Question: In what universe can a Harvard graduate with an economics degree and a budding second career in professional sports still have to preface his resume with the fact that he's Asian-American?
Answer: This one.
I stay up late at night, drinking scotch, worrying about the future of Jeremy Lin. Okay, I would probably stay up and drink scotch anyways but that's beside the point. I wished I smoked cigarettes then I wouldn't have to drink as much.
As simplistic and narrow-minded as you can get, Jeremy Lin is an Asian, playing a black man's game, in a white man's world. Isn't that right, nutcases?
I stand here on my little soap box and vaunt over how there are good people in American media and how proud I was to once associate myself with them.
And for a while they didn't let me down. Jeremy Lin was a great story because he came from nowhere in the NBA stratosphere. He was cut by TWO teams, two really shitty teams actually, got scooped up by the Knicks as bench fodder, found his way into the starting lineup due to injury, and started lighting it up.
The guy's been in the D-league three times. That's essentially basketball purgatory and he's been there thrice. Now he's the starting point guard in Madison Square Garden.
On top of all that, he seems like a completely good-natured man, humbled by his success, but still goes out there and has fun on the court every night. He'll celebrate a big shot, showboat a little bit, and chest-bump his teammates. You know, things that EVERY basketball player does.
I found myself in a weird situation. I was on eggshells waiting for this train to crash. You see, I've been here too long and I'm very cynical and still very disappointed most of the time. Scotch helps.
Jeremy Lin is three years younger than me and he is on a much bigger stage right now, for the first time in his life.
So I stay up late at night wondering if Jeremy Lin knows that the grass hides snakes. Then I thought harder and realized that it wouldn't be long for someone as high as him to notice the snakes.
I was right.
When I first saw the "Chink in the Armor" headline--I thought it was a really tasteless joke. Hell, that still might have been what it was, but it was still real.
For about five minutes, I still clung onto the thought of good in the world. "This can't be real." "There is absolutely no way that this would happen." "It's ESPN, the pinnacle of sports journalism integrity."
That's when it hit me. ESPN is a huge company and there's bound to be a few screws loose. There's editors, and watchdogs, and ombudsmen but if everybody shares the same view point it gets passed all the way through. I'm sure the Ku Klux Klan has a newsletter or something, right?
I jumped off my soap box, kicked it over, and walked off in disgust. I know better than to associate the acts of a few nutcases with the rest of American media, but it was still really depressing.
It was premeditated. Someone was waiting for this opportunity. Doesn't that depress you?
It depresses me. Still, the pendulum swings both ways. For every person that wants him to fail because of the color of his skin there's one that wants him to succeed because of it. And some people like their toast butter side up and some like it butter side down.
It's all the same.
I want Jeremy Lin to succeed because he shouldn't. He should have dropped out of the NBA and gone and taught economics at a university after the Golden State Warriors said, "No thanks, you're not talented enough for us." He shouldn't be sinking game-winning threes at buzzers or leading the Knicks on seven game win streaks.
I love that shit. That's the kind of stuff that I loved writing about and the stuff that made me love sports journalism in the first place.
American media isn't bad, there's just bad people in American media. They haven't stopped me and I certainly hope they don't stop Jeremy Lin. I'm not sure there would be enough scotch to drink on that day.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Super Blaaaaagggghhhh
This is a really fun weekend for me. Being a sports fan, the Super Bowl is about as good as it gets. I take solace in knowing that the two best teams around have made it to the big game.
END SCENE.
When I think of this weekend, I want to make up my own word. The best one I can come up with is shitacular. The exact opposite of spectacular has to be shitacular.
Boston versus New York?! Are you kidding me? Doesn't the general public get their fill of this during the baseball season (and to a lesser extent, lesser sports) that we can reserve the Big Game for, uh, I don't know...SOMEBODY ELSE.
New York against Boston is about as compelling as shooting myself in the foot with a nail gun. Initially my reaction is justified but then I'm just another guy with a nail in his foot.
First off, the Patriots have made it to another Super Bowl. If I awake Monday morning to Satan himself telling me that this has been my own personal Hell this whole time, I would not be surprised in the slightest. A life in which Tom Brady and Bill Belichick are the most successful quarterback-coach tandem is a life most tortured.
Another one?! Another Super Bowl? Go screw yourselves. Rooting for the Patriots is even worse than being Atheist. At least I stand for something.
Tom Brady reminds me of that douche bag from 'Tin Cup'. He hates children, old people, and dogs.
Second of all, the New York Giants don't even have the pride (money) to play in actual New York. They have to put a Band-Aid over Jersey and declare it Giants Stadium as if we are all oblivious to zoning laws.
Eli Manning is an enigma. He's had a bad case of Older Brother Syndrome his whole life and it's gone straight to his tiny head. Eli wins games--in the fourth quarter no less--but if I get to choose a franchise quarterback for my up and coming team, he's not in the top five. He just simply isn't. You don't take Eli before Rodgers, Brees, Brady, Rivers, or even Stafford.
However, with the exception of Brady, none of those quarterbacks are playing for their second title in five years. That's why Eli is the enigma. You always count him out, but yet there he is in the championship game.
It shouldn't be any surprise to anybody that reads this blog or knows me in person that I want nothing but pain and suffering for the New England Patriots. That's exactly what they've caused me the past decade, so it's only natural to wish upon them the same. As I begrudgingly hope the New York Giants win the Super Bowl, I have some concerns.
