So Facebook has been urging peeple to make lists of their innermost feelings and thoughts for all to see. Not one of these prospective lists has appealed to me at all; I just haven't felt like showing people I haven't seen since Hanson was relevant that, at 30, I'm as insecure as a 12-year-old girl. (I like to restrict that information to useless blogs.)
Then, a friend gave me the following challenge: Think of 15 (or more) albums that had such a profound effect on me that they changed my life. He wanted me to "dig into my soul", find music that brought me to life when I heard it; music that royally affected me, kicked me in the balls or literally socked me in the gut. When I was done with the list, I was to send it around to people I know and inspire them to devise their own lists. This I could do.
Unfortunately, the "15" number wasn't going to work; there was no way I could limit it to just 15. Still, after abusing my brain for an entire night and early morning, I came up with the following list of recorded greatest, a bit of a walk down Memory Lane with Michael Farrell. Obviously, some albums had to be eliminated, like Huey Lewis & The News' Sport. I received this tape for Christmas when I was five, but these Italian girls down the street used it, broke it and spilled the tape's inards all over the sidewalk along Morgan Parkway, the first street I lived on. If I could've ever listened to the damn thing, had some life-altering experience in kindergarten while listening to "This Is It", it'd be on here, I assure you. Still, I have plenty of backup.
In no particular order, and with a little story or commentary attached to each, here we go:
1. Astral Weeks - Van Morrison
The most beautiful album I've ever heard, and will probably ever hear through the rest of my life. If listening to this during a nap, though, always skip over "Beside You". Van's wailing will wake you up every time.
2. Magical Mystery Tour- The Beatles
Was obsessed with this album as a kid, and not just because of its many clues into the infamous "Paul is Dead" hoax. Loved "I Am the Walrus", and, in an ideal world, would like to exit down the aisle of my wedding to "Flying". Probably not going to happen, though.
3a. Blood on the Tracks - Bob Dylan
Listened to this album over and over again while I wrote Running with Buffalo. Not recommended unless you like to bathe yourself in depression . . . or need to write a novel.
3b. Exile on Main St. - Rolling Stones
Was always firmly in The Beatles camp over the Stones. Then I heard this album, which I consider to be better than any Beatles album except maybe "Abbey Road". If someone held a gun to my head and demanded a verdict, I'd go with this one.
4. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot - Wilco
I remember picking up this album at Newbury Comics in Boston. I remember holding it, staring at it, buying it, then becoming obsessed with it. That might be the measure of a memorable album amongst the 800 or so you may (or may not) own. Do you remember the purchase and its immediate aftermath?
5a. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
In my music department days at WSBU of St. Bonaventure, we had a huge box called "The Shit Bin". In it, we tossed every terrible album sent to us by crappy bands or labels. If there was an absolute opposite of an album tossed in that bin, it was this one. That's why I stole it from the station and it never saw the airwaves. It's still the most inventive album I've ever heard.
5b. Z - My Morning Jacket
If you were born before 1983, you've probably asked your parents once or twice if they used to listen to Led Zeppelin when they were younger. If you're a parent now or are going to be one, get ready: your children are going to ask you if you listened to My Morning Jacket. If you haven't yet, download the songs "Gideon" and "Lay Low" off this album. Now.
6. Whatever & Ever Amen - Ben Folds Five
Simply put, this is the soundtrack to my WSBU radio career. I wore this thing out from '96 to 2000. Also, still gorgeous arrangements from start to finish.
7a. The River - Bruce Springsteen & the E St. Band
So many amazing songs, and so many moods covered. There's a song to score nearly every human emotion somewhere on either Disc 1 or 2.
7b. The Joshua Tree - U2
When my sister bought this tape in '87, I was listening to Heavy D & The Boys. Soon after, I stole her copy and pretended it was mine. Thankfully, I now have my own copies on CD and LP.
7c. Ten - Pearl Jam
When I was 13, I woke up from a nap on my basement couch as Eddie Vedder sang "Alive" on MTV's "Unplugged". Right in the thick of puberty, it was one of the first times I remember being sincerely affected by a song.
7d. Shakespeare, My Butt - The Lowest of the Low
If you grew up in Buffalo, did you have your first beer between the years 1989 and 2002? If so, you've heard this album, and it was the soundtrack to countless hilarious underage weekend catastrophes. No album reminds me more of home than this one, and that includes anything by Molly Hatchett.
8. The Very Best of Otis Redding- Otis Redding
No artist has ever made me want to be in love more than Otis Redding. If you can listen to "Pain In My Heart" or "These Arms of Mine" without feeling similar, I pray for your blackened soul.
9a. London Calling - The Clash
The "Sgt. Pepper" of punk albums includes "Clampdown" and "Hateful", two songs I'd want to play in a musician fantasy camp. Also the album that showed punk bands how to evolve.
9b. Loco Live - The Ramones
If you own nothing from The Ramones, find this live from Spain effort. From "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" intro and all the way to Joey asking a crowd of Spaniards "Has anybody seen the Stephen King movie Pet Cemetery? Well it's the name of our next tune!", just a time machine back to '92 to '95.
9c. Energy - Operation Ivy
Ordered from the Lookout Records catalogue for $10 in '93, and I still haven't found another like it. Over 25 songs, and every one will make you want to punch something--while smiling.
9d. Maniacal Laughter - The Bouncing Souls
No album reminds me more of drinking canned beer on the way to Showplace Theater in the mid- and late-90s than this. "Quick Check Girl" and "The Ballad of Johnny X" are like portals.
10. Axis: Bold as Love - The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Borrowed this tape from a friend in the 8th grade, and the rest is history. "Castles Made of Sand" is possibly the most underrated Hendrix song of all time.
11a. The Beatles (White Album) - The Beatles
Some of my most vivid music memories include raiding my father's record collection, which was full of Beatles LPs, as a kid. This was the one that ascended John Lennon to the top of my heroes list.
11b. Abbey Road - The Beatles
The most complete Beatles record, as well as their most bittersweet. Also, no album reminds me more of Allegany, New York's legendary Burton than this one. Damn you, Burton for getting an Internet juke.
12. Born to Run - Bruce Springsteen & the E St. Band
While listening to "Night", I grabbed note cards and scribbled down the first ideas for the manuscript that became Running with Buffalo, so there you go. Also, "Jungleland" saved Clarence from a terrible cocaine addiction, dammit.
13. The Last Waltz - The Band
If I died and had to come back as a drummer not named Phil Collins (legend), I'd return as Levon Helm, if just for the red beard and chance to play "Caravan" with Van Morrison.
14a. Weezer (Blue Album) - Weezer
Just the right album at the right time for me. Not only is it a tour de force, but every spin takes me back to Blind Melons, a Buffalo club I saw Weezer at in high school. The morning after said performance, I was grounded for stealing the bottle of Black Bush Irish whiskey I took to the show.
14b. Ill Communication - Beastie Boys
In high school, I watched my friend be proofed at Media Play to buy this Parental Advisory-stamped effort. Soon, we all had copies, and were whistling the intros for "Sure Shot" and "Flute Loop", as well as yelling, "If it's gonna be that kinda party, I'm gonna stick my d*ck in the mashed potatoes." Buu-hah!!
15a. In Concert - Jimmy Cliff
In the summer of '99, I interned for NBC and worked as a busboy/waiter at a vegan restaurant in the Alphabet City area of NYC. An Asian bartender who used to bum me Lucky Strikes played this album through the place while he worked. Every time I hear it, I think of that sweaty, poor and transformational summer.
15b. 40 Oz. to Freedom - Sublime
When I look back on the famous rocker deaths of the early and mid-90s--Cobain, Shannon Hoon, etc.--Brad Nowell always makes me the saddest, if only because of this album. His passion and soul is all over this, and I remember being struck by that when I first heard "Badfish", and the covers of "Scarlet Begonias" and "5446", sitting up in an SBU dorm room during Spring Weekend of '97. Beautiful stuff.
Honorable mentions:
Navy Blues - Sloan
The Clash - The Clash
We Were Born In A Flame - Sam Roberts
Led Zeppelin IV - Led Zeppelin
American Beauty - Grateful Dead
Actung, Baby - U2
Legends - Joe Cocker
It Still Moves - My Morning Jacket
Highway 61 Revisited - Bob Dylan
Let's Go - Rancid
If I Should Fall From Grace With God - The Pogues
Doolittle - The Pixies
Big Red Letter Day - Buffalo Tom
All right, blood has started to seep from my ears. Also, I'm sure this list will all be different tomorrow. Hope you enjoyed it, and Godspeed in making your own lists of stuff.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Monday, December 15, 2008
Life, Love & Music Through "High Fidelity"
I’ve always connected with music and film better than I have with literature. It’s a bond I formed as early as I can remember anything. (As I type this sentence, I can recall, in detail, sitting at Rich Stadium in Buffalo, waiting for Michael Jackson to take the stage. I was five years old.) I don’t remember any particular feeling infiltrating my body when I read Johnny Tremain or On The Beach, but I do remember the enthusiasm accompanying the first CDs I purchased: The Beatles’ Revolver and Smashing Pumpkins Siamese Dream—picked up simultaneously at Media Play in 1993. I also have no recollection of a single sentence in The Picture of Dorian Gray, but can recite full scenes of dialogue from countless John Hughes or Jim Sheridan films. Most of my fondest memories have been either scored with a specific soundtrack, or have gained their prominence because their moves and moments have been akin to some of my favorite movie scenes. Consider the following:
Example #1: Early in high school, my friends and I used to smuggle canned beer and Camel Lights into this dingy pool hall south of downtown Buffalo. Every time we were there, Pink Floyd’s “Money” blared from jukebox speakers at least one time. To this day, I can never hear that song without thinking of chain smoking or sipping on warm cans of Red Dog.
