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May 25, 2012

The Whipping Boy

It is May, which means two things:

1. The NFL season is still months away, and speculating on it now is pointless and foolhardy.

2. This is America, and we don’t care.

No, in this country it seems it’s never too early to discuss the upcoming football season. We’re all in on the sport – it’s our Hunger Games. Football news, no matter how obscure, unseasonable, or off-topic, is always met with a satisfied nod. At least from anyone who loves America.

And one thing I know to be true is that you, dear readers, are patriots. So you understand that offseason football talk is completely rational. And today, I want to discuss something that should be in the forefront of fans’ minds heading into the 2012 NFL season. This is crucial for football fandom – more important than rosters, depth charts, draft picks, or coaching schemes. It’s something us rubes must embrace, for it has the power to keep fans of even the most soul crushing teams (see: Vikings, Bills, Browns) sane.

The decision every fan should make is: who will be my team’s 2012 whipping boy?

The whipping boy is a key figure on any team, for it keeps fans from killing themselves. Trust me; it’s the only thing that has kept the suicide toll among Vikings fans down for the last few decades. Basically, it works like this: you pick one player you don’t really like, and then blame most (or, in some cases, all) of the team’s collective failures on him. It’s very easy.

My brother Brandon and I developed this system in Minnesota long ago. We’re simple folks. And as Vikes fans, we found a basic need for it in order to suppress the almost inescapable depression caused by moments such as this, this (NO!!!), and, most recently…this. And those are just the high points. Having one finite place to direct your scorn – rather than trying to figure out who to blame (coach, quarterback, owner, father, roommate, fair-weather fan next door, etc.), helps keep things together and removes the need for auxiliary brain function that could be better utilized on beer, wings, the TV remote, and the like. And the great part is, there is no limit to what you came blame on the whipping boy. He doesn’t even have to be part of the play, on the field, or even in the building – no matter what happens, it’s his fault. For example, our most recent whipping boy on the Vikings was fat and stupid offensive tackle Bryant McKinnie. McKinnie was a decent player, but a tailor-made, hall of fame whipping boy (more on that later). Anyway, if the quarterback was sacked from his blind side, clearly it was his fault. But if a running play going to the right side – where McKinnie was not involved – and didn’t do well, we could find a reason to blame him too. Often we’d even deem it his fault when the defense gave up big plays, the kicker missed a field goal, or someone brought the wrong kind of salami to the postgame meal. There’s no logic for this, but there doesn’t have to be – and that’s the beauty of the system. It makes even the angriest, most illogical fan feel a little better because it plays right into those two basic superfan instincts – anger and the absence of logic. Just try it, you’ll like it.

Now, picking the whipping boy is slightly more complicated, and that’s why we’re having this talk. It can’t just be anyone; it has to be a guy fit for the role. Initially it’s probably tempting to pick some poor scrub who barely made the roster, or the longsnapper, or punter, or someone else of that ilk. Those guys are eternally easy to pick on, so I understande that urge. But they don’t work; you don’t see them nearly as much as more prominent team members, and those guys are already low on the totem pole – in salary, fame, and respect – so piling on them just kind of makes you a dick. Instead, it should usually be a player with regular playing time and at least relatively decent talent, with some combination of the following:

– Poor Attitude. Guys with shitass attitudes are unlikable and generally cause trouble, so it’s easy to find or create fault in what they do.

– Unfulfilled Potential. This is a big one. You’re going to have a head start at being pissed off at these guys anyway, because the football-watching world has already decided their level of play isn’t equal to their level of talent. Nobody likes an underachiever. So why fight it? Why not ride that wave and consider your team’s disproportionately high draft pick for the position of whipping boy? They’re very easy to yell at.

– Weight. Simple: the more body mass, the more places they seem to be. And the more places they seem to be, the better probability you’ll see them around a play that didn’t go your team’s way. Plus there’s the classic dilemma of NFL linemen: they only get noticed when they draw a penalty or miss a block. Proper line work usually goes unnoticed. Let’s keep it that way.

– Undue Hype. This is similar to unfulfilled potential, but is more a product of the player being overrated by the rest of the football-watching world. You know, when you’re watching a game and ask yourself “why does everybody think this guy is so good? He doesn’t do shit.” That’s the undue hype guy.

For Vikings fans, Bryant McKinnie was a conglomeration of all of these factors, and thus made the perfect whipping boy. A top-10 draft choice that was expected to step in and dominate from day one, a contract dispute held him out well into his rookie season, and when he did finally show up he never quite got that “dominance” thing. Still a serviceable left tackle, but he always was more worried about his music career (why are all athletes under the illusion they are also rappers?) and partying than he was playing football. He even got kicked off a Pro Bowl team once, due to his South Beach clubbing schedule taking precedence over practice. It was impossible to like this guy.

But alas, when McKinnie returned to training camp extra fat and out of shape last year, the Vikings finally tired of his bullshit and cut his cruise ship-sized ass. While good for the team culture and accountability, it left a gaping hole at left tackle and, more importantly, the whipping boy position. We scrambled to find replacements for both – Charlie Johnson and left tackle and eventually a half-assed attempt at making Donovan McNabb the whipping boy for the season – but neither really satisfied. A washed-up, benched veteran quarterback doesn’t make a great kick-horse, no matter how many passes we saw him skip at receivers’ feet. It worked for a few games, but once he stopped seeing playing time, the thrill was gone. And thus, in the season we needed a good whipping boy most – the squad finished a dismal 3-13 – we were left with none. I will not let this happen again.

Just to give you an idea, let’s look at some blame-dumps from the past.