I hear you talking, Giants, about how you are in Brady's head and blah, blah, blah. Stop it! Are you kidding me? The Patriots are a machine. They have no emotion, no brain, and no psyche for you to get into. They take your best weapon and neutralize it. You aren't in Tom Brady's head, you are in your own heads.
Which brings me to 2007. The Patriots were supposed to cruise to their perfect season and crush the Giants in the Super Bowl. Well, it didn't happen. The Giants won and we all danced around like the munchkins after the Wicked Witch found herself on the giving end of a house. It was eerily similar to how the Patriots won in 2001 against the "Greatest Show on Turf" Rams.
Now? Everybody is walking around with swagger like they own the place. It's disturbing.
There's nothing I like more than confidence. With that said, just shut the hell up, Giants. Shut it. Don't talk, at all. Hey, I hope you do sack Tom Brady on every single drop back, but stop talking about it!
I'm telling you, Belichick goes home and stares at the wall and thinks of ways to hurt teams. He's not a Zen master, he's not brilliant, he's not a legend--he's an asshole in a hoodie, that's it.
So, regardless of the outcome, either New York or Boston will have another title. Whoop-de-doo. I'll try and contain my excitement.
I'm from New York--and I CAN'T STAND THEM! Not just the Giants, but the whole deal. And the Patriots? I almost just threw up.
Just like last year, go ahead and wake me up in April for the draft.
END SCENE.
When I think of this weekend, I want to make up my own word. The best one I can come up with is shitacular. The exact opposite of spectacular has to be shitacular.
Boston versus New York?! Are you kidding me? Doesn't the general public get their fill of this during the baseball season (and to a lesser extent, lesser sports) that we can reserve the Big Game for, uh, I don't know...SOMEBODY ELSE.
New York against Boston is about as compelling as shooting myself in the foot with a nail gun. Initially my reaction is justified but then I'm just another guy with a nail in his foot.
First off, the Patriots have made it to another Super Bowl. If I awake Monday morning to Satan himself telling me that this has been my own personal Hell this whole time, I would not be surprised in the slightest. A life in which Tom Brady and Bill Belichick are the most successful quarterback-coach tandem is a life most tortured.
Another one?! Another Super Bowl? Go screw yourselves. Rooting for the Patriots is even worse than being Atheist. At least I stand for something.
Tom Brady reminds me of that douche bag from 'Tin Cup'. He hates children, old people, and dogs.
Second of all, the New York Giants don't even have the pride (money) to play in actual New York. They have to put a Band-Aid over Jersey and declare it Giants Stadium as if we are all oblivious to zoning laws.
Eli Manning is an enigma. He's had a bad case of Older Brother Syndrome his whole life and it's gone straight to his tiny head. Eli wins games--in the fourth quarter no less--but if I get to choose a franchise quarterback for my up and coming team, he's not in the top five. He just simply isn't. You don't take Eli before Rodgers, Brees, Brady, Rivers, or even Stafford.
However, with the exception of Brady, none of those quarterbacks are playing for their second title in five years. That's why Eli is the enigma. You always count him out, but yet there he is in the championship game.
It shouldn't be any surprise to anybody that reads this blog or knows me in person that I want nothing but pain and suffering for the New England Patriots. That's exactly what they've caused me the past decade, so it's only natural to wish upon them the same. As I begrudgingly hope the New York Giants win the Super Bowl, I have some concerns.
I hear you talking, Giants, about how you are in Brady's head and blah, blah, blah. Stop it! Are you kidding me? The Patriots are a machine. They have no emotion, no brain, and no psyche for you to get into. They take your best weapon and neutralize it. You aren't in Tom Brady's head, you are in your own heads.
Which brings me to 2007. The Patriots were supposed to cruise to their perfect season and crush the Giants in the Super Bowl. Well, it didn't happen. The Giants won and we all danced around like the munchkins after the Wicked Witch found herself on the giving end of a house. It was eerily similar to how the Patriots won in 2001 against the "Greatest Show on Turf" Rams.
Now? Everybody is walking around with swagger like they own the place. It's disturbing.
There's nothing I like more than confidence. With that said, just shut the hell up, Giants. Shut it. Don't talk, at all. Hey, I hope you do sack Tom Brady on every single drop back, but stop talking about it!
I'm telling you, Belichick goes home and stares at the wall and thinks of ways to hurt teams. He's not a Zen master, he's not brilliant, he's not a legend--he's an asshole in a hoodie, that's it.
So, regardless of the outcome, either New York or Boston will have another title. Whoop-de-doo. I'll try and contain my excitement.
I'm from New York--and I CAN'T STAND THEM! Not just the Giants, but the whole deal. And the Patriots? I almost just threw up.
Just like last year, go ahead and wake me up in April for the draft.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Goodbye, Diablo Blanco!
I told myself I wasn't going to write about this.
Well, screw it. I'm a sentimental sap, just don't tell anybody. Street cred is hard to get in this recession.
For those of you who haven't heard, I'm moving. I'm still going to be in Orlando, so don't worry, this place is too commercial and God-less for me to leave while I'm in my mid-twenties.