Example #2: When I was in the 10th grade, I hit a key 18-foot jump shot from the left wing in a local basketball battle against rival Orchard Park, which gave me a starring role in my own personal version of Hoosiers. As I type these words, I can still mentally take myself to the spot on the hardwood, hear the delirious roar of the crowd around me.
My point in detailing this historical connection is that, before picking up Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity for the first time in 2000, I’d never inhaled a book like I inhaled, say, The Clash’s The Clash; I never had encountered a literary protagonist I related with the same way I related with John Cusack’s Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything. In Hornby’s story, I found conversations I’ve had, odd philosophical musings I’ve been tortured or entertained by. In Hornby’s Rob, I saw a character who broke people down by their pop culture tastes, a practice I’ve (rightly or wrongly) engaged in since high school. Put both of those aforementioned points together and you have a relationship between me and this work. It’s a relationship between reader and novel to designate a social classification of me, something Hornby’s Rob does with other individuals throughout High Fidelity. He uses pop culture tastes to identify people, as well as himself and his own feelings. In his actions and in this novel’s narrative, I see much of myself, as I will detail in the following pages. If life is to be understood as an art form, I’d like to compare some of the thoughts and events formed throughout my own existence to the pop culture-infused trials and trivializations of Rob.
Near the beginning of this novel (page 25), Rob introduces a theory I’ve considered so many times in so many instances, spinning any number of songs by U2, Buffalo Tom, Bob Dylan, The Guess Who, Dinosaur Jr., Bruce Springsteen, The Rolling Stones, Van Morrison, etc. “People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands—literally thousands—of songs about broken hearts and rejection and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives” (25).
This is obviously a “what came first, the chicken or the egg” argument, but it’s one many people, romanced by the storylines of films and lyrics of songs, have probably had with themselves. I’m no different. In late grammar school and early high school, I looked for girls who invoked an Andrew McCarthy-in-Pretty-In-Pink-like gaze out of me; I wanted to feel the same kind of yearn for a girl Bruce Springsteen oozed in “I’m On Fire.” Unrealistic at 14 and 15 years old? Absolutely, but it didn’t stop me from becoming a mix tape-making machine, crafting balanced playlists and borrowing the thoughts of rock legends to express my innermost feelings for girl A, B or C. The problem with relying on the interpreted lyrics and arrangements of drunken frontmen and drug-addled guitarists was that, ultimately, they never came back properly reciprocated. The Edge’s swirling guitar solo in “All I Want Is You” provides (for some) a chance for that movie-like embrace with a lover, when the world stands still as two individuals chosen by pure fate touch lips and fade off into ecstasy. But, this isn’t reality; not mine, anyway. One of my most detrimental feelings of rejection, still burned into the depths of my memory, came with that song as a soundtrack. A beautiful cross-town cheerleader who I’d tenaciously pursued with every romantic trick in the book turned me down cold at a local garage party as Bono wailed from a small picnic radio. Though I still love that song, it always evokes that pain of adolescent rejection, tormenting me more than an unsecured revolver or violent film ever could.
Later on in this novel, Rob notes his aforementioned habit of classifying people by their pop culture tastes, something he discusses routinely with his lone employees at Championship Vinyl, musical introvert Dick and the bombastic and extroverted Barry. “A while back, when Dick and Barry and I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like, Barry proposed the idea of a questionnaire for prospective partners, a two- or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music/film/TV/book bases. It was intended a) to dispense with awkward conversation, and b) to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with someone who might, at a later date, have every Julio Iglesias record ever made” (117).
In this, he is indicating the ability to make final judgments about an individual by simply being informed of their pop culture tastes. Is this fair? Probably not, but I’ve done this with women my entire life. In high school, college, and even today, I’m frightened by any female who indulges in Depeche Mode, The Smiths, Tori Amos, or the almighty solo antics of Morrissey. This particular fandom has always indicated a certain darkness in a woman I didn’t want to encounter in a relationship, as well as a love of being bathed in depression and emotional longing. Also, and most importantly, it would indicate the given female had a propensity to be incredibly unstable. So, with this in mind, I’ve always checked girls’ record collections as soon as possible once a few dates were in the books. If they owned anything by these artists, I scrammed. If they didn’t, I continued along—until they expressed their love for Amos’s Under the Pink.
Then, there were the romantic connections formed through a specific artist, songs that single-handedly brought me together with a girl. Of course, Rob notes this as well. “See, records have helped me fall in love, no question. I hear something new, with a chord change that melts my guts, and before I know it I’m looking for someone, and before I know it I’ve found her. I fell in love with Rosie the simultaneous orgasm woman after I’d fallen in love with a Cowboy Junkies song: I played it and played it and played it, and it made me dreamy, and I needed someone to dream about, and I found her, and . . . well, there was trouble” (170).
I entered into my enduring fascination with Otis Redding in ‘97, right around the time I was headlong into the most serious relationship of my life (up to that point) with my college girlfriend. For over three years, Otis provided the soundtrack to many cold southern New York nights, his impassioned wails and moans warming a barricaded couple in their college dorm rooms. “These Arms of Mine” and “Pain In My Heart” were two songs capable of making a man cry—both from happiness and absolute sadness. When I started to absorb Redding’s lyrics and the enviable passion which poured from every smoky vocal, I wanted someone to share him with. Luckily, I had this girl, and the bond was formed. Unfortunately, when we broke up years later, she took Otis with her. I couldn’t listen to him without thinking of her, thinking about how it was her eyes I looked into when Redding’s passion pulsated through stereo speakers. Thankfully, after a significant time of mourning and ill-fated attempts to replace him with Wilson Pickett or Sam Cooke, I went back to Otis about six years ago. Though a relationship forged through his music had to end, I couldn’t let the man’s entire catalogue escape me as well.
In these last three examples from High Fidelity, Hornby’s Rob notes one’s connection to others or alienation from those parties through love of pop culture. Sometimes, as in the first excerpt, songs or films and their messages can emotionally hobble you, inspire you with a message before eventually deflating you when the interpretation of that message is not shared by a love interest. Other times, as in the second, similar enthusiasm toward a given piece of work can unite or restrain two people—who may be otherwise compatible. Finally, the third example shows how art can ignite simultaneous love affairs: one with the one present when this art is discovered, and the other with the artist. Later in High Fidelity, Rob talks about the affect music can have on an individual’s own choices outside of companionship, on decisions inspired by lyrics of what to do with oneself in a life full of uncontrollable variables. “In Bruce Springsteen songs, you can either stay and rot, or you can escape and burn. That’s OK; he’s a songwriter, after all, and he needs simple choices like that in his songs. But nobody ever writes about how it is possible to escape and rot—how escapes can go off at half-cock, how you can leave the suburbs for the city but end up living a limp suburban life anyway. That’s what happened to me; that’s what happens to most people” (136).
Nothing has inspired me to write more than the simple feeling a good song can ignite, the chill that rifles down my spine during a line or guitar lick. Lyrics scribbled by Lennon or Dylan, Strummer or Springsteen have always bounced through my head since I first played a record on a turntable in elementary school. I remember having a friend over to listen to The Beatles’ nonsense that was “I Am The Walrus”, just begging the kid to listen to how rhythmic Lennon’s absurdity was, how phrases that had no rational reason to paired together connected so seamlessly to form a spooky and uplifting stomp of a song. One day, I wanted to evoke that sort of enthusiasm through my own writing, and I assumed it would be as easy as grabbing paper and a pencil, jotting down what I knew. But, to put one good piece together, to truly connect, it’s not as easy as pressing “play” on a Discman. When you start writing, inspired by a song or a line or a short story, you can’t wait to get to the New York ending, the feeling that rips through your body when you know you’ve penned something worth reading. The problem is that, like Rob notes, it’s not that simple. Most wide-eyed idealists who perform music or write novels or escape the suburbs for the freewheeling cities to find some advertised freedom inevitably end up crushed. When I started to write my first novel, Running with Buffalo, I was excited and, ironically, inspired to begin by Springsteen’s “Night” off Born to Run. After some 25 edits and over 100 rejection letters from publishers and agents, I was exhausted, depleted. When I self-published the book, promoted its existence, and got it into retail outlets last year, I was too worn down to have my “my book’s in a bookstore” moment; I knew there was more writing to do, more ideas to expand upon, more training to seek. These craft details and engulfing frustrations are not included in the idealistic songs that inspire attitudes or the dialogue that has connected countless romantic couples. That’s why stories aren’t like life. Stories can be constructed within a scripted realm that recognizes simplicity as attainable.
Life, and finding even a modicum of professional success within it, is anything but simple—or scripted.
Example #1: Early in high school, my friends and I used to smuggle canned beer and Camel Lights into this dingy pool hall south of downtown Buffalo. Every time we were there, Pink Floyd’s “Money” blared from jukebox speakers at least one time. To this day, I can never hear that song without thinking of chain smoking or sipping on warm cans of Red Dog.
Example #2: When I was in the 10th grade, I hit a key 18-foot jump shot from the left wing in a local basketball battle against rival Orchard Park, which gave me a starring role in my own personal version of Hoosiers. As I type these words, I can still mentally take myself to the spot on the hardwood, hear the delirious roar of the crowd around me.