Past Whipping Boys

Chris Hovan

A white defensive tackle, Hovan was up against it from the start. He actually had a few years as an impact lineman in the early 2000’s, but then his level of play began to seriously slide, though it was at least two years before anyone noticed. One of these years, the Vikes were on Monday Night Football one week and John Madden took a shine to Hovan for some reason. Being John Madden, he wouldn’t shut up about him. This fueled the undue hype machine, and I specifically watched Hovan on every play the rest of that season and waited for him to do anything other than stand up after the ball was snapped, grab onto whatever offensive lineman was across from him, and just kind of stand there. He never did. Still, the John Maddens of the world continued to rave. Hovan currently plays for the Virginia Destroyers of the UFL. His tattoos include barbed wire and an American flag.

Lance Johnstone



A defensive end the Vikings acquired during that same time frame in order to upgrade their dismal pass rush. “We have Lance Johnstone,” the team basically told us, “so our days of being ranked dead last in every defensive category are over.” They weren’t. Johnstone was a washed up version of a player that wasn’t actually that good in the first place, and while he was just fine at rushing quarterbacks, he struggled mightily at actually getting to them. His three and four-sack seasons for some reason didn’t end the team’s defensive woes.

Bernard Berrian

The overpaid, moody, much maligned wide receiver, whose tenure as the whipping boy overlapped with McKinnie’s. Boy, did we have plenty of places to push blame when those two guys were on the roster – really, they were the best one-two punch ever. The Batman and Robin of fan scorn. Again, this guy was brought in to rescue a failed position unit (the receiving corps), and paid much more than he was worth (something like $7 million a year). Berrian never even looked like a solid player, didn’t catch many balls, and watched idly as a hall-of-fame quarterback (Brett Favre) came in and made someone else (Sindey Rice) a quasi-star. Every interaction with the media was a testy one, which didn’t do much to make us like him. If you’re going to be a shitty, overpaid player, at least be nice.

Those are just a few examples. But who for this year? Let’s look at the field (with whipping boy factor, on a 10-point scale):

This Year’s Candidates

Asher Allen, Cornerback

Going into his fourth season, the former third-round draft pick from Georgia has not developed much since his rookie year. In what figures to once again be a very thin unit, Allen will be forced into meaningful action in the secondary – something he’s proven he can’t really handle. In three years with the Vikings, Allen has four interceptions, 11 passes defended, and many, many instances of being five to eight yards away from his receiver when the ball is caught. No attitude or weight problems yet, but you never know. Whipping boy factor: 6.

Phil Loadholt, Offensive Tackle

The logical McKinnie replacement; a huge, massive, gigantic offensive lineman who underachieved last year. Loadholt has talent and solid football acumen, but too often in 2011 you would see him standing there looking down at the quarterback after he’d given up a sack, with this confused look on his face that just kind of said, “sorry?” Linemen are just so easy to blame. I personally don’t want Loadholt to be the whipping boy at all – just look at that face. Look how happy he is. How could you be consistently mad at that guy, even if he’s consistently screwing your team’s chances to win? It’s true – in every public setting, big Phil comes off as possibly the most positive, unassuming guy on the planet. He’s easily the jolliest offensive lineman I’ve ever seen – it’s almost as if he didn’t really want to go into a profession that involves crushing other human beings, but he just kept growing. Loadholt is good fat, so let’s not make him the whipping boy. Let’s look past his flaw. Please? Whipping boy factor: 5.

Toby Gerhart, Running Back

His name is Toby! He went to Stanford! He was a Heisman finalist! Then why in his rookie season did Gerhart look like a man content with taking a handoff, making one slow horizontal move, then falling forward for two yards? This is the visual I have of his first season with the team. It’s not completely fair, because as the year wore on he did improve as a runner, and actually filled in admirably for the injured Adrian Peterson. Still, I have big expectations, so I have Toby on a short leash. Peterson might not be ready for the start of the season, and even if he is, it won’t be at full strength. We’re going to need Gerhart to be solid, and if he isn’t, I’m completely willing to turn on him early on. Whipping boy factor: 7.

Jerome Simpson, Wide Receiver

This could be the one. Simpson recently signed with the Vikings after serving 15 days in jail. He’s being paid 2 million this year, and put up serviceable numbers with the Bengals last year (50 catches, 725 yards, 4 TDs). Looking at those factors alone, expectations would be reasonably low for Simpson with the Vikings. But NFL fans are not reasonable, and will have much higher hopes for Simpson – mainly due to the fact that they saw him on ESPN 2,000 times last year, after he made one of the iconic plays of the 2011 NFL season. That single play was shown over and over again, and due to ESPN’s mammoth reach, the rubes probably think Simpson is better than he actually is. He inadvertently set the metaphorical bar very high for himself. And if things start to go sour – Simpson isn’t catching many balls and starts to complain, as receivers are wont to do – it could get ugly. Also, I’m just assuming he has attitude problems, because he was in jail and he played for the Bengals. What other proof do you need? Whipping boy factor: 9.

 

These are the candidates. Vikings fans, we must pick one. Do you have someone else in mind? Who did I miss? And non-Vikings fans: who will YOUR team’s whipping boy be?

May 14, 2012

Visual Stimulation

Have you read Memoirs of a Gas Station? Are you currently reading it? Is it in your metaphorical “to read” pile? Are you considering reading it, but first trying to get over your deep-rooted psychological aversion to books?

If you answered “no” to all of these questions, that’s okay. Seriously, it’s cool. I’m not even mad. I mean, sure, I put like a year and change into writing the thing, and I’m basically baring my soul for the whole world to see…but no big deal.  I promise. Would you excuse me for a second?