I'm headed to the opposite side of town. It's quiet, it's far from the college, and people seem to care just that much less over there. It's perfect for while I'm in my mid-twenties.
What I am leaving is the provincial palace of East Lake and five years worth of life-shaping memories. In those five years, I have unlocked the mystery of life and if you indulge me for a bit I will share it with you at the very end.
It started with indecision and vomit. Doesn't it always? We were indecisive because we weren't really sure if they were going to let us live here--and we had already moved out of our old place. So we staged a sit-in in the front office with our moving truck parked right outside. Hours later we were handed the keys. Civil rights movement, eat your heart out.
There was vomit because, well, we were young and rebellious. That's Romantic. We couldn't keep our liquor down yet. Rest assured, kids, vomit is a badge of honor. If you're throwing up, you're living life to the fullest. Or you might have a bug and should get some antibiotics.
People died here. Well not here. But they were here and now they aren't anymore. We aren't ever going to forget them but I can't help but feel that something goes with them once we leave.
Okay, actually, some people did die here. A guy got shot in the face on my doorstep but I didn't know him so what's the difference? I kid but that story is one of my favorite 'Marcel stories' and if you sit down and have a drink with us one night you are bound to hear it.
In fact, this place really did earn a reputation as sort of dangerous. I took it upon myself to be the 'Diablo Blanco' of East Lake. 'Diablo Blanco' is Spanish for 'white devil'. In East Lake, I was definitely the minority and when we first moved in we all had such devil-may-care attitudes that it was only fitting.
I was determined to bring a swift end to the 'East Side Rapist'. Our place sat right in what I liked to call the 'Bermuda Triangle of Rape'. Last year, this guy was running around to college apartments, and parks, and other shifty places and preying on women. After one of his latest attacks, I parked myself right dead-center of our living room window, at about four in the morning, with a six-pack and a kitchen knife just daring him to try and get my girls.
As for the women that walked these hallowed halls (not a euphemism, I swear) all I can say to you is, "I'm sorry." Just kidding, but seriously, you've shaped this life too. In fact, you've probably shaved years off my life so kudos to you for having such a pronounced affect. The fact of the matter is, if it weren't for the women of the East Lake era, I would still be sleeping on a futon surrounded by a bunch of empty beer cans. So, it's good, you know...not having a futon anymore.
We've all grown up here (mathematically). Marcel spawned here. The rest of us were careful. Just kidding once again. Jackson is the light of our lives and a perfect reason for growing up. I had a bunch of regrets a couple of years ago and thought to myself, "if only I had done things differently". Then I look at Jackson and think to myself, "if any of us had done just ONE thing differently", then Jackson wouldn't exist and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I've never regretted anything since.
I could care less if I lived in a grass hut or a refrigerator box, that stuff is inconsequential. What I care about is the time and the life spent. When I close this door one final time at East Lake, I close with it a lot of things that made me who I am right now. East Lake was just the vessel for which these things were possible.
It's still sad.
And so, it is with a heavy heart and keen eye to the future, that I retire this place to the ages. If I wasn't so sure that it will be bull-dozed in a matter of months after my departure, I would hope it would one day be deemed a historic landmark and a plaque would read simply, "The famous author, Nathan Curtis, spilled seed here for five years".
After all, that's all we're good for.
Well, screw it. I'm a sentimental sap, just don't tell anybody. Street cred is hard to get in this recession.
For those of you who haven't heard, I'm moving. I'm still going to be in Orlando, so don't worry, this place is too commercial and God-less for me to leave while I'm in my mid-twenties.
I'm headed to the opposite side of town. It's quiet, it's far from the college, and people seem to care just that much less over there. It's perfect for while I'm in my mid-twenties.
What I am leaving is the provincial palace of East Lake and five years worth of life-shaping memories. In those five years, I have unlocked the mystery of life and if you indulge me for a bit I will share it with you at the very end.
It started with indecision and vomit. Doesn't it always? We were indecisive because we weren't really sure if they were going to let us live here--and we had already moved out of our old place. So we staged a sit-in in the front office with our moving truck parked right outside. Hours later we were handed the keys. Civil rights movement, eat your heart out.
There was vomit because, well, we were young and rebellious. That's Romantic. We couldn't keep our liquor down yet. Rest assured, kids, vomit is a badge of honor. If you're throwing up, you're living life to the fullest. Or you might have a bug and should get some antibiotics.
People died here. Well not here. But they were here and now they aren't anymore. We aren't ever going to forget them but I can't help but feel that something goes with them once we leave.
Okay, actually, some people did die here. A guy got shot in the face on my doorstep but I didn't know him so what's the difference? I kid but that story is one of my favorite 'Marcel stories' and if you sit down and have a drink with us one night you are bound to hear it.
In fact, this place really did earn a reputation as sort of dangerous. I took it upon myself to be the 'Diablo Blanco' of East Lake. 'Diablo Blanco' is Spanish for 'white devil'. In East Lake, I was definitely the minority and when we first moved in we all had such devil-may-care attitudes that it was only fitting.
I was determined to bring a swift end to the 'East Side Rapist'. Our place sat right in what I liked to call the 'Bermuda Triangle of Rape'. Last year, this guy was running around to college apartments, and parks, and other shifty places and preying on women. After one of his latest attacks, I parked myself right dead-center of our living room window, at about four in the morning, with a six-pack and a kitchen knife just daring him to try and get my girls.