My point in detailing this historical connection is that, before picking up Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity for the first time in 2000, I’d never inhaled a book like I inhaled, say, The Clash’s The Clash; I never had encountered a literary protagonist I related with the same way I related with John Cusack’s Lloyd Dobler in Say Anything. In Hornby’s story, I found conversations I’ve had, odd philosophical musings I’ve been tortured or entertained by. In Hornby’s Rob, I saw a character who broke people down by their pop culture tastes, a practice I’ve (rightly or wrongly) engaged in since high school. Put both of those aforementioned points together and you have a relationship between me and this work. It’s a relationship between reader and novel to designate a social classification of me, something Hornby’s Rob does with other individuals throughout High Fidelity. He uses pop culture tastes to identify people, as well as himself and his own feelings. In his actions and in this novel’s narrative, I see much of myself, as I will detail in the following pages. If life is to be understood as an art form, I’d like to compare some of the thoughts and events formed throughout my own existence to the pop culture-infused trials and trivializations of Rob.
Near the beginning of this novel (page 25), Rob introduces a theory I’ve considered so many times in so many instances, spinning any number of songs by U2, Buffalo Tom, Bob Dylan, The Guess Who, Dinosaur Jr., Bruce Springsteen, The Rolling Stones, Van Morrison, etc. “People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands—literally thousands—of songs about broken hearts and rejection and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives” (25).
This is obviously a “what came first, the chicken or the egg” argument, but it’s one many people, romanced by the storylines of films and lyrics of songs, have probably had with themselves. I’m no different. In late grammar school and early high school, I looked for girls who invoked an Andrew McCarthy-in-Pretty-In-Pink-like gaze out of me; I wanted to feel the same kind of yearn for a girl Bruce Springsteen oozed in “I’m On Fire.” Unrealistic at 14 and 15 years old? Absolutely, but it didn’t stop me from becoming a mix tape-making machine, crafting balanced playlists and borrowing the thoughts of rock legends to express my innermost feelings for girl A, B or C. The problem with relying on the interpreted lyrics and arrangements of drunken frontmen and drug-addled guitarists was that, ultimately, they never came back properly reciprocated. The Edge’s swirling guitar solo in “All I Want Is You” provides (for some) a chance for that movie-like embrace with a lover, when the world stands still as two individuals chosen by pure fate touch lips and fade off into ecstasy. But, this isn’t reality; not mine, anyway. One of my most detrimental feelings of rejection, still burned into the depths of my memory, came with that song as a soundtrack. A beautiful cross-town cheerleader who I’d tenaciously pursued with every romantic trick in the book turned me down cold at a local garage party as Bono wailed from a small picnic radio. Though I still love that song, it always evokes that pain of adolescent rejection, tormenting me more than an unsecured revolver or violent film ever could.
Later on in this novel, Rob notes his aforementioned habit of classifying people by their pop culture tastes, something he discusses routinely with his lone employees at Championship Vinyl, musical introvert Dick and the bombastic and extroverted Barry. “A while back, when Dick and Barry and I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like, Barry proposed the idea of a questionnaire for prospective partners, a two- or three-page multiple-choice document that covered all the music/film/TV/book bases. It was intended a) to dispense with awkward conversation, and b) to prevent a chap from leaping into bed with someone who might, at a later date, have every Julio Iglesias record ever made” (117).
In this, he is indicating the ability to make final judgments about an individual by simply being informed of their pop culture tastes. Is this fair? Probably not, but I’ve done this with women my entire life. In high school, college, and even today, I’m frightened by any female who indulges in Depeche Mode, The Smiths, Tori Amos, or the almighty solo antics of Morrissey. This particular fandom has always indicated a certain darkness in a woman I didn’t want to encounter in a relationship, as well as a love of being bathed in depression and emotional longing. Also, and most importantly, it would indicate the given female had a propensity to be incredibly unstable. So, with this in mind, I’ve always checked girls’ record collections as soon as possible once a few dates were in the books. If they owned anything by these artists, I scrammed. If they didn’t, I continued along—until they expressed their love for Amos’s Under the Pink.
Then, there were the romantic connections formed through a specific artist, songs that single-handedly brought me together with a girl. Of course, Rob notes this as well. “See, records have helped me fall in love, no question. I hear something new, with a chord change that melts my guts, and before I know it I’m looking for someone, and before I know it I’ve found her. I fell in love with Rosie the simultaneous orgasm woman after I’d fallen in love with a Cowboy Junkies song: I played it and played it and played it, and it made me dreamy, and I needed someone to dream about, and I found her, and . . . well, there was trouble” (170).
I entered into my enduring fascination with Otis Redding in ‘97, right around the time I was headlong into the most serious relationship of my life (up to that point) with my college girlfriend. For over three years, Otis provided the soundtrack to many cold southern New York nights, his impassioned wails and moans warming a barricaded couple in their college dorm rooms. “These Arms of Mine” and “Pain In My Heart” were two songs capable of making a man cry—both from happiness and absolute sadness. When I started to absorb Redding’s lyrics and the enviable passion which poured from every smoky vocal, I wanted someone to share him with. Luckily, I had this girl, and the bond was formed. Unfortunately, when we broke up years later, she took Otis with her. I couldn’t listen to him without thinking of her, thinking about how it was her eyes I looked into when Redding’s passion pulsated through stereo speakers. Thankfully, after a significant time of mourning and ill-fated attempts to replace him with Wilson Pickett or Sam Cooke, I went back to Otis about six years ago. Though a relationship forged through his music had to end, I couldn’t let the man’s entire catalogue escape me as well.
In these last three examples from High Fidelity, Hornby’s Rob notes one’s connection to others or alienation from those parties through love of pop culture. Sometimes, as in the first excerpt, songs or films and their messages can emotionally hobble you, inspire you with a message before eventually deflating you when the interpretation of that message is not shared by a love interest. Other times, as in the second, similar enthusiasm toward a given piece of work can unite or restrain two people—who may be otherwise compatible. Finally, the third example shows how art can ignite simultaneous love affairs: one with the one present when this art is discovered, and the other with the artist. Later in High Fidelity, Rob talks about the affect music can have on an individual’s own choices outside of companionship, on decisions inspired by lyrics of what to do with oneself in a life full of uncontrollable variables. “In Bruce Springsteen songs, you can either stay and rot, or you can escape and burn. That’s OK; he’s a songwriter, after all, and he needs simple choices like that in his songs. But nobody ever writes about how it is possible to escape and rot—how escapes can go off at half-cock, how you can leave the suburbs for the city but end up living a limp suburban life anyway. That’s what happened to me; that’s what happens to most people” (136).
Nothing has inspired me to write more than the simple feeling a good song can ignite, the chill that rifles down my spine during a line or guitar lick. Lyrics scribbled by Lennon or Dylan, Strummer or Springsteen have always bounced through my head since I first played a record on a turntable in elementary school. I remember having a friend over to listen to The Beatles’ nonsense that was “I Am The Walrus”, just begging the kid to listen to how rhythmic Lennon’s absurdity was, how phrases that had no rational reason to paired together connected so seamlessly to form a spooky and uplifting stomp of a song. One day, I wanted to evoke that sort of enthusiasm through my own writing, and I assumed it would be as easy as grabbing paper and a pencil, jotting down what I knew. But, to put one good piece together, to truly connect, it’s not as easy as pressing “play” on a Discman. When you start writing, inspired by a song or a line or a short story, you can’t wait to get to the New York ending, the feeling that rips through your body when you know you’ve penned something worth reading. The problem is that, like Rob notes, it’s not that simple. Most wide-eyed idealists who perform music or write novels or escape the suburbs for the freewheeling cities to find some advertised freedom inevitably end up crushed. When I started to write my first novel, Running with Buffalo, I was excited and, ironically, inspired to begin by Springsteen’s “Night” off Born to Run. After some 25 edits and over 100 rejection letters from publishers and agents, I was exhausted, depleted. When I self-published the book, promoted its existence, and got it into retail outlets last year, I was too worn down to have my “my book’s in a bookstore” moment; I knew there was more writing to do, more ideas to expand upon, more training to seek. These craft details and engulfing frustrations are not included in the idealistic songs that inspire attitudes or the dialogue that has connected countless romantic couples. That’s why stories aren’t like life. Stories can be constructed within a scripted realm that recognizes simplicity as attainable.
Life, and finding even a modicum of professional success within it, is anything but simple—or scripted.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Summer's Done & I'm Thinking of Music
When you have a blog, you spend all kinds of fruitless time agonizing over what you should post and whether anyone will actually care about what you have to say.
Well, I now know this simple truth: Nobody gives a shit--ever.