If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, then welcome. Come on in, take off your shoes, and get comfy. Let go of your inhibitions. Be with me. Take your coat off and let me fix you a drink. Scotch okay? Great. For you, I have a little something. You know when you read a book and your mind creates little mental pictures of people and places? I’ve come to destroy those. Not because I hate you…I love you. I just thought it might be fun to put some visuals with the words. So…some photos from the cast and crew of Memoirs:

This is Jim. I chose this particular out-of-focus shot because it captures the essence of working at a gas station: dread, regret, and shame. This was taken immediately after Jim found out he would be spending his summer working at the Lynx Creek Store. See the smirk on his face? He couldn’t help but smile a little at how much life had screwed him over. I can almost here him asking “Why, God? Why me?” It was a true low point in his life, and like any good friend, I was there to capture the moment.

This is Horseshoe Lake, the sight of many moose and beaver viewings. It was a fairly popular, yet cozy little spot. The farthest body of water you can see – on the left side – is the Nenana River. Our living quarters were situated near the banks of that river.

This is a bear. Not exactly sure where I found this guy, but I assume I was staring him down, holding a Bowie knife, and daring the son of a bitch to attack. Or I was in a seat on a bus, taking this picture through a glass window. You decide.

Damian (left) and Kenny, early in the season, getting ready to attack some hills near a place called Toklat. Yes, that Kenny.

On the banks of Horseshoe Lake, watching a moose eat dinner. On the other side, some parents and snot-nosed kids look on.

This is a Dall Sheep. I named him Roland. Kenny and I were near Savage River, climbing a mountain and looking for a suitable campsite, and this guy kept following us. At one point I stopped and waited for him to crest the hill, then snapped a quick picture before he could gore me or whatever they do with those horns.

That’s it for now, but do come back for more in the future!

May 8, 2012

All Underrated List

We’ve discussed who is overrated; now it’s time to spotlight those who get no respect. The unsung greats, the geniuses toiling in obscurity, the hard working, blue collar, middle class of common thought. Yes, it’s time to talk about the underrated.

Now remember, this doesn’t mean these things are unknown; just that they aren’t given the credit they deserve. And again, they’re in no particular order. To the list!

Cauliflower

Cauliflower has long since been the bastard cousin of broccoli, and this is not okay. Broccoli gets all the spotlight because it’s green, and we’re obsessed with green food in this godforsaken hippie health-freak organic culture we’ve built ourselves, but cauliflower is healthy as shit too. It, as Wikipedia tells me, is “low in fat, low in carbs but high in dietary fiber, folate (which I think is a real thing), water, and vitamin C, possessing a high nutritional density.” Yep, nutritional density. Read it and weep, broccoli crusaders. It’s a damn ball of nutrition.

Plus, it’s a very versatile food. It has very little actual taste, just enough to keep it from being tasteless, and not too much to make it taste bad, which, being a vegetable, it almost certainly would, if it had more taste. Instead, this “minimalist taste” is delightfully usable, and lets you combine cauliflower with almost anything and get away with it. Seriously, name any dish and I can assure you that the addition of cauliflower will – at the very least – definitely probably not ruin it. And you can keep it simple too – even just combining it with melted cheese is a common favorite. It’s delicious and makes your fat ass not feel quite so bad about housing what is essentially a bowl full of cheese in a single sitting. Hey, no need to feel bad at all – it’s got nutritional density.

Silvertide

This is a band you probably haven’t heard of, and that’s not because I’m trying to pull some pretentious hipster shit on you. They were just never very well known, and didn’t last very long. Silvertide saw a small glimpse of fame in ‘04/’05 when their one barely-popular single, “Aint Comin’ Home,” was played very occasionally on mainstream rock radio. They might’ve released subsequent singles, but nobody really paid attention. And then they broke up – their career spanned one album.

Why am I telling you this? Because Silvertide f’ing rocked. That one album, Show and Tell, was 11 tracks of blistering, stupid, straightforward rock and roll, and that is something that was painfully absent through most of that particular decade. For me, it was an oasis in a desert of indie rock and easy listenings, and a godsend. They were my new favorite band.

Of course, it ended there, and was seemingly over before it started. There was no second album, as all the band members parted ways to form or participate in other projects, which uniformly sucked (trust me, I’ve checked). But I still listen to Show and Tell; it’s a naïve, underdeveloped, and massively flawed album, but maybe that’s okay. My musical tastes have changed, and I no longer cling to loud, frantic guitar licks and shrill vocals like I used to, but I can still see the good in an album like this. It falls somewhere between 80’s hair metal and modern day mainstream, wannabe rock, and that’s not a terrible place to be.

Bill Bryson

Based on how many books he’s sold I’d assume everyone on earth has heard of him, but that is apparently not the case. I stumbled upon his wilderness masterpiece A Walk in the Woods a few years ago and immediately adopted Bryson as my new favorite author. And not being one to shut the hell up about things, I of course told everyone about it, and was surprised to find a lot of people who hadn’t heard of him either. Well, regarding Bryson’s writings: if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. It is so choice. (And yes, you do have the means; your local library will have them, and I’ve recently found that libraries give out books for free. Not sure how they’re able to sustain this business model, but I plan on taking advantage until they wise up.)

Bill Bryson is smart, quick witted, hilarious, keenly observational, well-researched, and blatantly honest. Born in America (the great state of Iowa, to be exact), he moved to Europe and resided there for 30 years before finally coming back home. So right there, there’s something for everyone: the unashamed American nationalists who probably own guns, and the conceited, tea-drinking neck-beard people who are convinced Europe is “sooooo much more cultured” and better than America despite the fact that they continue to –and always will – live here. Both of these groups will enjoy Bryson – he breaks down walls.

The book in question, A Walk in the Woods, takes place just after his return stateside, when he attempts to “rediscover America” on the Appalachian Trail. Between his astute observations, lovable curmudgeon streak, and the fact that he is blatantly unequipped to hike anything, much less something as daunting as the AT, it makes for a great read.