As for the women that walked these hallowed halls (not a euphemism, I swear) all I can say to you is, "I'm sorry." Just kidding, but seriously, you've shaped this life too. In fact, you've probably shaved years off my life so kudos to you for having such a pronounced affect. The fact of the matter is, if it weren't for the women of the East Lake era, I would still be sleeping on a futon surrounded by a bunch of empty beer cans. So, it's good, you know...not having a futon anymore.
We've all grown up here (mathematically). Marcel spawned here. The rest of us were careful. Just kidding once again. Jackson is the light of our lives and a perfect reason for growing up. I had a bunch of regrets a couple of years ago and thought to myself, "if only I had done things differently". Then I look at Jackson and think to myself, "if any of us had done just ONE thing differently", then Jackson wouldn't exist and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I've never regretted anything since.
I could care less if I lived in a grass hut or a refrigerator box, that stuff is inconsequential. What I care about is the time and the life spent. When I close this door one final time at East Lake, I close with it a lot of things that made me who I am right now. East Lake was just the vessel for which these things were possible.
It's still sad.
And so, it is with a heavy heart and keen eye to the future, that I retire this place to the ages. If I wasn't so sure that it will be bull-dozed in a matter of months after my departure, I would hope it would one day be deemed a historic landmark and a plaque would read simply, "The famous author, Nathan Curtis, spilled seed here for five years".
After all, that's all we're good for.
The Peyton Potential
I have a dirty little secret to confess.
I hate Peyton Manning.
I'm not talking like in a school-girl, I hate him because I hate to love him kind of way. I HAAAAAAATE him.
It dates back to before the Houston Texans were a football team causing realignment in the AFC divisions. Peyton's Colts were in the same division as Miami. Guess how many times the greasy weasel would come back at the last second to drive a stake through my heart? Countless.
Then came the days of Fantasy Football. Peyton eviscerated my teams. So I thought I could outsmart him by drafting him on my team. My can't beat 'em, join 'em schtick lasted long enough for Peyton to drop an egg in the playoffs resulting in my immediate elimination.
I truly believe that some cosmic forces somewhere clashed together and created two entities that would forever be mortal villains of each other that manifested themselves in a football player and some random guy in Florida.
Every move he makes is a slap in my face. His very existence taunts me. When I do an impression of Peyton Manning I draw my inspiration from "What if Forrest Gump was a Colt's fan?" Then it just sort of funnels out of control. "'Ello, my name Pey-ton Man-ning. I play quartaback inna N-F-L. I just loooove Oreos. My brother Eli, he a quartaback too."
Now he's 35, has just missed a full NFL season, and is still recovering from neck surgery. My conventional wisdom has told me that the Peyton is no more. He's done. Rejoice, brothers and sisters!
Naturally the universe would have none of this. The Colts had the worst season this year, locked in the number one draft pick, locked in Andrew Luck, and made Peyton Manning expendable.
Crap.
We are currently two months away from when Manning is due a huge roster bonus that the Colts surely won't pay when they are going to have to pay Andrew Luck a lot of money too. Let's not forget that the organization has recently cleaned out the front office. Manning has no friends left. The owner and him are having media fights that lead people to assume that Peyton's days in blue and white are numbered.
Crap.
The Miami Dolphins have needed a quarterback since Dan Marino retired in 2000. The Dolphins' track record in the search for the next quarterback has ranged from draft busts, to unproven free-agents, and the ever-so-popular aged veterans past their prime with an injury history.
Crap.
That's right, kids. The rumors are swirling that Peyton Manning will be the next starting quarterback of the Miami Dolphins.
Well isn't that just the tits. I'm not one to stomp up and down and scream, "It isn't fair, it isn't fair!" but come on...it's not fair.
Look, personal hatred aside, when the man was healthy he was the best quarterback ever. You were never surely going to lose as long as Peyton Manning was your quarterback. But he's not healthy anymore...and he's old! He's an awkward tackle away from not being able to move his head anymore.
Peyton Manning is a huge competitor and he's not going to accept the sad fact that he's done. I can't really blame him. After a lengthy career where he never missed a start, it's over just like that? Yes, it is. But I'm not naive and I know he's going to play somewhere next year. And it's going to be sad. Things like this shouldn't end like this.
Just don't let it happen in Miami. I can't take hating somebody while feeling sorry for them at the same time AND watch my team suck. That's a three-headed monster and there just isn't enough whiskey in the world.
I hate Peyton Manning.
I'm not talking like in a school-girl, I hate him because I hate to love him kind of way. I HAAAAAAATE him.
It dates back to before the Houston Texans were a football team causing realignment in the AFC divisions. Peyton's Colts were in the same division as Miami. Guess how many times the greasy weasel would come back at the last second to drive a stake through my heart? Countless.
Then came the days of Fantasy Football. Peyton eviscerated my teams. So I thought I could outsmart him by drafting him on my team. My can't beat 'em, join 'em schtick lasted long enough for Peyton to drop an egg in the playoffs resulting in my immediate elimination.
I truly believe that some cosmic forces somewhere clashed together and created two entities that would forever be mortal villains of each other that manifested themselves in a football player and some random guy in Florida.