This is fine, because it frees you from the shackles of popular opinion and/or interest. Since I know no one cares, I can post what I want, which is the following:
Below are all albums I deem essential to have in your home at all times. I'll break them into two categories: driving (albums for the car) or thinking (albums for relaxing or staring). I'll try to keep most before 1990, but there others past the grunge era I can't omit. You may like them, or you may hate them. Regardless, I mean well, so please consider my subjective genius. But, like I've typed above, you probably don't care. If you do, here we go:
Driving:
Exile On Main Street - The Rolling Stones
Sticky Fingers - The Rolling Stones
A Hard Day's Night - The Beatles
Odelay - Beck
We Were Born In A Flame - Sam Roberts
London Calling - The Clash
Are You Experienced? - Jimi Hendrix
Lifeline - Ben Harper
The Great Twenty-Eight - Chuck Berry
Ben Folds Five - Ben Folds Five
Big Red Letter Day - Buffalo Tom
Actung Baby - U2
This Year's Model - Elvis Costello
Pinkerton - Weezer
Emblems - Matt Pond PA
Attack & Release - The Black Keys
Rubber Factory - The Black Keys
It Still Moves - My Morning Jacket
Z - My Morning Jacket
Yeah, It's That Easy - G Love & Special Sauce
The Georgia Peach - Little Richard
Highway 61 Revisited - Bob Dylan
Demolition - Ryan Adams
Descended Like Vultures - Rogue Wave
Funeral - The Arcade Fire
Greatest Hits - The Guess Who
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot - Wilco
Mermaid Avenue, Vol. 1 - Billy Bragg & Wilco
Born To Run - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band
Live at Folsom Prison - Johnny Cash
Aha Shake Heartbreak - Kings of Leon
One Chord To Another - Sloan
Thinking:
Astral Weeks - Van Morrison
St. Dominic's Preview - Van Morrison
New York Sessions '67 - Van Morrison
Imagine - John Lennon
In Concert - Jimmy Cliff
XO - Elliot Smith
Either/Or - Elliot Smith
Axis: Bold As Love - Jimi Hendrix
All Things Must Pass - George Harrison
The Very Best of Cat Stevens - Cat Stevens
Abbey Road - The Beatles
The Beatles (White Album) - The Beatles
The Joshua Tree - U2
Dreams To Remember: The Otis Redding Anthology - Otis Redding
Fisherman's Blues - The Waterboys
The Basement Tapes - Bob Dylan & The Band
Blood On The Tracks - Bob Dylan
The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan - Bob Dylan
The Last Waltz - The Band
White Ladder - David Gray
Lost Songs - David Gray
At Dawn - My Morning Jacket
Devils & Dust - Bruce Springsteen
Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
The River - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band
Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. - Bruce Springsteen
In The Aeroplane Over The Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
A Ghost Is Born - Wilco
Sky Blue Sky - Wilco
Once (Soundtrack) - Glen Hansard
Illinoise - Sufjan Stevens
Trouble - Ray LaMontagne
Live at Luther College - Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
See what happens when you stop caring what people think? You type what you want. Then again, if I didn't care, why are the above recommendations? Apparently, boredom can induce contradiction.
The unfortunate truth about blogs: If you want anyone to read, you need to interest someone with something. Hopefully, I just did.
Well, I now know this simple truth: Nobody gives a shit--ever.
This is fine, because it frees you from the shackles of popular opinion and/or interest. Since I know no one cares, I can post what I want, which is the following:
Below are all albums I deem essential to have in your home at all times. I'll break them into two categories: driving (albums for the car) or thinking (albums for relaxing or staring). I'll try to keep most before 1990, but there others past the grunge era I can't omit. You may like them, or you may hate them. Regardless, I mean well, so please consider my subjective genius. But, like I've typed above, you probably don't care. If you do, here we go:
Driving:
Exile On Main Street - The Rolling Stones
Sticky Fingers - The Rolling Stones
A Hard Day's Night - The Beatles
Odelay - Beck
We Were Born In A Flame - Sam Roberts
London Calling - The Clash
Are You Experienced? - Jimi Hendrix
Lifeline - Ben Harper
The Great Twenty-Eight - Chuck Berry
Ben Folds Five - Ben Folds Five
Big Red Letter Day - Buffalo Tom
Actung Baby - U2
This Year's Model - Elvis Costello
Pinkerton - Weezer
Emblems - Matt Pond PA
Attack & Release - The Black Keys
Rubber Factory - The Black Keys
It Still Moves - My Morning Jacket
Z - My Morning Jacket
Yeah, It's That Easy - G Love & Special Sauce
The Georgia Peach - Little Richard
Highway 61 Revisited - Bob Dylan
Demolition - Ryan Adams
Descended Like Vultures - Rogue Wave
Funeral - The Arcade Fire
Greatest Hits - The Guess Who
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot - Wilco
Mermaid Avenue, Vol. 1 - Billy Bragg & Wilco
Born To Run - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band
Live at Folsom Prison - Johnny Cash
Aha Shake Heartbreak - Kings of Leon
One Chord To Another - Sloan
Thinking:
Astral Weeks - Van Morrison
St. Dominic's Preview - Van Morrison
New York Sessions '67 - Van Morrison
Imagine - John Lennon
In Concert - Jimmy Cliff
XO - Elliot Smith
Either/Or - Elliot Smith
Axis: Bold As Love - Jimi Hendrix
All Things Must Pass - George Harrison
The Very Best of Cat Stevens - Cat Stevens
Abbey Road - The Beatles
The Beatles (White Album) - The Beatles
The Joshua Tree - U2
Dreams To Remember: The Otis Redding Anthology - Otis Redding
Fisherman's Blues - The Waterboys
The Basement Tapes - Bob Dylan & The Band
Blood On The Tracks - Bob Dylan
The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan - Bob Dylan
The Last Waltz - The Band
White Ladder - David Gray
Lost Songs - David Gray
At Dawn - My Morning Jacket
Devils & Dust - Bruce Springsteen
Nebraska - Bruce Springsteen
The River - Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band
Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. - Bruce Springsteen
In The Aeroplane Over The Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
A Ghost Is Born - Wilco
Sky Blue Sky - Wilco
Once (Soundtrack) - Glen Hansard
Illinoise - Sufjan Stevens
Trouble - Ray LaMontagne
Live at Luther College - Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
See what happens when you stop caring what people think? You type what you want. Then again, if I didn't care, why are the above recommendations? Apparently, boredom can induce contradiction.
The unfortunate truth about blogs: If you want anyone to read, you need to interest someone with something. Hopefully, I just did.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Necessary Survival of Swayze
Over the past 30 years, America has been shaped by Patrick Wayne Swayze.
He stopped the Russians from taking over our nation. He battled the Socs with Ponyboy. He protected Dean Youngblood. He made pottery wheels erotic and ascended into heaven. He surfed with Johnny Utah. He took Baby out of the corner.
And, yes, he cleaned up The Double Deuce before cleaning up Jasper, Missouri.
Unfortunately, in January of 2008, Swayze was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. According to some estimates, this disease only allows 5% of its afflicted to survive for up to five years, as most die three to six months after diagnosis. Current reports—as recently as March 5th in a Reuters article—suggest that Swayze has a great chance of survival, as he has "a limited amount of the disease" and seems to be "responding well" to treatments. As he continues to attempt a recovery from this ailment, Farrell Street can only hope and pray Mr. Swayze continues to improve.
If he passes on, we'll have to mourn a man whose career was made by turning ridiculous script premises into cultural iconography.
Whether Swayze did this on purpose is unknown. I'm not sure if anyone can say he spent any morning thumbing through a script and said to his agent, "So they want me to play an extreme surfer who robs banks dressed as an ex-President? That sounds like Oscar gold!" I don't know if, one night, he sipped a beer and suggested, "I like the idea of playing the country's greatest bouncer, but can we give him a philosophy degree from NYU?"
No one knows what the hell was going through his head when he took these roles, but he mastered each one of them and made them household references, so good that most showcases are mainstays on basic cable and shown almost daily.
When was the last time you heard one of your sister's drunken friends say "Nobody puts baby in a corner" out loud, greeted by screeching laughter between sips of vodka tonics? Last weekend?
When was the last time you flipped on your television and either "Red Dawn" or "Road House" wasn't on F/X or Spike? Never.
Consider the following performance tricks turned by Mr. Swayze:
-In "Dirty Dancing," Swayze played Johnny Castle, the street-wise dance instructor at Kellerman's vacation resort in the Catskills, circa 1962. Johnny specializes in the mambo and the cha-cha, teaching old goats and prude teenagers to sway to gentle rhythms so he can put a little money in his pocket.
Emasculating, right? Wrong.
Swayze turns Castle into a leather jacket-wearing, beer-slugging, window-breaking, ass-kicking dance aficionado who conducts sweaty, late night dance parties to fuel the sexual revolt of underpaid camp dishwashers and busboys against the uptight culture of 1950s America. When not leading this uprising, he's punching preppy waiters, driving a hard Chevy, and luring the ordinary yet strangely attractive Baby under his sheets to the sounds of soul legend, Otis Redding.
Anyone else takes on this role, this movie goes down faster than "Waterworld." With Swayze at the controls, Jennifer Grey earns enough money for an eventual nose job, money is stuffed in one of The Righteous Brothers pockets, and this ridiculous movie becomes an American classic.
-In "Ghost," Swayze plays Sam Wheat, an investment banker who's killed in a botched mugging, but is enabled to communicate from the dead with his widow through a shifty, female con artist.
Ridiculous, Hall of Shame, "only Dane Cook would do this movie" terrible, right? Negative.
Before Swayze's Sam gets shot in an alley, he romantically ravages his attractive wife, Molly (Demi Moore in her prime) while at a pottery wheel, inspiring men everywhere to take ceramics classes. After he's accidentally killed, Sam spends his time in the Great Beyond plotting ways to claim revenge against his killer (Willie Lopez) and his duplicitous best friend (Carl Bruner), who arranged the mugging to get lucrative bank account numbers from Sam. If that's not enough, after Sam is dead, Carl tries to seduce a grieving Molly with the old "I spilled wine on my shirt so I have to take it off" move. Any other actor playing Sam would have suggested Carl and the killer find their hell-bound eternal reward quick.
But not Swayze.