Otters

Much like cauliflower, they’ve been the maligned stepchild of another creature for seemingly all of history. In the animal kingdom, the beaver seems to get all the credit, while the otter is routinely an afterthought. This is horseshit. Yes, beavers are much more hardworking and understanding of middle-class American values – it seems they never take a break from working on those dams, night and day. But that’s their flaw as well: beavers do not understand the work/life balance, and the singular goal of dam-building consumes their lives and gives them one-track minds. These beavers are not well-rounded individuals.

Otters, on the other hand, live life at a different pace. They aren’t concerned with dam-building, oil wells, gold mines, or real estate; they mostly go wherever the tides take them. Indeed, otters can usually be seen floating leisurely on their backs, cracking crabs on their chests and basking in life’s beautiful glow. Their priorities are different. Clearly otters, along with koalas, are the hippies of the animal kingdom. But unlike human hippies, who commonly have dreadlocks and poor hygiene, the animal hippies stay groomed and work when they have to. They just understand there’s more to life than building homes or constantly hunting. We could all learn something from the otter.

May 3, 2012

The Finger

Following the release of my book Memoirs of a Gas Station (*cough cough* $2.99 on Amazon *cough*), I’ve been digging through the media archives for pictures and short videos of the excursion. This is partly for general reminiscence and partly to make sure I haven’t grossly distorted any facts (no comment). In the process I’ve come across some entertaining little nuggets, which I’ll be sharing here in the near (and possibly far) future.

Today, I’d like to take a look at this gem: it’s a quick video chronicling some minor home surgery on one of my fingers. And by “minor home surgery,” I mean thrusting a blackened needle through the fingernail to release the considerable pressure from blood that had built up underneath it. If you’ve read the book, you’ll recall this was a consequence of accidentally let it slam between two large steel doors with faulty springs. This was also the same time I realized the dining hall closed at 7 p.m. It was 7:15. I was hungry. Overall, not a good night.

The finger of course turned purple and immediately swelled up to the size of a small pineapple. And, oh, it kind of hurt. In the coming days the swelling would get better, but as the fluid beneath the fingernail filled up more it became almost impossible to use the finger, for each time it was so much grazed by a paper bag I was using to corral some senior citizen’s six-pack at the gas station, my hand would shoot with pain. It was during one such bagging session when a passerby noticed how I was favoring the finger, and told me to use the technique shown below.

This video is highly embarrassing for a few reasons. First, judging by the pitch of my voice, I either hadn’t gone through puberty when this was shot or had just inhaled a balloon full of helium. Whatever. Second: the obvious physical and mental struggle I went through just trying to accomplish the simple task of putting a needle through my fingernail. I was clearly confused on the proper procedure, and I think my hands were sweaty because I knew it was all being captured on camera.

Regardless, roll the tape.

That was Part 1. You probably noticed a voice in the background talking to some hipster probably named Blake about some band probably called Animal Collective. That was Jim – much more on him on this blog in the future. He was on the other side of the room looking away, because he knew what was going on and had some blood/sight issues. I offered him a spot on the surgical team, but he for some reason declined.

Anyway, we took a break to strategize the best practice for the procedure, and somewhere in that discussion the needle found its way into where it needed to be. Which is when the camera began rolling again. WARNING: This one is a little more graphic. So if you’re squeamish…just be ready to cover your eyes.

And just like that, Kenny – who had been observing the ordeal –grew tired of my inability to finish, jumped right in with his unsweaty hands, and pulled the damn thing out. I really do owe him. The finger got much better after this (I squeezed most of the blood out), and eventually the fingernail just fell off to make way for a new one. The circle of life, ladies and gentlemen.

I’d like to thank Kenny for his uncanny action and also the female behind the camera – who will remain nameless, to protect her innocence – for shooting it.

Please feel free to share similar experiences or just make fun of me in the comments section down at the bottom of the page.

April 24, 2012

Announcement

Everyone please gather around for a quick announcement in the form of shame-free self-promotion:

In case you were wondering, my first book, Memoirs of a Gas Station, has been released as a Kindle e-book. It’s a fun and totally-worth-your-time account of one summer I spent working at a gas station in central Alaska. If you enjoy this blog at all, I can definitely probably guarantee you’ll enjoy Memoirs as well, because it contains the same sarcastic tone and general view on life. And a whole bunch of hilarious and fulfilling stories about animals and hippies and hitchhiking and stuff. Plus, it’s cheap – only $2.99. What a deal! You can get it for pretty much any technological device you own (not necessarily just a Kindle, although that works too). Click here to take a look.

That’s all. As always, thanks for reading.

April 11, 2012

All Overrated List

What better way to follow up Easter weekend than by making some judgments about other people? I’ve been wanting to do a universal overrated/underrated list for a while now, and this seems like as good a time as any to get it started.

Basically, we’re just here to discuss any public figure – music, sports, TV, etc. – that is generally thought of as more or less valuable than they actually are. It’ll be broken up into two parts, and I’ll of course start with the overrated list, because I am a dick.