Every move he makes is a slap in my face. His very existence taunts me. When I do an impression of Peyton Manning I draw my inspiration from "What if Forrest Gump was a Colt's fan?" Then it just sort of funnels out of control. "'Ello, my name Pey-ton Man-ning. I play quartaback inna N-F-L. I just loooove Oreos. My brother Eli, he a quartaback too."
Now he's 35, has just missed a full NFL season, and is still recovering from neck surgery. My conventional wisdom has told me that the Peyton is no more. He's done. Rejoice, brothers and sisters!
Naturally the universe would have none of this. The Colts had the worst season this year, locked in the number one draft pick, locked in Andrew Luck, and made Peyton Manning expendable.
Crap.
We are currently two months away from when Manning is due a huge roster bonus that the Colts surely won't pay when they are going to have to pay Andrew Luck a lot of money too. Let's not forget that the organization has recently cleaned out the front office. Manning has no friends left. The owner and him are having media fights that lead people to assume that Peyton's days in blue and white are numbered.
Crap.
The Miami Dolphins have needed a quarterback since Dan Marino retired in 2000. The Dolphins' track record in the search for the next quarterback has ranged from draft busts, to unproven free-agents, and the ever-so-popular aged veterans past their prime with an injury history.
Crap.
That's right, kids. The rumors are swirling that Peyton Manning will be the next starting quarterback of the Miami Dolphins.
Well isn't that just the tits. I'm not one to stomp up and down and scream, "It isn't fair, it isn't fair!" but come on...it's not fair.
Look, personal hatred aside, when the man was healthy he was the best quarterback ever. You were never surely going to lose as long as Peyton Manning was your quarterback. But he's not healthy anymore...and he's old! He's an awkward tackle away from not being able to move his head anymore.
Peyton Manning is a huge competitor and he's not going to accept the sad fact that he's done. I can't really blame him. After a lengthy career where he never missed a start, it's over just like that? Yes, it is. But I'm not naive and I know he's going to play somewhere next year. And it's going to be sad. Things like this shouldn't end like this.
Just don't let it happen in Miami. I can't take hating somebody while feeling sorry for them at the same time AND watch my team suck. That's a three-headed monster and there just isn't enough whiskey in the world.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Human Decency
I was walking down the street today, headed for the grocery store, when the most bizarre thing happened. First of all, it's about 8:30 in the morning, I was up and about today and determined to get stuff done. Clearly anybody who has his days off on Tuesdays and Thursdays made the right life decisions, right?
Anyways, I'm trotting along the sidewalk and it was a little chilly early on today so I put on a hoodie. Nothing special, just a regular, red hoodie. No design, no nothing. Simplicity is the essence of fashion, or so I've been told by people that know what fashion is. Besides, even though I'm smaller than most people, I produce body heat at an exponential rate. Seriously, I'm hot.
All of a sudden, out of absolutely nowhere, a car went racing by on the same path that I was headed and a man leaned out the window and yelled, "Hey faggot! Nice jacket!"
Let's recap really quickly: It's 8:30 in the morning, I'm minding my own business on the sidewalk, and I'm not doing anything to draw any attention to myself. This guy just felt that at that fleeting moment he needed to lean out the window and yell something.
At first I was startled. I'm in my own little world when I'm going places. I start talking to myself in my head and coming up with wacky ideas that I can write about in the future. I know it sounds narcissistic, but when I'm walking down the street, my focus in on myself.
Then, after I realized that somebody yelled something and it was directed at me, I started to process what he said. The more I dwelled on it, the more it pissed me off.
What kind of jackass does it take to yell hateful spewage out of his car window at a stranger on the streets? As a writer (cough, cough) I understand that words hold gravity. There's weight to what you say and it affects people.
People kill themselves because of what people say.
Ignorance truly is bliss. The guy that said that today continued on his path probably thinking he just did the funniest thing he's ever done. But what if I wasn't me? What if I was somebody just scraping by on a thread of decent humanity and that things were really going to get better. Then he comes along. Now I'm shattered.
Being funny isn't natural, it's a craft. It's a finely tuned machine that gets perfected with a better understanding of sociology. If you aren't capable of being coherent enough to understand how people think, then you aren't capable of being funny. If the only thought you can conjure up in your head at a given moment is a slur or a hateful remark, then you aren't funny--you're ignorant and you don't understand the gravity of words.
I'm not a naive person. I understand that the world is full of people that are homophobic, and racist, and prejudiced, and just downright bad guys. It's your right to be wrong, it's not my problem. Just for the sake of whatever it is that you hold dear to yourself, please THINK before you speak. If what you are about to say is something that you would never like to hear spoken to you, then shut the hell up.
There are plenty of ways to be smart, or funny, or significant without making another person feel like crap. Unless that person is you. In which case, I'm the biggest proponent for self-deprecation.
Anyways, I'm trotting along the sidewalk and it was a little chilly early on today so I put on a hoodie. Nothing special, just a regular, red hoodie. No design, no nothing. Simplicity is the essence of fashion, or so I've been told by people that know what fashion is. Besides, even though I'm smaller than most people, I produce body heat at an exponential rate. Seriously, I'm hot.
All of a sudden, out of absolutely nowhere, a car went racing by on the same path that I was headed and a man leaned out the window and yelled, "Hey faggot! Nice jacket!"