While Sam uses Whoopi Goldberg's Oda Mae Brown to communicate with his wife, he also uses her to wipe out Carl's stolen bank accounts, driving his ex-friend crazy before orchestrating his "accidental" death with a large shard of glass. As for the killer, Sam sees that he gets conveniently crushed between a car and a bus.
Once again, with Swayze manning this seemingly moribund ship, success is found. "Ghost" went on to compete for a Best Picture Oscar, Goldberg earned a Best Supporting Actress statuette, and, this time, BOTH Righteous Brothers found loads of new money in their pockets.
-And last, but certainly not least, "Road House." Swayze plays James Dalton, one of the best two bouncers in America, depending on who you ask. After the undersized Dalton takes a job cleaning up a Missouri brawler bar called The Double Deuce for a reported annual salary somewhere north of $150K (plus $5000 up front), he finds himself working with the Jeff Healey Band, wooing a local doctor, doing topless tai chi in a barn, and unintentionally leading a town uprising against local high-roller and tyrant, Brad Wesley.
Um, what? The drunken ramblings of a late night game of "Can you top this?" stupidity?
Nope. Swayze gold.
In the span of 114 glorious minutes, Swayze's Dalton fires half of the Deuce staff, breaks up stock room sex, and puts an unruly patron's head through a tabletop with one hand. He drinks black coffee, takes multiple knife wounds, and spots a shimmering, one-inch boot knife from 30 feet away. At maybe 5-9, he routinely fights one-on-three, which is never preceded by him eating a meal and is always followed by multiple cigarettes. After uniting with America's other greatest bouncer, Wade Garrett, Dalton cleans up the bar and raises the ire of the local toughs to meteoric levels before scoring Jasper, Missouri's hottest doctor, who he somehow convinces back to his minimalist barn squalor for the greatest Otis Redding, brick wall-assisted love scene in film history. After Wesley and his men try to restore local order through property destruction, Swayze's Dalton rips one of their throats out with his right hand.
Not enough? Well, after Wesley's men match Dalton by stabbing Wade to death, Dalton decides to use that same knife to stab his Mercedes' accelerator and sensationally ghost ride the vehicle onto Wesley's compound--as a distraction. Once safely on Wesley's land and wearing a karate shirt, he kills each of his henchmen with a variety of tai chi, pocket knives, and bare hands before waiting for the townsmen to shoot Wesley dead with an assortment of hunting rifles. Finally, with Jasper and The Double Deuce safe, Swayze's Dalton goes for a naked dip in a clandestine swimming hole with his girl.
The end.
The script for "Road House" might have been written as the result of a lost bar wager. Its dialogue, premise, and acting are all possibly among the top 10 most ridiculous in their respective categories. If anyone else were cast to play James Dalton, the philosopher cooler with a majestic mullet, lines like "You're too stupid to have a good time" wouldn't have made it into the male lexicon. Without Patrick Swayze, "Road House" would have been "Road House 2."
But, with him? Simply the greatest guy movie of all time.
Patrick Swayze has made a career of turning legible lemons into visual lemonade, turning terribly contrived scenes into classic cinema. Right now, some studio executive is sitting in a boardroom of suits, pitching an idea he believes will make money but will ultimately be the next batch of box office poison. There will be a litany of these meetings, leaving the film-going public with nothing to choose from but movies like "Good Luck Chuck" and "The Hottie and The Nottie." But, with Swayze, there's still hope.
We need him to guide this next generation in an art only he can teach. We need him to instruct actors on how to own the screen, despite laughable dialogue and suffocating jeans or sweatpants. In these times of loathsome artistic duplication, we need a true movie original, one who invented masculine dancing, stage jumping, and the sexual move known simply as, "The Swayze."
With absolute sincerity, please get well, Patrick. The world needs you around.
He stopped the Russians from taking over our nation. He battled the Socs with Ponyboy. He protected Dean Youngblood. He made pottery wheels erotic and ascended into heaven. He surfed with Johnny Utah. He took Baby out of the corner.
And, yes, he cleaned up The Double Deuce before cleaning up Jasper, Missouri.
Unfortunately, in January of 2008, Swayze was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. According to some estimates, this disease only allows 5% of its afflicted to survive for up to five years, as most die three to six months after diagnosis. Current reports—as recently as March 5th in a Reuters article—suggest that Swayze has a great chance of survival, as he has "a limited amount of the disease" and seems to be "responding well" to treatments. As he continues to attempt a recovery from this ailment, Farrell Street can only hope and pray Mr. Swayze continues to improve.
If he passes on, we'll have to mourn a man whose career was made by turning ridiculous script premises into cultural iconography.
Whether Swayze did this on purpose is unknown. I'm not sure if anyone can say he spent any morning thumbing through a script and said to his agent, "So they want me to play an extreme surfer who robs banks dressed as an ex-President? That sounds like Oscar gold!" I don't know if, one night, he sipped a beer and suggested, "I like the idea of playing the country's greatest bouncer, but can we give him a philosophy degree from NYU?"
No one knows what the hell was going through his head when he took these roles, but he mastered each one of them and made them household references, so good that most showcases are mainstays on basic cable and shown almost daily.
When was the last time you heard one of your sister's drunken friends say "Nobody puts baby in a corner" out loud, greeted by screeching laughter between sips of vodka tonics? Last weekend?
When was the last time you flipped on your television and either "Red Dawn" or "Road House" wasn't on F/X or Spike? Never.
Consider the following performance tricks turned by Mr. Swayze:
-In "Dirty Dancing," Swayze played Johnny Castle, the street-wise dance instructor at Kellerman's vacation resort in the Catskills, circa 1962. Johnny specializes in the mambo and the cha-cha, teaching old goats and prude teenagers to sway to gentle rhythms so he can put a little money in his pocket.
Emasculating, right? Wrong.
Swayze turns Castle into a leather jacket-wearing, beer-slugging, window-breaking, ass-kicking dance aficionado who conducts sweaty, late night dance parties to fuel the sexual revolt of underpaid camp dishwashers and busboys against the uptight culture of 1950s America. When not leading this uprising, he's punching preppy waiters, driving a hard Chevy, and luring the ordinary yet strangely attractive Baby under his sheets to the sounds of soul legend, Otis Redding.
Anyone else takes on this role, this movie goes down faster than "Waterworld." With Swayze at the controls, Jennifer Grey earns enough money for an eventual nose job, money is stuffed in one of The Righteous Brothers pockets, and this ridiculous movie becomes an American classic.
-In "Ghost," Swayze plays Sam Wheat, an investment banker who's killed in a botched mugging, but is enabled to communicate from the dead with his widow through a shifty, female con artist.
Ridiculous, Hall of Shame, "only Dane Cook would do this movie" terrible, right? Negative.
Before Swayze's Sam gets shot in an alley, he romantically ravages his attractive wife, Molly (Demi Moore in her prime) while at a pottery wheel, inspiring men everywhere to take ceramics classes. After he's accidentally killed, Sam spends his time in the Great Beyond plotting ways to claim revenge against his killer (Willie Lopez) and his duplicitous best friend (Carl Bruner), who arranged the mugging to get lucrative bank account numbers from Sam. If that's not enough, after Sam is dead, Carl tries to seduce a grieving Molly with the old "I spilled wine on my shirt so I have to take it off" move. Any other actor playing Sam would have suggested Carl and the killer find their hell-bound eternal reward quick.
But not Swayze.
While Sam uses Whoopi Goldberg's Oda Mae Brown to communicate with his wife, he also uses her to wipe out Carl's stolen bank accounts, driving his ex-friend crazy before orchestrating his "accidental" death with a large shard of glass. As for the killer, Sam sees that he gets conveniently crushed between a car and a bus.
Once again, with Swayze manning this seemingly moribund ship, success is found. "Ghost" went on to compete for a Best Picture Oscar, Goldberg earned a Best Supporting Actress statuette, and, this time, BOTH Righteous Brothers found loads of new money in their pockets.
-And last, but certainly not least, "Road House." Swayze plays James Dalton, one of the best two bouncers in America, depending on who you ask. After the undersized Dalton takes a job cleaning up a Missouri brawler bar called The Double Deuce for a reported annual salary somewhere north of $150K (plus $5000 up front), he finds himself working with the Jeff Healey Band, wooing a local doctor, doing topless tai chi in a barn, and unintentionally leading a town uprising against local high-roller and tyrant, Brad Wesley.
Um, what? The drunken ramblings of a late night game of "Can you top this?" stupidity?
Nope. Swayze gold.
In the span of 114 glorious minutes, Swayze's Dalton fires half of the Deuce staff, breaks up stock room sex, and puts an unruly patron's head through a tabletop with one hand. He drinks black coffee, takes multiple knife wounds, and spots a shimmering, one-inch boot knife from 30 feet away. At maybe 5-9, he routinely fights one-on-three, which is never preceded by him eating a meal and is always followed by multiple cigarettes. After uniting with America's other greatest bouncer, Wade Garrett, Dalton cleans up the bar and raises the ire of the local toughs to meteoric levels before scoring Jasper, Missouri's hottest doctor, who he somehow convinces back to his minimalist barn squalor for the greatest Otis Redding, brick wall-assisted love scene in film history. After Wesley and his men try to restore local order through property destruction, Swayze's Dalton rips one of their throats out with his right hand.