Before we get started, keep in mind that calling someone overrated doesn’t mean I think they have no value, just that I think the public perception of them is unwarrantedly rosy. And I will not include any pop R&B singers – such as Bruno Mars or something called Trey Songz – for you can just assume I think they all suck. Anyway, in no particular order…

Tyler Perry

You may know him from Tyler Perry’s House of Pain, Meet the Browns, the film Diary of a Mad Black Woman, and countless other painfully unfunny TBS programs that you probably haven’t seen either. He is a writer/director/producer who allegedly makes comedies, though I don’t believe there is documented proof of a sane person laughing at any point during any of his productions. It’s almost difficult to call him overrated because everyone I know seems to agree with me on how terrible anything Tyler Perry creates is, but his movies and TV shows continue being made. And oh yeah, Wikipedia (which is as far as I’m willing to go for research on this topic) claims that Forbes claims that he was the highest-paid man in entertainment in 2011, earning $130 million. So clearly someone is watching these shows, and apparently enjoying them. What the hell, people? Do you appreciate lowest-common-denominator humor that isn’t even funny to the lowest denominator? Do you like your sitcoms written by someone that reads at a third grade level? I once had a black friend suggest that the reason I don’t appreciate Mr. Perry’s work is because it’s a racial thing; I’m white, and thus cannot understand his apparent genius. I just don’t understand black humor, she told me. Well, while I must admit I’m not even sure what “black humor” is, I am fairly certain I understand at least the fundamental levels of “humor,” which is nonexistent in Perry works. I think it’s less of a cultural thing and more of a thing about things that are funny, and Tyler Perry is not funny.

Blink 182

There are some pieces of pop culture that reach us at a certain point in our lives, and just seem to be right for us at that particular time and place. These things might not be good per se – often they have very little artistic value – but because they hit us at the right time, be it a stage of development or a specific age or even a physical location, we were able to appreciate them nonetheless. And as the years pass, even when we realize these things have considerably less value than we assigned them at the time, we are able to appreciate them due to the nostalgia they invoke and, often, good-natured humor. Limp Bizkit and Field of Dreams are two examples of this for me, and I bet most everyone has their own set.

Blink 182 is not one of these things. They are not good and never were. They kind of always sucked, actually, and when I look back on their work now, I feel no nostalgia, and neither should you. Blink basically capitalized on the 90’s policy of doing as little as possible while playing music, and while it certainly worked at the time, let’s not celebrate it now. Band like Nirvana subscribed to this “Do Less” theory as well, but they were way less whiny than Blink 182, and thus are okay with me. In whatever sort of pop/punk/emo movement this was, Blink was the biggest of the big and the whiniest of the whiney, and I don’t condone any of that. (And please, before you genre nerds jump on me and assert that “they weren’t punk or emo or pop, they were actually mid-postpunk/modern expressionist,” please save it. The labels mean nothing. I don’t care). They were hailed as quirky and edgy back then, but in retrospect, “Take off your pants and jacket” isn’t really funny, and their drummer couldn’t even succeed at being a reality TV personality, which is saying something.

Michelle Wie

Why do we still care? She has two career LPGA tour victories. She’s never won a major, and she has ONE top-ten finish in a major tournament in the last five years. The whole uncommonly young wunderkind/phenom thing has officially passed her by, and she’s not even that good looking – zero Kournikova factor. And she plays women’s golf. So why exactly are we supposed to be paying attention? Are we supposed to remember the 14-year-old that was going to change the sport of golf? All I remember was a spoiled brat who was preoccupied with playing PGA events (through sponsor exemptions) before she had ever won an LPGA event. She never even made the cut in one of those PGA tournaments, by the way, but she continued playing them. More cameras there, I guess. She also famously once said “I watch the PGA, not the LPGA. I like the players on the PGA better.” What a bitch. In case you missed it the first time, this woman has two career LPGA wins. No majors.

Eric Clapton’s Solo Career

This is tough for me, because I adore so much about Cream, Blind Faith, and Derek and the Dominos. But I have a social responsibility to call them like I see them, and as I see it, Clapton hasn’t written or recorded much of value since the 1970s.

Let me be perfectly clear: Eric Clapton is, at the very least, one of the 10 greatest rock and roll guitarists of all time. The Yardbirds were groundbreaking. Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs is a phenomenal album. And Cream is still one of the best power trios ever. Clapton even gives the handful of us blues fans that still exist after the year 2000 a reason to live by organizing events like the Crossroads Guitar Festival. In fact, he was the first person ever inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame three separate times – with the Yardbirds, Cream, and then as a solo act. And it’s that last one that’s really the issue.

See, it’s not that Clapton’s solo stuff is bad; it’s just not very good. Somewhere along the line, whether it was due to evolution as a musician or quitting hard drugs or just simple aging, the magic kind of left ol’ Slowhand, at least regarding any studio recordings he’s made. Oh he can still get up on stage and rock that Stratocaster, and the importance of this cannot be understated, at least in today’s musical climate. It’s why we keep him around. But the driving rock and lightning licks of the 60’s are a thing of the past, and in their place are mostly slow ballads and easy listens. Nothing wrong with those things, they just aren’t nearly as good as the early work. Somewhat ironically, he’s spent the vast majority of his career as a solo artist – Cream only lasted about two years and the Yardbirds less than that, yet he’s been schlepping it on his own for four damn decades. Sure, he’s living off reputation at least a little bit at this point, but it’s almost as if the R&R HOF people just finally relented. “Fine – he’s a good musician, and though we don’t really like any of the solo stuff that much, he’s been doing it for so long. It MUST be worth something.”

Plus he covered a Bob Marley song. Eric, I thought you were better than that.

It almost makes me wonder what would’ve happened if Jimi Hendrix wouldn’t have died when he did. We tend to lionize guys like Hendrix, whose career was cut so short and yet managed to pack so much outstanding and influential material in a tight window of time. Death at a young age adds so much unknown to someone’s legacy – there’s a tendency to assume that untimely death means the individual in question had many more contributions to make, and only didn’t because he or she ran out of time. But we never really think about the other option – what if Hendrix’s musical career (or Duane Allman’s or Stevie Ray Vaughan’s or Janis Joplin’s) just kind of slowly waned and fizzled out, like so many do?  We give Jimi so much credit for advancing the way the electric guitar was played, and he deserves every damn bit of it. But what if he’d lived? We’ll never know, but I do think if Clapton died of a heroin overdose in 1975, and Hendrix was still alive today, we might be thinking of both a lot differently.

