiness. Think of the boost this would give to lower-tiered teams, whose fans generally tune out after the all-star break. And what about the perpetual creation of new marketable stars through such a format. Who'd ever heard of Davidson's Stephan Curry before this year's NCAA tournament?? Probably Andy Katz and the editor of Colonial Hoops Weekly. Two weeks later, he was the darling of the basketball universe. A single-elimination round could have a similar king-maker effect on lesser known NBA standouts. And you wouldn't have to rely on a bankable Celtics/Lakers finale,because the underdog stories would undoubtedly be just as intriguing to fans.
As an added bonus, this format would take care of the league's concern about teams tanking games down the stretch to secure a higher draft pick, because regardless of their ineptitude, they would still have something to play for, even if it was only the remote chance of a first round upset.
So please, commissioner, take head of my plea. I cannot fathom the idea of another tortuously long NBA post-season. With the rancid taste of Tim Donaghy fresh our mouths, your credibility is hanging by a thread. What better way to put your enduring stamp on the league than undertaking an overhaul that would reinvigorate the teams, the fans, and even the bookies who your refs hold so dear?
I'd also like you to buy the rights to "One Shining Moment" and encourage ABC to bring on Patrick Raferty to replace the INANE Doug Collins on its broadcasts. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
An Army of One
A telling statistic about the Obama/Clinton primary race, based on a poll I conducted of one voter: myself.
When asked to name as many non-elected Clinton campaign advisors as possible off the top of my head, I was able to list the following:
Terry McCullough
Harold Ickes
Mark Penn
Howard Wolfson
Maggie Williams
Lanny Davis
Six. And to be honest, I don't even know what each of 'em do, I just know they were around, because I've heard about in one way or another every week since January.
When asked to rattle off the same list for Obama, I came up with the following:
David Axelrod
That's a grand total of one - his campaign manager.
What does this mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just that Clinton's staff are more widely recognizable in the political world. But personally, I think it's more than that. I mean, seriously - regardless of how much CNN I watch, I should not be able to name 6 Clinton campaign advisers.
I think it's indicative of the contrast between these two campaigns. While the Obama team worked as a cohesive, behind the scenes unit dedicated to promoting their guy, the Clinton team was so wrought with self proclaimed big wigs, that the candidate often found herself sharing the spotlight with the very people that were supposed to be shining it on her.
Was this the difference between winning and losing? Who knows. But regardless, it's an interesting distinction and should serve as a lesson for future candidates assembling their teams.
When asked to name as many non-elected Clinton campaign advisors as possible off the top of my head, I was able to list the following:
Terry McCullough
Harold Ickes
Mark Penn
Howard Wolfson
Maggie Williams
Lanny Davis
Six. And to be honest, I don't even know what each of 'em do, I just know they were around, because I've heard about in one way or another every week since January.
When asked to rattle off the same list for Obama, I came up with the following:
David Axelrod
That's a grand total of one - his campaign manager.
What does this mean? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just that Clinton's staff are more widely recognizable in the political world. But personally, I think it's more than that. I mean, seriously - regardless of how much CNN I watch, I should not be able to name 6 Clinton campaign advisers.
I think it's indicative of the contrast between these two campaigns. While the Obama team worked as a cohesive, behind the scenes unit dedicated to promoting their guy, the Clinton team was so wrought with self proclaimed big wigs, that the candidate often found herself sharing the spotlight with the very people that were supposed to be shining it on her.
Was this the difference between winning and losing? Who knows. But regardless, it's an interesting distinction and should serve as a lesson for future candidates assembling their teams.
Casey at the Bat
A quick thought on June 3, 2008: The night Barack Obama won the nomination. I'll do my best to remain objective, so as to be fair and balanced to all parties involved....
On second thought, screw it.
Hillary wins the award for "Most Blatant Lack of Class by an American Political Figure Since... Bill Clinton During the South Carolina Primary." This should come as no surprise. Her campaign has established her as the odds on favorite to win this award since she her air of inevitability first got dinged in Iowa. Time after time, Clinton and her surrogates have demonstrated an uncanny ability to behave like spoiled shits at every turn: race bating, fear mongering and even all out lying without remorse. Tuesday night was just the crescendo of a horrific symphony to which we've all been a captive audience. And I don't think I'm alone in realizing that my ears are bleeding.