Let's recap really quickly: It's 8:30 in the morning, I'm minding my own business on the sidewalk, and I'm not doing anything to draw any attention to myself. This guy just felt that at that fleeting moment he needed to lean out the window and yell something.
At first I was startled. I'm in my own little world when I'm going places. I start talking to myself in my head and coming up with wacky ideas that I can write about in the future. I know it sounds narcissistic, but when I'm walking down the street, my focus in on myself.
Then, after I realized that somebody yelled something and it was directed at me, I started to process what he said. The more I dwelled on it, the more it pissed me off.
What kind of jackass does it take to yell hateful spewage out of his car window at a stranger on the streets? As a writer (cough, cough) I understand that words hold gravity. There's weight to what you say and it affects people.
People kill themselves because of what people say.
Ignorance truly is bliss. The guy that said that today continued on his path probably thinking he just did the funniest thing he's ever done. But what if I wasn't me? What if I was somebody just scraping by on a thread of decent humanity and that things were really going to get better. Then he comes along. Now I'm shattered.
Being funny isn't natural, it's a craft. It's a finely tuned machine that gets perfected with a better understanding of sociology. If you aren't capable of being coherent enough to understand how people think, then you aren't capable of being funny. If the only thought you can conjure up in your head at a given moment is a slur or a hateful remark, then you aren't funny--you're ignorant and you don't understand the gravity of words.
I'm not a naive person. I understand that the world is full of people that are homophobic, and racist, and prejudiced, and just downright bad guys. It's your right to be wrong, it's not my problem. Just for the sake of whatever it is that you hold dear to yourself, please THINK before you speak. If what you are about to say is something that you would never like to hear spoken to you, then shut the hell up.
There are plenty of ways to be smart, or funny, or significant without making another person feel like crap. Unless that person is you. In which case, I'm the biggest proponent for self-deprecation.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Wild Card Weekend
Happy 2012, kids! I've taken a little time off to refresh the ol' brain piece to make sure that I deliver to you the utmost quality product I can down here at the Studly Pastures but now it's time to get back to work.
This weekend marks the start of the NFL play-offs and they call it Wild Card Weekend for a reason--shit gets crazy!
Remember last year when Marshawn Lynch single-handedly defeated the New Orleans Saints in Seattle, even though Seattle finished 7-9 and New Orleans was a huge favorite? Well the winds of fortune are blowing again this year and they are giving us a eerily similar situation in the Mile High City.
And who can resist this year's 'feel good' story? No, not Tebow, I'm talking about the Detroit Lions. Forget all the nonsense of Ndamukong Suh being a dirty player, and Jim Schwartz not being able to be patted on the back, the Lions making the play-offs is awesome. This franchise has been the biggest loser since Barry Sanders hung up his cleats--in 1998. I was in eighth grade that year and more concerned about why I was four feet tall than I was with professional football. Fourteen years later, I'm slightly taller, and the Lions are relevant again.
In Wild Card Weekend, only one of the Big Three is in action. Drew Brees hosts the aforementioned Lions in Louisiana while Aaron Rodgers and Tom Brady get the week off. The year that all three of these guys had should make for a very interesting play-off race.
Alright, well, I'm running out of little quips to talk about so I'm just going to jump right into your favorite part: my predictions that almost invariably make me look like an ass.
My team was out of contention in September so you can rest assured that these picks will not hold any bias*.
*Warning: contains bias.
CINCINNATI BENGALS at HOUSTON TEXANS
Ok, first up it's the tigers against the cows. Huge game for the Texans, it's their first play-off game in franchise history, it's at home, and history tells us they are playing the Bengals. The only problem for them is that they are on their eighteenth quarterback of the season. As good as their defense and skill positions are, their line is evidently made of swiss cheese--or their quarterbacks are made of balsa wood. Either way, it's not good. However, they are playing a team that backed their way into the play-offs, meaning that they lost but so did the team that could've put them out. So it comes down to Mojo versus No-Mojo and I always take Mojo.
Houston 17 - Cincinnati 10
DETROIT LIONS at NEW ORLEANS SAINTS
And now for the 'feel good' story to come to a crashing halt. I love what the Lions did this year, I really did. For them to have a chance on Saturday the following things need to happen: Drew Brees doesn't play, Darren Sproles doesn't play, Marques Colston doesn't play, New Orleans' back-up quarterback doesn't play, Superdome fans become deaf-mutes, government probe proves that Katrina was a scam, and the Lions don't reveal that the only big game they won all year was the first Monday Night game against the healthy Chicago Bears--at home. That's about it. Brees crushed a 27-year record held by the Golden God Marino himself this year. YOU CAN'T STOP THE ROCK!
New Orleans 38 - Detroit 21
ATLANTA FALCONS at NEW YORK GIANTS
Ah yes, Hotlanta versus Jersey G-Men. This is the hardest pick of Wild Card Weekend. I have no idea what's going to happen. I had Michael Turner on my fantasy team this year and we finished in fifth place. Yeah, I said WE. He did the work, I called the shots. Matt Ryan looks spottier than a, well, I had a really dirty joke here that I will just keep to myself for the sake of going national. Let's just say that at the end of female cycles the flow tends to not be as heavy...yeah...that's Matt Ryan. Giants are hot right now. The kind of hot you want right as the play-offs are starting. Will they go all the way? Probably not. Will they beat the Falcons? I think so?