Chris Brown

Ahhh I promised I wouldn’t do it! But dammit, I just can’t help myself. This is one R&B singer that needs to be singled out. And shot. If it wasn’t enough that he assaulted my girl Rihanna (and believe me, it was), he’s been assaulting music listeners for years now. Even though I despise this musical genre in general, there’s something that especially irks me about this pile of crap. Okay, it’s probably the Rihanna thing. But wait! Then there’s his obnoxious singing voice, his lack of any real creativity, his stupid tattoos, the fact that he hit Rihanna, and his tendency to engage in petulant Twitter fights. Chris Brown is really just one of those spoiled, overgrown children that tend to drift through celebrity and then disappear in a year or two. But he’s still here! Why? Aren’t there enough nasally pop singers with limited talent that essentially duplicate what he does, just without beating up my favorite human peacock?

I don’t get it. Not only do we keep Chris Brown around, we give him Grammys – he took home one of the spares that were left this year after Adele claimed her 92% share of the awards. This is not okay – we shouldn’t be awarding being Chris Brown. Can’t we just bring back Kris Kross and give them the Grammy instead? At least they had a positive attitude.

Dear Parking Services

Dear Parking Services,

Hello. My name is Sam. In fact, we’ve met before; I was the one on the phone with you just a minute ago. Since I wasn’t articulating my feelings that well, I thought I’d write you, just to clear the air.

You see, I don’t hate you. I just want to know why you are the way you are: the exterminator of good times, the crusader against happiness, the perpetuator of technicality. I don’t question your duty, either – keeping parking lots free of unlawful parkers and other miscreants is of utmost priority – and I’m well aware that I was parked illegally. But why must you go to the extreme with your occupation? You’ve clearly found that writing parking tickets is your calling in life, and for that I applaud you, but the fervent nature in which you execute said calling is slightly baffling to me. For instance, was it really necessary to give me three consecutive tickets for the same parking violation? Wouldn’t one, or even two have sufficed? I gladly would’ve paid two, since I am a good American who understands commerce and likes to make a deal. But sadly, your policies were without leeway. Very well, three it is.

But why the excess of pictures taken? I understand you need photo evidence, so as to safeguard against disgruntled offenders who think they can talk their way out of these things – which, believe me, I would’ve tried, so props to you – but were 10 photos really called for? I admit, despite my car’s age, I do keep it looking good, so I can see how you might want to admire it later from the comfort of your own home, but I assure you three or four pictures would’ve done the trick.

And finally, let’s discuss the late fee. This one really befuddles a common man like myself, so bear with me: since the vehicle in question was parked behind a locked chain-linked fence (which would seem like a place out-of-the-way and obsolete enough not to cause trouble, and that was really my intent, but I digress), you were not able to reach the car and serve the tickets on its windshield, in traditional parking cadet fashion. Instead, you mailed them, and let me first just say I appreciate your support of the United States Postal Service. They’re really hurting right now, so your patriotism is admirable. But then, dear parking people, the citations did not reach me until after the arbitrary and much-sooner-than-reasonable deadline for payment, and thus you asked for a late fee. This seems odd, for a small-minded Midwesterner like me cannot know to pay a citation before I am notified that the citation exists, but my arguments to that point didn’t seem to resonate with you. Those are the rules, I was told, and the rules are rigid.

I would fight you on this, but the excess of photo proof and diligent note-taking done by your office would make that an exercise in futility, and plus I’m not much of a fighter anyway. Instead, I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry, parking people, that life has been so unkind to you. Clearly you’ve been beaten down and pushed in the proverbial mud since childhood, for that is the only logical scenario that would breed a creature so bitter and intent on others’ unhappiness that they would actually willfully work for a branch of government that’s sole purpose is to ruin people’s days. It must be very tough for you.

In high school you were the fat kid with acne, and you spent most of your days trying to stop your peers from bombarding you with corn nuts and other small projectiles in the hallways. This, for some reason, you were unable to get past as you matured, and now your mission each morning is to get back at those bastards for what they’ve done. I would tell you that, at 30 years of age or so, it’s time to forgive and move on, but I don’t think it would do much good. Or perhaps you were a goth, with the black clothes and dog collars and face paint and Manson shirts, and while the wardrobe is gone, the attitude on life inexplicably remains. If that is the case, go ahead and keep writing parking tickets, but please stop performing sacrifices on your neighbors’ cats, okay? Or maybe you’re just a person with a natural inclination towards bitterness and power trips, but you failed out of the police academy. In that scenario, I’d suggest you just go and die somewhere.

Okay, I’m not serious about the dying part. That seems a little extreme, and extremity is the very thing I’m speaking out against, isn’t it? But something must be done, and since the overwhelming amount of evidence you’ve compiled prohibits me from contesting the parking tickets, I’ll just have to fuck up your world instead. Yes, miserable loner, I have a plan. I’m not going to hurt you, but I’d like you to feel a similar level of irritation as I did when dealing with you. So I’m going to break into your place of residence one night. You’ll be sleeping, probably on the couch with an empty bag of Doritos on your chest, with the TV left on. This is fine – I work quietly, so I won’t wake you. My first order of business is finding your collection of Star Wars figurines and cutting limbs off each of them. I know how much they mean to you, and I feel this is a good place to start the sabotage. After that, I will locate your Xbox live headset and piss on it. This way, the next time you’re pwning noobs on Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 in an online skirmish, you will smell my urine. I might even eat some asparagus first just to amplify things. Finally, I will enter your room and draw mustaches on all of your Jonathan Taylor Thomas posters. It’s kind of weird that you like him so much, especially at your age (and, you know…you’re a guy. And Home Improvement was like 20 years ago), but any defamation of J.T.T. will surely bring you to your knees. This, I’m afraid to say, will bring a smile to my face.