Still though, somehow I was delusional enough to think that this would be the night she surprised us. Somehow, I imagined that the Clintons, so savvy all these years, would understand the magnitude of what was at hand and realize, "Hey, if we play our cards right, we could really come out of this thing looking good." The stage was set for her to share in the triumph of the evening: two historic candidates fighting until the end, then laying down their arms to join together in celebration of such an important campaign. Everything was in place for this to be Hillary's night too.
And what did she do? She took that opportunity, she took that historic moment, and she used it for leverage. She shrunk it down to just another political jab. She exploited it for yet another self-indulgent power play - a power play that was made to sound even more repulsive just 30 minutes later, when Barack Obama took to the stage for his victory speech and spent a solid 3-4 mintues lavishing sincere praise on Clinton and her accomplishments.
The contrast was un-fucking-believable.
Oh sure, there were a few nice passages about her memories from the primary season. And yes, she did give Barack token congratulations on having "run" (not "won") a great campaign. But there is no question what the real point of this speech was. After being introduced as the "next president of the United States" by Manic-in-Chief, Terry McCullough, Hillary jumped on the chance to strong-arm Senator Obama. She demanded that her followers be heard (as if Barack planned on ignoring 40% of the Democratic electorate). She continued to peddle lies about winning the popular vote, thereby adding fuel to the ridiculous notion among her supporters that she is being robbed. She declined to acknowledge that the race was over. And she refused to endorse. In short, she all but came straight out and scream "You better put me on that ticket or I'm taking my ball and going home."
It was nauseating. As Jeffrey Toobin put it, an speech of "deranged narcissism." And you know what? Like every other classless tactic her campaign has employed over the past 6 months, I'd bet ten bucks this one will backfire.
Consider this: Aside from infuriating the Obama camp with such thinly veiled threats, she has now created an even larger issue - one that won't heal over the coming months. Even if Barack wanted to put her on the ticket or felt he owed her a spot on the ticket, he absolutely can't now for fear of appearing weak. Thanks to Hillary's bullying approach, her being named to the ticket would bring into play fundamental questions about Barack Obama's ability to lead. It would be suicide for a candidate who advocates engaging with foreign dictators to cave before an enemy within his own house. The Republican talking points would write themselves, for Christ's sake. That speech made an Obama/Clinton ticket completely unworkable.
So congrats, Hillary. The pitch was right in your wheelhouse and you struck out.
On second thought, screw it.
Hillary wins the award for "Most Blatant Lack of Class by an American Political Figure Since... Bill Clinton During the South Carolina Primary." This should come as no surprise. Her campaign has established her as the odds on favorite to win this award since she her air of inevitability first got dinged in Iowa. Time after time, Clinton and her surrogates have demonstrated an uncanny ability to behave like spoiled shits at every turn: race bating, fear mongering and even all out lying without remorse. Tuesday night was just the crescendo of a horrific symphony to which we've all been a captive audience. And I don't think I'm alone in realizing that my ears are bleeding.
Still though, somehow I was delusional enough to think that this would be the night she surprised us. Somehow, I imagined that the Clintons, so savvy all these years, would understand the magnitude of what was at hand and realize, "Hey, if we play our cards right, we could really come out of this thing looking good." The stage was set for her to share in the triumph of the evening: two historic candidates fighting until the end, then laying down their arms to join together in celebration of such an important campaign. Everything was in place for this to be Hillary's night too.
And what did she do? She took that opportunity, she took that historic moment, and she used it for leverage. She shrunk it down to just another political jab. She exploited it for yet another self-indulgent power play - a power play that was made to sound even more repulsive just 30 minutes later, when Barack Obama took to the stage for his victory speech and spent a solid 3-4 mintues lavishing sincere praise on Clinton and her accomplishments.
The contrast was un-fucking-believable.