New York 21 - Atlanta 17
PITTSBURGH STEELERS at DENVER BRONCOS
The main event of everybody's weekend, right? Big Ben against Jesus. Date Rapist versus Humanitarian. Cool versus Good. I know Ben has an ankle injury, I know that Mendenhall is done for the year, and I know that Ryan Clark can't play in the high altitude due to his illness. I understand all of that. Listen to me very carefully...IT DOESN'T MATTER!!! Denver can't score any points. A hobbled Ben, a back-up running back, and that wide-receiving core can still put up points. The Steelers defense will embarrass the Denver offense more than Tebow will. This is a no-brainer, lock-stock, call Vegas pick of the weekend.
Pittsburgh 17 - Denver 3
So there you have it, kids. The Gospel itself. As always, if I'm wrong on any of these picks it's because I've been drinking. Enjoy Wild Card Weekend!
This weekend marks the start of the NFL play-offs and they call it Wild Card Weekend for a reason--shit gets crazy!
Remember last year when Marshawn Lynch single-handedly defeated the New Orleans Saints in Seattle, even though Seattle finished 7-9 and New Orleans was a huge favorite? Well the winds of fortune are blowing again this year and they are giving us a eerily similar situation in the Mile High City.
And who can resist this year's 'feel good' story? No, not Tebow, I'm talking about the Detroit Lions. Forget all the nonsense of Ndamukong Suh being a dirty player, and Jim Schwartz not being able to be patted on the back, the Lions making the play-offs is awesome. This franchise has been the biggest loser since Barry Sanders hung up his cleats--in 1998. I was in eighth grade that year and more concerned about why I was four feet tall than I was with professional football. Fourteen years later, I'm slightly taller, and the Lions are relevant again.
In Wild Card Weekend, only one of the Big Three is in action. Drew Brees hosts the aforementioned Lions in Louisiana while Aaron Rodgers and Tom Brady get the week off. The year that all three of these guys had should make for a very interesting play-off race.
Alright, well, I'm running out of little quips to talk about so I'm just going to jump right into your favorite part: my predictions that almost invariably make me look like an ass.
My team was out of contention in September so you can rest assured that these picks will not hold any bias*.
*Warning: contains bias.
CINCINNATI BENGALS at HOUSTON TEXANS
Ok, first up it's the tigers against the cows. Huge game for the Texans, it's their first play-off game in franchise history, it's at home, and history tells us they are playing the Bengals. The only problem for them is that they are on their eighteenth quarterback of the season. As good as their defense and skill positions are, their line is evidently made of swiss cheese--or their quarterbacks are made of balsa wood. Either way, it's not good. However, they are playing a team that backed their way into the play-offs, meaning that they lost but so did the team that could've put them out. So it comes down to Mojo versus No-Mojo and I always take Mojo.
Houston 17 - Cincinnati 10
DETROIT LIONS at NEW ORLEANS SAINTS
And now for the 'feel good' story to come to a crashing halt. I love what the Lions did this year, I really did. For them to have a chance on Saturday the following things need to happen: Drew Brees doesn't play, Darren Sproles doesn't play, Marques Colston doesn't play, New Orleans' back-up quarterback doesn't play, Superdome fans become deaf-mutes, government probe proves that Katrina was a scam, and the Lions don't reveal that the only big game they won all year was the first Monday Night game against the healthy Chicago Bears--at home. That's about it. Brees crushed a 27-year record held by the Golden God Marino himself this year. YOU CAN'T STOP THE ROCK!
New Orleans 38 - Detroit 21
ATLANTA FALCONS at NEW YORK GIANTS
Ah yes, Hotlanta versus Jersey G-Men. This is the hardest pick of Wild Card Weekend. I have no idea what's going to happen. I had Michael Turner on my fantasy team this year and we finished in fifth place. Yeah, I said WE. He did the work, I called the shots. Matt Ryan looks spottier than a, well, I had a really dirty joke here that I will just keep to myself for the sake of going national. Let's just say that at the end of female cycles the flow tends to not be as heavy...yeah...that's Matt Ryan. Giants are hot right now. The kind of hot you want right as the play-offs are starting. Will they go all the way? Probably not. Will they beat the Falcons? I think so?
New York 21 - Atlanta 17
PITTSBURGH STEELERS at DENVER BRONCOS
The main event of everybody's weekend, right? Big Ben against Jesus. Date Rapist versus Humanitarian. Cool versus Good. I know Ben has an ankle injury, I know that Mendenhall is done for the year, and I know that Ryan Clark can't play in the high altitude due to his illness. I understand all of that. Listen to me very carefully...IT DOESN'T MATTER!!! Denver can't score any points. A hobbled Ben, a back-up running back, and that wide-receiving core can still put up points. The Steelers defense will embarrass the Denver offense more than Tebow will. This is a no-brainer, lock-stock, call Vegas pick of the weekend.
Pittsburgh 17 - Denver 3
So there you have it, kids. The Gospel itself. As always, if I'm wrong on any of these picks it's because I've been drinking. Enjoy Wild Card Weekend!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Battle For LA
Good for you, Vanessa.
You finally stood up for yourself and said, "Enough is enough!" I'm out of here.
There's only so many multi-million dollar diamonds in the world that can buy your loyalty, and I applaud you for that.