After I exit, I plan on finding your car in the driveway and attaching the boot I bought off Craigslist to one of the tires. Then, and only then, you will finally understand: that kinda sucks, doesn’t it?

February 29, 2012

Foie Gras Reduction

Course One

House made Scrapple with Fennel Kimchi & Creamy Shallot Confit Barley

Course Two

Barley & Quinoa “Risotto” with Winter Vegetables, Crispy Poached Egg, and Basil & Preserved Orange Pistou

Above are dining options from a restaurant I’ll be visiting later this week. It’s been my experience over the course of my life that restaurants generally serve food, but after reading this I’m not so sure. I mean, I assume it’s food – I do notice certain familiar words like “egg” and “vegetables” in there – but with so many colorfully misleading and probably made-up words in the description, I certainly don’t want to bank on that. For instance, I thought barley is what they fed the horses on my uncle’s farm. Perhaps this restaurant is for livestock. Others such as “scrapple” and “quinoa” confuse me to no end; the former sounds like a genre of steel guitar music from the 1950s. And I find it particularly worrisome how there are quotes around the word “risotto.” That is one word I was beginning to feel comfortable with, but now my guard is back up. Why the quotes? It’s as if they’re saying it with a wink and nod, and we’re expected to be in on the joke. Well I am certainly not in on the joke, for I have no idea what the hell they mean, and I’d appreciate a more straightforward, quote-free description in the future.

Slightly dramatic embellishments aside, this is clearly not a menu from Outback Steakhouse. It’s restaurant week in Denver; that time of year when even the outlandishly expensive restaurants are reasonably priced and diners are encouraged to get out and eat. Actually spanning two weeks, restaurant “week” is a great time to be human, as the low prices and abundant options make a great opportunity to try something new. And to that end, the Denver/Boulder area is a blessed place for food-lovers to be in general, with a wide variety of top notch eateries mostly focused on quality and freshness of ingredients and healthy experimentation. And who among us doesn’t love food?

But there comes a time and place when the love for food is taken too far and the experimentation gets unhealthy. The white plates get bigger, and the food in the middle gets smaller. The menu at the top is an example of this – it’s obvious at first glance it’s among the snootier places one could find (hell, menu items also include bone marrow and lamb neck), so is certainly not the norm. But it seems this is becoming more and more mainstream. Now, I promise you, I’m not completely uncultured swine – I do enjoy a good gourmet meal. I can appreciate new foods and culinary creativity, and I don’t need every main course to be a steak. I’ve had my share of large plate/small food meals, and have enjoyed most every one of them. However, sometimes it seems that we get a little caught up in using colorful and “foodie” academic words – “confit,” “foie gras,” and “reduction” come to mind – in some attempt at an air of class and exclusivity. I think the food snobs are becoming more numerous, and they care more about being able to name outlandish ingredients than having a truly pleasing meal. And maybe, just maybe, some chefs are more concerned with impressing other chefs, and with how a dish looks (and sounds on the menu), than how a dish tastes. It’s as if the more times you can work “crusted” and “gnocchi” and “butternut” and “crème fraiche” on a menu, the more status you have among foodies.

Personally, I just want to have a tasty meal, and I don’t want to have to learn another fucking language to order it. Seriously, if I have to try to decipher what “aioli” is one more time, I may just stab the pompous ass waiting on me with a fork. It’s not his fault, of course, but his thick-framed glasses and neck beard just fit him right into this food snob stereotype.

Seriously, what if we treated other areas of life the same way we treat food? For example:

 

Al Michaels calling a football game

The call: “Peterson takes the handoff, runs right and picks up six yards.”

The foodie version: “The distinguished man of Texan descent is delivered the dried cow membrane, harnesses its energy and grasps its succulence. The run is the antithesis of to the left, with plastic cleat spears juxtaposed against Floridian sod and topsoil, moving the main course from its origin to six yards beyond. Yardage reduction.”

Christmas Store Ad

The ad: “Christmas time is coming! You’d better get your shopping done.”

The foodie version: “The sparkling anniversary of the first Noel, when Jesus “Yahweh” Christ descended upon the Israeli region, has again been assumed to happen this 25th of Diciembre as previously scheduled. Imperative, it is, that the customers finishes his or her retail extravaganza in a timely fashion, before the inevitable human flooding of cement and granite structures makes such an endeavor burdensome, and the sterling prospect of yuletide cheer transforms into a substandard procession.”

Clothing tag

The tag: “100% cotton”

The foodie version: “Pure, unadulterated, locally farm-raised algadon. Never synthetic, never poly, a classic “hand-weave” with light ulterior stitching and authentic Mandarin craftsmanship.”

 

See? It’s ridiculous. If we were all as pretentious as the food snobs, our lives would be a constant exercise in trying to decipher even the simplest of labels. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my parsnip meringue – or whatever they decide to serve this week – but that doesn’t mean I won’t make an effort to fart each time I walk near the kitchen, just to bring the uppity vibe in there a notch closer to reality. I wonder how they’d describe that?