Oh sure, there were a few nice passages about her memories from the primary season. And yes, she did give Barack token congratulations on having "run" (not "won") a great campaign. But there is no question what the real point of this speech was. After being introduced as the "next president of the United States" by Manic-in-Chief, Terry McCullough, Hillary jumped on the chance to strong-arm Senator Obama. She demanded that her followers be heard (as if Barack planned on ignoring 40% of the Democratic electorate). She continued to peddle lies about winning the popular vote, thereby adding fuel to the ridiculous notion among her supporters that she is being robbed. She declined to acknowledge that the race was over. And she refused to endorse. In short, she all but came straight out and scream "You better put me on that ticket or I'm taking my ball and going home."
It was nauseating. As Jeffrey Toobin put it, an speech of "deranged narcissism." And you know what? Like every other classless tactic her campaign has employed over the past 6 months, I'd bet ten bucks this one will backfire.
Consider this: Aside from infuriating the Obama camp with such thinly veiled threats, she has now created an even larger issue - one that won't heal over the coming months. Even if Barack wanted to put her on the ticket or felt he owed her a spot on the ticket, he absolutely can't now for fear of appearing weak. Thanks to Hillary's bullying approach, her being named to the ticket would bring into play fundamental questions about Barack Obama's ability to lead. It would be suicide for a candidate who advocates engaging with foreign dictators to cave before an enemy within his own house. The Republican talking points would write themselves, for Christ's sake. That speech made an Obama/Clinton ticket completely unworkable.
So congrats, Hillary. The pitch was right in your wheelhouse and you struck out.
Friday, May 23, 2008
A Spade by Any Other Name
Can I just take a moment to say that the juice fast is the most annoying trend in progressive nutrition today?
Give me a break with this horse shit notion that starvation 2.0 provides long-term health and wellness benefits. Forget the laughable idea that engaging in prolonged culinary masochism somehow demonstrates a strength of the human will. And please do not try to spin some nonsense about cleansing one's body and mind: If you want to be cleansed, GET A GODDAMN COLONOSCOPY!
The fact is that "juice fast" is just the politically correct answer to what those of us who aren't in denial refer to as an "eating disorder." The idea originated (at least in my fantasy) when some self-righteous, trust-fund suckling, faux-feminist realized she needed a way to get that bulimic body she's always wanted without losing her ability to pass holier-than-thou judgement on the fashion industry or any woman she passes in the street that happens to be skinnier than her.
But how could she accomplish the difficult task of dropping a ludicrous amount of weight in a short stint, while still maintaining the liberal credibility to shake her finger at a society that values a woman based on her dress size???
AH-HAH! What if she could starve herself under the guise of some more noble cause? Physical and spiritual cleansing perhaps? What if she could create a diet that despite flying in the face of all natural instincts, managed to actually increase her standing amongst her fur boycotting friends? What if she could disguise what would otherwise be considered an eating disorder so that instead of being labeled "ill," she would be thought of as "strong willed."
And thus, the juice fast was born. In reality: little more than anorexia with a twist of cucumber. But in the eyes of self-concious women obsessed with belittling "the culture of skinny" while still longing to participate: the perfect means to an end.
Flashforward to the present, and every girl with an insecurity and a dream can self-righteously pretend to cleanse, while secretly emulating the US Weekly pics they claim to despise.
The problem is, you ain't foolin anybody, ladies. Might as well stick to the ol' finger down the throat trick - at least that way the food still tastes good goin down! But give us a break with the "fastsing." If you really can't live without juice... grab a fucking V8.
Give me a break with this horse shit notion that starvation 2.0 provides long-term health and wellness benefits. Forget the laughable idea that engaging in prolonged culinary masochism somehow demonstrates a strength of the human will. And please do not try to spin some nonsense about cleansing one's body and mind: If you want to be cleansed, GET A GODDAMN COLONOSCOPY!
The fact is that "juice fast" is just the politically correct answer to what those of us who aren't in denial refer to as an "eating disorder." The idea originated (at least in my fantasy) when some self-righteous, trust-fund suckling, faux-feminist realized she needed a way to get that bulimic body she's always wanted without losing her ability to pass holier-than-thou judgement on the fashion industry or any woman she passes in the street that happens to be skinnier than her.