Not enough? Well, after Wesley's men match Dalton by stabbing Wade to death, Dalton decides to use that same knife to stab his Mercedes' accelerator and sensationally ghost ride the vehicle onto Wesley's compound--as a distraction. Once safely on Wesley's land and wearing a karate shirt, he kills each of his henchmen with a variety of tai chi, pocket knives, and bare hands before waiting for the townsmen to shoot Wesley dead with an assortment of hunting rifles. Finally, with Jasper and The Double Deuce safe, Swayze's Dalton goes for a naked dip in a clandestine swimming hole with his girl.
The end.
The script for "Road House" might have been written as the result of a lost bar wager. Its dialogue, premise, and acting are all possibly among the top 10 most ridiculous in their respective categories. If anyone else were cast to play James Dalton, the philosopher cooler with a majestic mullet, lines like "You're too stupid to have a good time" wouldn't have made it into the male lexicon. Without Patrick Swayze, "Road House" would have been "Road House 2."
But, with him? Simply the greatest guy movie of all time.
Patrick Swayze has made a career of turning legible lemons into visual lemonade, turning terribly contrived scenes into classic cinema. Right now, some studio executive is sitting in a boardroom of suits, pitching an idea he believes will make money but will ultimately be the next batch of box office poison. There will be a litany of these meetings, leaving the film-going public with nothing to choose from but movies like "Good Luck Chuck" and "The Hottie and The Nottie." But, with Swayze, there's still hope.
We need him to guide this next generation in an art only he can teach. We need him to instruct actors on how to own the screen, despite laughable dialogue and suffocating jeans or sweatpants. In these times of loathsome artistic duplication, we need a true movie original, one who invented masculine dancing, stage jumping, and the sexual move known simply as, "The Swayze."
With absolute sincerity, please get well, Patrick. The world needs you around.
Friday, February 8, 2008
In Buffalo, Football Not Merely About Dollars & Sense
“Pro football is a business.”
We hear this on talk radio and Sportscenter. As a jaded 29-year-old, I accept it, albeit through clenched teeth. Football is a business which pays its employees a tremendous amount of money to entertain millions with vicious tackles, arching throws, and hurdling runs.
This doesn’t work for you, does it? If you grew up in Buffalo, it never will.
With the recent news of the Bills playing eight games--three preseason, five regular season--over the next five seasons in Toronto, Buffalonians are being asked by Ralph Wilson to understand this as a “business decision,” one supposedly made for the franchise’s long-term economic viability in the Queen City. The problem with this is that Buffalo’s passionate fan base has always ignored the Bills as merely a business.
The team exists as a piece of an entire region, emotionally connected to generations. Fathers raised their sons in front of Jack Kemp, Cookie Gilchrist, and Elbert Dubenion; those sons raised their children cheering for the likes of Jim Kelly, Thurman Thomas, and Andre Reed. Through each generation, fans have been taught to take Bills games personally, to understand a win as not just a victory for the team, but for the city itself. It was easier to cheer when the AFL or AFC titles were popping up every 25 years or so. Now, with a so-called “dying economy,” local legions still consistently fill a 73,000-seat stadium for a franchise whose last playoff appearance (against Tennessee) scarred a new generation of fans too young to be traumatized by Super Bowl XXV.
Still, this isn’t enough. Our team is struggling financially, in need of new streams of revenue. Local families have never gathered around televisions in Hamburg or South Buffalo to point at how many corporate sponsors Ralph Wilson Stadium entertains. Now, we’re being asked to accept this economic dearth as a major reason the team we’ve lived and died with is being dangled above the tongue of a Toronto billionaire.
When I was nine years old, I didn’t care how many luxury boxes were available at Rich Stadium; I was too busy making a sign for Cornelius Bennett with a wooden bed slat. When I was 10, it wasn’t a strategic business decision to hate “The Ickey Shuffle.” When I was 11, I didn’t care how much money Ronnie Harmon made; I just hoped he wasn’t getting paid for dropped passes in Cleveland. Finally, when I was 12, I didn’t close my eyes and pray for Scott Norwood as a valued employee. I simply hoped, with one kick, he’d become a local icon.
As much more than a business, Buffalo football welcomed my friends to open their trunks and drink canned beer in 20-degree weather before their exhibitions. It’s an emotional industry that specialized in stress-inducing Sundays and Monday nights, destroying the stomach lining of locals since 1960. It’s a company whose intense action made my mother scream in 1989, made my sister cry in 1991, and enticed my father to buy sugar cereal in 1998. And, since opening its doors, its customers have been tremendously loyal through weather, strikes, embarrassing rosters, more embarrassing losses, and Super Bowl misfortune we--as consumers--are forced to relive in bar hecklings and on ESPN for the rest of our lives.
In an NFL boardroom, full of lapelled tycoons who forgot what this sport means to regions such as ours years ago, this is a cold business of dollars and sense. In Buffalo, though, football will never be considered just a business.
If it was, Ralph, it would’ve closed long ago.
We hear this on talk radio and Sportscenter. As a jaded 29-year-old, I accept it, albeit through clenched teeth. Football is a business which pays its employees a tremendous amount of money to entertain millions with vicious tackles, arching throws, and hurdling runs.
This doesn’t work for you, does it? If you grew up in Buffalo, it never will.
With the recent news of the Bills playing eight games--three preseason, five regular season--over the next five seasons in Toronto, Buffalonians are being asked by Ralph Wilson to understand this as a “business decision,” one supposedly made for the franchise’s long-term economic viability in the Queen City. The problem with this is that Buffalo’s passionate fan base has always ignored the Bills as merely a business.
The team exists as a piece of an entire region, emotionally connected to generations. Fathers raised their sons in front of Jack Kemp, Cookie Gilchrist, and Elbert Dubenion; those sons raised their children cheering for the likes of Jim Kelly, Thurman Thomas, and Andre Reed. Through each generation, fans have been taught to take Bills games personally, to understand a win as not just a victory for the team, but for the city itself. It was easier to cheer when the AFL or AFC titles were popping up every 25 years or so. Now, with a so-called “dying economy,” local legions still consistently fill a 73,000-seat stadium for a franchise whose last playoff appearance (against Tennessee) scarred a new generation of fans too young to be traumatized by Super Bowl XXV.
Still, this isn’t enough. Our team is struggling financially, in need of new streams of revenue. Local families have never gathered around televisions in Hamburg or South Buffalo to point at how many corporate sponsors Ralph Wilson Stadium entertains. Now, we’re being asked to accept this economic dearth as a major reason the team we’ve lived and died with is being dangled above the tongue of a Toronto billionaire.
When I was nine years old, I didn’t care how many luxury boxes were available at Rich Stadium; I was too busy making a sign for Cornelius Bennett with a wooden bed slat. When I was 10, it wasn’t a strategic business decision to hate “The Ickey Shuffle.” When I was 11, I didn’t care how much money Ronnie Harmon made; I just hoped he wasn’t getting paid for dropped passes in Cleveland. Finally, when I was 12, I didn’t close my eyes and pray for Scott Norwood as a valued employee. I simply hoped, with one kick, he’d become a local icon.
As much more than a business, Buffalo football welcomed my friends to open their trunks and drink canned beer in 20-degree weather before their exhibitions. It’s an emotional industry that specialized in stress-inducing Sundays and Monday nights, destroying the stomach lining of locals since 1960. It’s a company whose intense action made my mother scream in 1989, made my sister cry in 1991, and enticed my father to buy sugar cereal in 1998. And, since opening its doors, its customers have been tremendously loyal through weather, strikes, embarrassing rosters, more embarrassing losses, and Super Bowl misfortune we--as consumers--are forced to relive in bar hecklings and on ESPN for the rest of our lives.
In an NFL boardroom, full of lapelled tycoons who forgot what this sport means to regions such as ours years ago, this is a cold business of dollars and sense. In Buffalo, though, football will never be considered just a business.
If it was, Ralph, it would’ve closed long ago.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Farrell Street's Heavenly Bar Hop
You’ve heard the question.
“Who would you like to meet when you get to heaven?”
The answers you hear include deceased relatives, friends, and even the random house pet; dogs are a big one. But, if there is a heaven, you’ve forgotten one important fact: You’re probably not getting in.
If you’ve never read the bible or any of the Ten Commandments, check them out. You and all your friends have probably broken every last one of them, weekly. But, who knows? Maybe the standards will have lowered when your turn is up.
Here at Farrell Street, we’re a spiritual bunch. Over the past few years, I’ve always thought the idea of heaven is different for everyone. Each person’s idea of the afterlife doesn’t necessarily include white clouds, pearly gates, and angel wings for all. For example, I have a friend whose ideal heaven would include him, a couch, a plasma HD television, cases of bottled Budweiser, and an endless supply of Buffalo chicken subs from across the street. I think my girlfriend’s heaven would consist of daily ballet classes, endless scrod dinners, and her television showing “Gilmore Girls,” “America’s Top Model,” and “The Office” on a continuous loop while she nestled into a recliner with the cat from “Sabrina The Teenage Witch.”
So, what if? What if heaven consisted of your ideal situation, as long as it was peaceful and decent? Sure, you could chat with your deceased relatives and play fetch with your dog, Mr. Peabody, who was mauled by that passing garbage truck in 1984. But what about activities you never thought possible until, by the grace of The Almighty, you gained admittance into your heaven? You could play catch with Lou Gehrig, play guitar with Buddy Holly, and slow dance with Marilyn Monroe. Pretty crazy, but it’s your afterlife.
If we at Farrell Street could devise such a reality, we’d devise a heavenly bar hop.