February 12, 2012

This Year’s Super Bowl Drinking Game

Well, it’s finally here. If you’ve been able to avoid ESPN’s relentless coverage of the Manning family and Rob Gronkowski’s ankle – and thus maintain your sanity – I applaud you. For the rest of us, we’re already sick of the Super Bowl, so the only thing to do on Super Bowl Sunday – other than not watch the game at all, which for some reason isn’t really an option – is drink. So without further yapping, here is the official Top Drawer drinking game of Super Bowl XLVI:

You must take a drink if there is…

– A mention or shot of Archie/Peyton Manning
– An Ochocinco sighting
– An announcer proclaiming “he can make all the throws”
– Unnecessary use of the word “football,” such as “that’s a great FOOTBALL play” or “he’s quite the FOOTBALL player” or “The New York FOOTBALL Giants” (not too likely because Gruden and Jaworski will not be involved)
– A GoDaddy.com commercial
– A promo for The Voice
– An artistic pylon shot
– A personal foul on Tom Brady (i.e. someone touches him)
– Gisele
– A Tim Tebow mention (he’ll find his way in there somehow, I’m sure)
– The Budweiser Clydesdales
– A ginger, any ginger. They’re fun.
– A Nate Solder (upstanding Colorado Buffalo and Patriots rookie lineman) mention
– Tom Coughlin’s face getting red
– Eli Manning’s mouth hanging open when a normal person’s would be closed
– A celebratory dance that makes the dancer look foolish (see: all celebratory dances)
– The announcers gushing over “The Patriot Way”

As you can see, these are mostly fun and unique happenings. There’s no “take a shot for every first down or penalty!” rule. We want to see you make it through the game.

Bottoms up!

Good Fat/Bad Fat

We are a world of good and bad. Black and white. Democrat and Republican. Our team and their team. There’s really no way around it; we deal in absolutes. While this is generally wrong and an unrefined way of thinking, it’s what we do. Indeed, the answer lies somewhere in between has been replaced by the answer lies with my personal set of beliefs. There’s no use in fighting it, the crusaders have won.

So I’m down. Let’s talk about good and evil. And let’s talk about fat. It’s a nutritional buzz at the moment – this “good fat” and “bad fat.” Bad fats, of course, being easier to identify than an orangutan on a cruise ship – anything of the saturated and trans variety, or the collective menu of the fast food industry (OMG. Did you SEEEEE Supersize Me?!?!?!? EEEEKKKK! Life CHANGED!!!!!). And the good fats are coming out of the woodwork – omega 3s, monosaturateds, and avocado.

But I’m not talking about food. I’m talking about people.

As a skinny, I’m generally not supposed to comment on the “other side.” It’s seen as bad taste – kind of a white/black thing going on. But screw it; this honky is voyaging into the unknown. And the unknown is fat people.

Simply put, fat people are just like the rest of us. They have feelings, dreams, ambitions…just slightly more mass. And, like the general population (and given the trend in American lifestyle, they are soon to be the general population), they come in two forms: good and bad.

Yes, when it comes to fat people, there is good fat and bad fat. Or, as I like to refer to it, “happy fat” and “bitter fat.”

Happy fat, of course, refers to the fat people we all love: Chris Farley (God rest his soul), John Goodman, most any black bassist, and the heavy girl from Bridesmaids. While obviously this is not an exhaustive list, it exemplifies the things we love in good fats – lightning wit, unbridled jolliness, and a generally sunny outlook on the world as a whole. Societally, we love happy/funny people, but we love happy/funny fat people even more. There’s just something about an overweight person that amplifies the positive qualities, and I’m not quite sure what it is. Maybe the fact that their smiles look bigger or they always seem comfortable in any easy chair or restaurant booth. Either way, we love the jolly fats for what they are: the roly-poly pandas of the human race. Fat people have a much higher comedic ceiling than equally funny skinny people – think Farley and Horatio Sans vs. Adam Sandler and Jimmy Fallon. See my point? It’s no contest. And consequently, when funny fats lose the weight – and join the mundane ranks of the everyday comedian – it is a heartbreak on par with the day Princess Di died. Jonah Hill was once a solidly funny supporting fat actor – now he is just an awkward, rectangular being with no real value to society. Same with Joe Winch of Chisago Lakes High School – used to be an adorable, round, rosy-cheeked boy, then lost the weight, got a girlfriend, and began looking at the world with cynical eyes. It’s just not the same. I’m glad your blood pressure had dropped and you’re living a healthier lifestyle, but you no longer make me laugh. Can I interest you in some chicken wings?

Bitter fat, on the other hand, is the bane of my existence; it’s almost as if Hitler had gone into the child pornography business. While I personally adore fat people – it is a state I am unable to achieve and am therefore jealous of – the human race as a whole tends to…um…look down upon obesity. So it’s an uphill climb (if they can make it) from day one. And these bitter fats compound the negativity by being all pissed off about everything. I’m not going to name names here, but you know who I’m talking about – that kid in class that refuses to share his gum, that lady who hates Christmas out of spite, and the guy on the bus who intentionally takes up two seats. These people are incapable of humor or irony; they simply want to display their displeasure for the world in hopes that it infects others around them. They’re just the worst. This is the exact opposite of what they should be doing – the best course of action is clearly friendly diplomacy with the rest of the world. I mean…you’re fat. At least be nice. As the great philosopher Chris Rock once laid out, “for every pound you are overweight, you gotta read another book, because you’re gonna need to be way smarter than all those other motherfuckers.” Or something like that – quoting Chris Rock is a slippery endeavor.

Anyway, I’m not going to go as far as Chris and suggest habitual reading. But at least be cool. Be fun. Be with us. Say something moderately humorous, and add a sheepish smile afterwards; I guarantee it will make me – and most every other intelligent skinny person – love you. We want to love you; we want you to join the ranks of the jolly fat. Just give us a reason. Make me want to put my loving arm around you and proudly declare, “This is my fat friend.”

Bitter fat, there is a better way. Consider the works of Farley, Belushi, et al, and be inspired. The grass really is greener on the other side. And don’t worry, it tastes like Twinkies.