But how could she accomplish the difficult task of dropping a ludicrous amount of weight in a short stint, while still maintaining the liberal credibility to shake her finger at a society that values a woman based on her dress size???
AH-HAH! What if she could starve herself under the guise of some more noble cause? Physical and spiritual cleansing perhaps? What if she could create a diet that despite flying in the face of all natural instincts, managed to actually increase her standing amongst her fur boycotting friends? What if she could disguise what would otherwise be considered an eating disorder so that instead of being labeled "ill," she would be thought of as "strong willed."
And thus, the juice fast was born. In reality: little more than anorexia with a twist of cucumber. But in the eyes of self-concious women obsessed with belittling "the culture of skinny" while still longing to participate: the perfect means to an end.
"Mmmm, the hand tremors and uteral bleeding means it's working!"
Flashforward to the present, and every girl with an insecurity and a dream can self-righteously pretend to cleanse, while secretly emulating the US Weekly pics they claim to despise.
The problem is, you ain't foolin anybody, ladies. Might as well stick to the ol' finger down the throat trick - at least that way the food still tastes good goin down! But give us a break with the "fastsing." If you really can't live without juice... grab a fucking V8.
Jim Webb: Man, Myth, Rottweiler VP
Is there any debate that Jim Webb should be an absolute lock for the Democratic Vice Presidential slot? What better fit to team up with the Golden Boy than a mouth-foaming, teeth grinding, bone crushing junkyard dog?
Webb burst back onto the national scene in 2006 when he beat down incumbent George Allen (aka the Leather Headed Buffoon) in a race to become Virginia's junior senator. (When I say "beat down," I mean "won the race by 0.5%," but in the South against a popular incumbent, I'm willing to take a few liberties with language.)
Since then, he's made it his personal mission to be a thorn in the administration's side, blasting their top-heavy economic bias (see the brilliant WSJ op-ed titled "Class Struggle"), their habitual fear mongering and their dreadful mismanagement of the Iraq war. Most recently, he's gained bi-partisan praise for his sponsorship of the G.I. Bill, which pays for veterans to go to college following service. But the highlight of Webb's early senate career may have been when, at a reception for new congressional members, he refused to have his picture taken with W, admitting candidly that "I'm not particularly interested in having a picture of me and George W. Bush on my wall."
Webb burst back onto the national scene in 2006 when he beat down incumbent George Allen (aka the Leather Headed Buffoon) in a race to become Virginia's junior senator. (When I say "beat down," I mean "won the race by 0.5%," but in the South against a popular incumbent, I'm willing to take a few liberties with language.)
Since then, he's made it his personal mission to be a thorn in the administration's side, blasting their top-heavy economic bias (see the brilliant WSJ op-ed titled "Class Struggle"), their habitual fear mongering and their dreadful mismanagement of the Iraq war. Most recently, he's gained bi-partisan praise for his sponsorship of the G.I. Bill, which pays for veterans to go to college following service. But the highlight of Webb's early senate career may have been when, at a reception for new congressional members, he refused to have his picture taken with W, admitting candidly that "I'm not particularly interested in having a picture of me and George W. Bush on my wall."
What kind 0f credibility does Webb behind voicing such scathing opinions? Only that he is both a highly decorated Marine veteran AND served as Secretary of the Navy under the ghost of conservatism past himself, Ronald Reagan. Webby was a darling of that administration, and he was long thought of as a rising star amongst Republicans. The hitch, of course, is that it didn't take long watching W and co. in action for Webby to realize that his party had been hijacked and bolt a train headed straight for the abyss. He has made a living over his first two years in office angily debunking the absurd "What Would Reagan Do" LIES of the administration/FOX News/every Republican who ever dreamed of getting the party's '08 nomination.
(On a side note, Webby is one of only a handful of congressional members who have a child serving in Iraq, and he confessed to wanting to "slug" W in the grill when the President asked him how his son was doing.)