A mortal hop would usually be a collection of five of your sociable friends whose personal traits vary, yet mold to form a cohesive and competent drinking unit. There’s your political friend who badmouths the government and its intrusive policies more vehemently with every beer, but does so coherently and intelligently. There’s your financially minded pal who talks about investments, buying property, and the kind of money he’s putting away weekly; there has to be somebody who actually cares about work. Your addict friend is brimming with potential, but he’s there as a window to past days of addled nights and weekends, even though you no longer live them. Luckily, his stories of when you used to share drugs still make you seem nostalgically dangerous. Even though he’s almost 30, your meathead friend still thinks a fight could break out at any minute; even after eight Jack and Cokes, he’s still cocked, rocked, and ready. Finally, your pop culture friend is an inebriated historian, there to make references from film and song with impressive efficiency no matter the booze tally. He keeps the group laughing with quotes and impressions you’ve long since deemed irrelevant. Hopefully, you’re the guy with the sports statistics and vehement hatred for certain teams who’ve always wronged yours. If not, you need one of them as well.
In the afterlife, this representation would have to be bested or matched with a skeleton crew of high profile tilters. Before embarking on this testosterone-fueled tour de force, I’d draft a collection of dead musicians, actors, and athletes to fill the essential bar hop roles. We’d have to move from tavern to pub with the same efficiency and hilarity as our mortal hop would. After all, this is supposed to be ideal, right? I don’t want to drink beers with John Belushi if he’s going to frighten me more than my addict friend; I want him to be an upgrade. With this in mind, here is Farrell Street’s desired roster for our heavenly bar hop:
1. John Wayne – If I wanted muscle with a hair-trigger temper, I’d draft Oscar-winner and American legend Wayne. Originally named Marion Morrison, The Duke played football for USC before a surfing accident ended his football career. Lucky for him, there were horses to tame, vagrants to wrestle, and women to woo on the big screen. When the cameras were rolling, the man never let Indians or native Irish in “The Quiet Man” get the jump on him, so I doubt he’d let some drunken roamer within ten feet of our ale coalition. After seeing his legendary donnybrook with Victor McLaglen in that film, I doubt any altercation would last for more than two punches. Also, Wayne was responsible for the only major motion picture (“The Green Berets”) that actually supported the Vietnam War, so he’s not concerned with being popular. As he’d sip room-temperature whiskey from a dirty juice glass and rip through the first of his five packs of non-filtered Luckys, he’d watch our backs while I asked him why he supported McCarthyism, whether he liked the theme song for his film “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence,” and most importantly, whether Maureen O’Hara’s looks in 1953 could have single-handedly facilitated world peace. These are the kind of details I want out of the evening muscle.
2. Richard Pryor – Every hop needs a comedian. If you can get one that once supposedly doused himself in high-octane rum, lit himself on fire, then later incorporated the “accident” into his stand-up routine, he needs to be enlisted. In most professional circles, Pryor is considered one of the most influential comedians in the history of the trade, inspiring the brilliance of such household names as Jerry Seinfeld, Eddie Murphy, and Dave Chappelle. His irreverence was groundbreaking, moving a generation of comedians away from standard, socially acceptable fare and toward such taboos as sex and drugs with the gratuitous use of Pryor’s favorite word, “motherfucker.” As a child in Illinois, Pryor grew up in his grandmother’s brothel, where his mother was a prostitute and his father a bartender, boxer, and a pimp. With a background like this, his material had to be edgy or it would have been a lie. As we’d bounce from pub to pub, he could tell us about how he co-wrote “Blazing Saddles,” which is consistently ranked amongst the greatest comedies of all time. He could describe the tension between him and Chevy Chase during their classic word association sketch on “Saturday Night Live,” a clip that remains as controversial today as it was in the late 1970s. And finally, he could tell us what he thinks about his classic 1985 movie, “Brewster’s Millions,” being shown on TBS every week since 1998.
3. John Lennon – If one of my hoppers is going to get drunk on Brandy Alexanders and talk my ear off about the ills of the Republican Party, I’d like it to be someone with credibility. Since Lennon was under surveillance by the Nixon administration and was subjected to phone taps, dope frames, and attempted deportations, he’d surely have some venom. When he flies off the handle about the ills of the political machine, I’ll be able to patiently nod while I wait for other information to seep off his liquored tongue. I’d like to know who came up with the “Paul Is Dead” ruse, why McCartney was permitted to ever make the “Magical Mystery Tour” movie, and what was the exact narcotic concoction that inspired “Revolution 9” off The White Album? Why all the Asian women, and why the cover shoot for the Two Virgins album? Also, how pissed was he when Blues Traveler changed the words to “Imagine” on their rendition for his tribute album? Politics aside, Lennon’s presence would provide too many answers to too many questions, so his inclusion would be mandatory. If some of these questions were interrupted by his nihilistic ballad “God” on the heavenly jukebox, all the more appropriate. Actually, all the more ironic.
4. Dick Schaap – A controversial choice? Sure. Why would we want some Cornell intellectual who enjoys his dry martinis or aged scotch more than a dirty pint of Miller High Life? Simple. The guy knows anything and everything there is to know about sports. He’s been involved with the writing of 33 sports-related books, was the assistant editor of sports for Newsweek, the editor of Sport magazine, and became host of ESPN’s weekly roundtable, “The Sports Reporters” in 1988. The program opened the door for the countless sports debate shows that currently litter cable networks; fortunately for Schaap, “The Sports Reporters” still remains the best of its kind. The guy has interviewed every major athlete from Joe Namath to Ali to Michael Jordan, so he’d be able to serve as a legitimate referee for any sports argument that took place. Two years ago, I was on a bar hop in which one of my friends claimed Terrell Davis to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer. Since Schaap has cast Hall of Fame votes throughout his career, his experience could have defused this debate before it approached the edge of ridiculousness. (That same friend claimed Davis to be the best NFL back since Walter Payton, so you get the idea.) Also, since he’s of responsible ilk, he’d probably remain the most sober on the hop as well. This would serve the group well as it rounded bar #12, with Schaap in tow dropping nuggets like, “In my opinion, the best athlete of all time, without a doubt, is Bo Jackson.”
5. Jerry Garcia – Would Jerry be a cannabis-fueled drag on a bar hop? Maybe, but there has to be one person responsible for keeping everyone relaxed and at ease, so who’d be better? If Lennon gets too militant or The Duke starts throwing right hooks too early in the evening, who would be more calming than Jerry? In the Rolling Stones Altamont Speedway disaster documentary, “Gimme Shelter,” Garcia is incredibly composed and rational when told by a roadie that the Hell’s Angels are causing unnecessary havoc at an intended Woodstock redo. Understandably, Garcia may have had any number of chemicals rifling through his body during that scene, but his tone was so calming that his presence couldn’t do anything but enhance the serenity of our heavenly jaunt. Plus, who is more equipped to handle the evening’s inevitable “still looking for love” talk than the man whose band’s San Francisco performance in 1967 ignited the “Summer of Love”? Who better than a guy who married someone named “Mountain Girl,” twice? The Grateful Dead’s music inspired a legion of vagabond hippies to drop their lives, load into VW vans, and sell cosmic grilled cheese sandwiches as they followed Garcia and company across the United States. Why? All in the name of love, man. And sex. And drugs. And delicious grilled cheese.
So there’s our crew. Will we bond to form the cohesive unit necessary for a successful Saturday afternoon bar hop? With the heavenly guidance of The Almighty, we hope so. But, unfortunately, there’s really no telling what would happen. The Duke might get into a quartered duel with a Mexican soldier and land us all in the clink. After his 9th Pabst, Pryor might try to freebase cocaine after a fan of “The Toy” approaches him for an autograph. John Ono might derail the day by dropping acid and disappearing out the back door of an Asian karaoke bar. Schaap might find himself in a winner-take-all chess match, and Garcia might get into a low-scale hipster debate with a Jefferson Airplane fan about who exactly defined “The San Francisco Sound.” (Was it Jerry’s echoed and transcendent bluegrass guitar picking with The Dead, or was it Grace Slick’s unbridled wailing in the front of psychedelic imagery with Airplane?)
Since we’re not dead yet, there’s no way to forecast. Until the gates of heaven are opened, we here at Farrell Street plan to keep the invitations etched and waiting. To the bars of the afterlife, we ask that you keep your jukeboxes ready, your draft beer affordable, and one leather-upholstered back booth reserved.
You don’t want to anger The Duke.
“Who would you like to meet when you get to heaven?”
The answers you hear include deceased relatives, friends, and even the random house pet; dogs are a big one. But, if there is a heaven, you’ve forgotten one important fact: You’re probably not getting in.
If you’ve never read the bible or any of the Ten Commandments, check them out. You and all your friends have probably broken every last one of them, weekly. But, who knows? Maybe the standards will have lowered when your turn is up.
Here at Farrell Street, we’re a spiritual bunch. Over the past few years, I’ve always thought the idea of heaven is different for everyone. Each person’s idea of the afterlife doesn’t necessarily include white clouds, pearly gates, and angel wings for all. For example, I have a friend whose ideal heaven would include him, a couch, a plasma HD television, cases of bottled Budweiser, and an endless supply of Buffalo chicken subs from across the street. I think my girlfriend’s heaven would consist of daily ballet classes, endless scrod dinners, and her television showing “Gilmore Girls,” “America’s Top Model,” and “The Office” on a continuous loop while she nestled into a recliner with the cat from “Sabrina The Teenage Witch.”