Granted, what Kobe did in Denver several years ago invoked the necessity for multi-million dollar diamonds, and priceless news conferences (get some Chap-stick Kobe), but this was different, wasn't it?
This was too close to home. This was simply "I'm too bored because of this damn lock-out and need something to grab my attention." How dare the man!
Vanessa bolted...and I can't blame her. The Lakers are in complete disarray.
What, you thought I was going all Doctor Phil on you?
Lamar Odom is gone, the Zen Master is gone, Chris Paul plays in the stadium (but he's wearing blue and red), and now Kobe is physically and intimately alone. That should work well for the biggest ego in basketball.
So much for high and mighty for the greatest franchise in NBA history, you don't have the TIME for high and mighty. You need help now!
Everybody outside of Kobe knows that Kobe is in the twilight of his career. You have two years, maximum, of the Icy Killer that is Kobe. That means no more of, "He's definitely making this shot" or "We're down by two in the waning seconds, but we have Kobe".
Side Note: How sad is that? I'm not even close to a Lakers' fan but the fact that I will live and see Kobe Bryant not play basketball is very upsetting to me. He was my Jordan.
So the divorce thing affected Michael in a big way. His happened after his playing career but then he went out and became owner of the Charlotte Bobcats. Michael Jordan forgets more about the National Basketball Association by the day than I will ever know, yet, I know not to buy the Bobcats. They suck.
He was divorce-blind though. That's why the greatest basketball player ever bought a professional team in North Carolina. It has nothing to do with roots.
So, with a divorce-blind Kobe, and a rag-tag team of starters, the Lakers are simply screwed. Do you remember when Shaq left and Kobe had that 80 point game but the Lakers were still terrible? Yeah, it's like that but no 80 point game is coming.
At this point, even if the Lakers manage to wrangle Dwight Howard away from the Magic, they would be even more screwed. The Lakers would almost certainly have to give away key pieces of their line-up, as well as potential future draft picks, to get the best big man in the game. That buys them some time, but like I said, two years MAXIMUM!
Then you have no Kobe, Dwight bolts again, and you start starting Clipper-rejects.
Side note: Pairing Blake Griffin with Chris Paul was a total Laker move, about six years ago. What the hell happened? Are my kids going to grow up hating the Clippers and rooting for the Lakers? Bizarro world?
The man at the helm now is Mike Brown, the guy from Cleveland that couldn't get LeBron a championship. Now he's in LA, replacing Phil Jackson, inheriting a rapidly aging Kobe, and a fan base that simply wants to win. That's the recipe for dynamite and I simply can't wait. Blow it up!
You finally stood up for yourself and said, "Enough is enough!" I'm out of here.
There's only so many multi-million dollar diamonds in the world that can buy your loyalty, and I applaud you for that.
Granted, what Kobe did in Denver several years ago invoked the necessity for multi-million dollar diamonds, and priceless news conferences (get some Chap-stick Kobe), but this was different, wasn't it?
This was too close to home. This was simply "I'm too bored because of this damn lock-out and need something to grab my attention." How dare the man!
Vanessa bolted...and I can't blame her. The Lakers are in complete disarray.
What, you thought I was going all Doctor Phil on you?
Lamar Odom is gone, the Zen Master is gone, Chris Paul plays in the stadium (but he's wearing blue and red), and now Kobe is physically and intimately alone. That should work well for the biggest ego in basketball.
So much for high and mighty for the greatest franchise in NBA history, you don't have the TIME for high and mighty. You need help now!
Everybody outside of Kobe knows that Kobe is in the twilight of his career. You have two years, maximum, of the Icy Killer that is Kobe. That means no more of, "He's definitely making this shot" or "We're down by two in the waning seconds, but we have Kobe".
Side Note: How sad is that? I'm not even close to a Lakers' fan but the fact that I will live and see Kobe Bryant not play basketball is very upsetting to me. He was my Jordan.
So the divorce thing affected Michael in a big way. His happened after his playing career but then he went out and became owner of the Charlotte Bobcats. Michael Jordan forgets more about the National Basketball Association by the day than I will ever know, yet, I know not to buy the Bobcats. They suck.
He was divorce-blind though. That's why the greatest basketball player ever bought a professional team in North Carolina. It has nothing to do with roots.
So, with a divorce-blind Kobe, and a rag-tag team of starters, the Lakers are simply screwed. Do you remember when Shaq left and Kobe had that 80 point game but the Lakers were still terrible? Yeah, it's like that but no 80 point game is coming.
At this point, even if the Lakers manage to wrangle Dwight Howard away from the Magic, they would be even more screwed. The Lakers would almost certainly have to give away key pieces of their line-up, as well as potential future draft picks, to get the best big man in the game. That buys them some time, but like I said, two years MAXIMUM!
Then you have no Kobe, Dwight bolts again, and you start starting Clipper-rejects.
Side note: Pairing Blake Griffin with Chris Paul was a total Laker move, about six years ago. What the hell happened? Are my kids going to grow up hating the Clippers and rooting for the Lakers? Bizarro world?
The man at the helm now is Mike Brown, the guy from Cleveland that couldn't get LeBron a championship. Now he's in LA, replacing Phil Jackson, inheriting a rapidly aging Kobe, and a fan base that simply wants to win. That's the recipe for dynamite and I simply can't wait. Blow it up!
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