The moral of the story is that Jim Webb is a GROWN ASS MAN who won't hesitate to choke somebody if they get in his way. Let's get serious here: This is a guy who eats raw sirloin for breakfast, 39 uncooked goose eggs with the shells still on for lunch, then goes off into the Virginia wilderness to kill a buffalo with his bare hands for dinner.
I pity the fool who crosses Jim Webb on a good day, let alone one in which his wife has been nagging him about taking the trash out.
But Barack Obama needs a guy like this. Let's ignore for a minute the attractive fact that Webby puts Virginia very much in play and just look at the man himself. Barack Obama needs someone that will go bat-shit crazy on any moron who dares question the Golden Boy's patriotism. Barack Obama needs someone to say, "John, I know you spent 5 years in a tiger cage, but while you were busy becoming the Manchurian Candidate, I was out in the South Asian jungle, sweating my balls off and knocking Viet-Cong heads. You ain't the only one who can talk about war here, Grandpa - and I've even got the Pacific Rim wife to show for it!"
Of course, there are concerns that Webb might be too much of a lose cannon. I myself have developed a recurring nightmare in which during his Convention speech, a flash bulb triggers Webby to go into 'Nam flashback mode and launch himself headlong into the Hawaii delegation screaming "I'LL KILL YOU CHARLIE, YOU COMMY SON OF A BITCH!!!" I always wake up at the exact moment that Daniel Inouye lets out a death cry as the snarling Webby chomps down on his ankle while strangling another innocent delegate with her own lei.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize that even certain elements of my nightmare might not be so bad for Obama, so long as that fury can be channeled against the right people. Barack is a transcendent figure. And he's at his best when he is allowed to inspire the nation through sweeping addresses and bold visions for America's future. Again, he needs a vice president that is going to give him the cover he needs to stay above the fray. He needs a guy who's willing to say "If you go after my boy, I gurantee you're gonna be pissing blood for a week. "
And what better man for that job than Jim Webb?
(On a side note, Webby is one of only a handful of congressional members who have a child serving in Iraq, and he confessed to wanting to "slug" W in the grill when the President asked him how his son was doing.)
The moral of the story is that Jim Webb is a GROWN ASS MAN who won't hesitate to choke somebody if they get in his way. Let's get serious here: This is a guy who eats raw sirloin for breakfast, 39 uncooked goose eggs with the shells still on for lunch, then goes off into the Virginia wilderness to kill a buffalo with his bare hands for dinner.
I pity the fool who crosses Jim Webb on a good day, let alone one in which his wife has been nagging him about taking the trash out.
But Barack Obama needs a guy like this. Let's ignore for a minute the attractive fact that Webby puts Virginia very much in play and just look at the man himself. Barack Obama needs someone that will go bat-shit crazy on any moron who dares question the Golden Boy's patriotism. Barack Obama needs someone to say, "John, I know you spent 5 years in a tiger cage, but while you were busy becoming the Manchurian Candidate, I was out in the South Asian jungle, sweating my balls off and knocking Viet-Cong heads. You ain't the only one who can talk about war here, Grandpa - and I've even got the Pacific Rim wife to show for it!"
Of course, there are concerns that Webb might be too much of a lose cannon. I myself have developed a recurring nightmare in which during his Convention speech, a flash bulb triggers Webby to go into 'Nam flashback mode and launch himself headlong into the Hawaii delegation screaming "I'LL KILL YOU CHARLIE, YOU COMMY SON OF A BITCH!!!" I always wake up at the exact moment that Daniel Inouye lets out a death cry as the snarling Webby chomps down on his ankle while strangling another innocent delegate with her own lei.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize that even certain elements of my nightmare might not be so bad for Obama, so long as that fury can be channeled against the right people. Barack is a transcendent figure. And he's at his best when he is allowed to inspire the nation through sweeping addresses and bold visions for America's future. Again, he needs a vice president that is going to give him the cover he needs to stay above the fray. He needs a guy who's willing to say "If you go after my boy, I gurantee you're gonna be pissing blood for a week. "
And what better man for that job than Jim Webb?
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