So, what if? What if heaven consisted of your ideal situation, as long as it was peaceful and decent? Sure, you could chat with your deceased relatives and play fetch with your dog, Mr. Peabody, who was mauled by that passing garbage truck in 1984. But what about activities you never thought possible until, by the grace of The Almighty, you gained admittance into your heaven? You could play catch with Lou Gehrig, play guitar with Buddy Holly, and slow dance with Marilyn Monroe. Pretty crazy, but it’s your afterlife.
If we at Farrell Street could devise such a reality, we’d devise a heavenly bar hop.
A mortal hop would usually be a collection of five of your sociable friends whose personal traits vary, yet mold to form a cohesive and competent drinking unit. There’s your political friend who badmouths the government and its intrusive policies more vehemently with every beer, but does so coherently and intelligently. There’s your financially minded pal who talks about investments, buying property, and the kind of money he’s putting away weekly; there has to be somebody who actually cares about work. Your addict friend is brimming with potential, but he’s there as a window to past days of addled nights and weekends, even though you no longer live them. Luckily, his stories of when you used to share drugs still make you seem nostalgically dangerous. Even though he’s almost 30, your meathead friend still thinks a fight could break out at any minute; even after eight Jack and Cokes, he’s still cocked, rocked, and ready. Finally, your pop culture friend is an inebriated historian, there to make references from film and song with impressive efficiency no matter the booze tally. He keeps the group laughing with quotes and impressions you’ve long since deemed irrelevant. Hopefully, you’re the guy with the sports statistics and vehement hatred for certain teams who’ve always wronged yours. If not, you need one of them as well.
In the afterlife, this representation would have to be bested or matched with a skeleton crew of high profile tilters. Before embarking on this testosterone-fueled tour de force, I’d draft a collection of dead musicians, actors, and athletes to fill the essential bar hop roles. We’d have to move from tavern to pub with the same efficiency and hilarity as our mortal hop would. After all, this is supposed to be ideal, right? I don’t want to drink beers with John Belushi if he’s going to frighten me more than my addict friend; I want him to be an upgrade. With this in mind, here is Farrell Street’s desired roster for our heavenly bar hop:
1. John Wayne – If I wanted muscle with a hair-trigger temper, I’d draft Oscar-winner and American legend Wayne. Originally named Marion Morrison, The Duke played football for USC before a surfing accident ended his football career. Lucky for him, there were horses to tame, vagrants to wrestle, and women to woo on the big screen. When the cameras were rolling, the man never let Indians or native Irish in “The Quiet Man” get the jump on him, so I doubt he’d let some drunken roamer within ten feet of our ale coalition. After seeing his legendary donnybrook with Victor McLaglen in that film, I doubt any altercation would last for more than two punches. Also, Wayne was responsible for the only major motion picture (“The Green Berets”) that actually supported the Vietnam War, so he’s not concerned with being popular. As he’d sip room-temperature whiskey from a dirty juice glass and rip through the first of his five packs of non-filtered Luckys, he’d watch our backs while I asked him why he supported McCarthyism, whether he liked the theme song for his film “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence,” and most importantly, whether Maureen O’Hara’s looks in 1953 could have single-handedly facilitated world peace. These are the kind of details I want out of the evening muscle.
2. Richard Pryor – Every hop needs a comedian. If you can get one that once supposedly doused himself in high-octane rum, lit himself on fire, then later incorporated the “accident” into his stand-up routine, he needs to be enlisted. In most professional circles, Pryor is considered one of the most influential comedians in the history of the trade, inspiring the brilliance of such household names as Jerry Seinfeld, Eddie Murphy, and Dave Chappelle. His irreverence was groundbreaking, moving a generation of comedians away from standard, socially acceptable fare and toward such taboos as sex and drugs with the gratuitous use of Pryor’s favorite word, “motherfucker.” As a child in Illinois, Pryor grew up in his grandmother’s brothel, where his mother was a prostitute and his father a bartender, boxer, and a pimp. With a background like this, his material had to be edgy or it would have been a lie. As we’d bounce from pub to pub, he could tell us about how he co-wrote “Blazing Saddles,” which is consistently ranked amongst the greatest comedies of all time. He could describe the tension between him and Chevy Chase during their classic word association sketch on “Saturday Night Live,” a clip that remains as controversial today as it was in the late 1970s. And finally, he could tell us what he thinks about his classic 1985 movie, “Brewster’s Millions,” being shown on TBS every week since 1998.
3. John Lennon – If one of my hoppers is going to get drunk on Brandy Alexanders and talk my ear off about the ills of the Republican Party, I’d like it to be someone with credibility. Since Lennon was under surveillance by the Nixon administration and was subjected to phone taps, dope frames, and attempted deportations, he’d surely have some venom. When he flies off the handle about the ills of the political machine, I’ll be able to patiently nod while I wait for other information to seep off his liquored tongue. I’d like to know who came up with the “Paul Is Dead” ruse, why McCartney was permitted to ever make the “Magical Mystery Tour” movie, and what was the exact narcotic concoction that inspired “Revolution 9” off The White Album? Why all the Asian women, and why the cover shoot for the Two Virgins album? Also, how pissed was he when Blues Traveler changed the words to “Imagine” on their rendition for his tribute album? Politics aside, Lennon’s presence would provide too many answers to too many questions, so his inclusion would be mandatory. If some of these questions were interrupted by his nihilistic ballad “God” on the heavenly jukebox, all the more appropriate. Actually, all the more ironic.
4. Dick Schaap – A controversial choice? Sure. Why would we want some Cornell intellectual who enjoys his dry martinis or aged scotch more than a dirty pint of Miller High Life? Simple. The guy knows anything and everything there is to know about sports. He’s been involved with the writing of 33 sports-related books, was the assistant editor of sports for Newsweek, the editor of Sport magazine, and became host of ESPN’s weekly roundtable, “The Sports Reporters” in 1988. The program opened the door for the countless sports debate shows that currently litter cable networks; fortunately for Schaap, “The Sports Reporters” still remains the best of its kind. The guy has interviewed every major athlete from Joe Namath to Ali to Michael Jordan, so he’d be able to serve as a legitimate referee for any sports argument that took place. Two years ago, I was on a bar hop in which one of my friends claimed Terrell Davis to be a first-ballot Hall of Famer. Since Schaap has cast Hall of Fame votes throughout his career, his experience could have defused this debate before it approached the edge of ridiculousness. (That same friend claimed Davis to be the best NFL back since Walter Payton, so you get the idea.) Also, since he’s of responsible ilk, he’d probably remain the most sober on the hop as well. This would serve the group well as it rounded bar #12, with Schaap in tow dropping nuggets like, “In my opinion, the best athlete of all time, without a doubt, is Bo Jackson.”
5. Jerry Garcia – Would Jerry be a cannabis-fueled drag on a bar hop? Maybe, but there has to be one person responsible for keeping everyone relaxed and at ease, so who’d be better? If Lennon gets too militant or The Duke starts throwing right hooks too early in the evening, who would be more calming than Jerry? In the Rolling Stones Altamont Speedway disaster documentary, “Gimme Shelter,” Garcia is incredibly composed and rational when told by a roadie that the Hell’s Angels are causing unnecessary havoc at an intended Woodstock redo. Understandably, Garcia may have had any number of chemicals rifling through his body during that scene, but his tone was so calming that his presence couldn’t do anything but enhance the serenity of our heavenly jaunt. Plus, who is more equipped to handle the evening’s inevitable “still looking for love” talk than the man whose band’s San Francisco performance in 1967 ignited the “Summer of Love”? Who better than a guy who married someone named “Mountain Girl,” twice? The Grateful Dead’s music inspired a legion of vagabond hippies to drop their lives, load into VW vans, and sell cosmic grilled cheese sandwiches as they followed Garcia and company across the United States. Why? All in the name of love, man. And sex. And drugs. And delicious grilled cheese.
So there’s our crew. Will we bond to form the cohesive unit necessary for a successful Saturday afternoon bar hop? With the heavenly guidance of The Almighty, we hope so. But, unfortunately, there’s really no telling what would happen. The Duke might get into a quartered duel with a Mexican soldier and land us all in the clink. After his 9th Pabst, Pryor might try to freebase cocaine after a fan of “The Toy” approaches him for an autograph. John Ono might derail the day by dropping acid and disappearing out the back door of an Asian karaoke bar. Schaap might find himself in a winner-take-all chess match, and Garcia might get into a low-scale hipster debate with a Jefferson Airplane fan about who exactly defined “The San Francisco Sound.” (Was it Jerry’s echoed and transcendent bluegrass guitar picking with The Dead, or was it Grace Slick’s unbridled wailing in the front of psychedelic imagery with Airplane?)
Since we’re not dead yet, there’s no way to forecast. Until the gates of heaven are opened, we here at Farrell Street plan to keep the invitations etched and waiting. To the bars of the afterlife, we ask that you keep your jukeboxes ready, your draft beer affordable, and one leather-upholstered back booth reserved.
You don’t want to anger The Duke.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Blogging Your Face Off
As a filler for all (whoever you are) who wait for my eventual "breakthrough" inaugural blog entry, here's a look into the sick world of fantasy football taunting. This is my first weekly round-up for my league, and I'm sharing it only to give any lonely soul reading this an idea of the tone this "blog" will strive for. Sure, you won't know who any of these people are, and you won't understand any of the inside jokes. Still, you'll at least get the tone and jokes about Poison.
Until that first, original entry, enjoy:
As I write this, I'm listening to The Beatles' "Back In The USSR."
Why? Well, I wanted to get into a mindset of familiarity to write this stupid fantasy football shit for the 15th year in-a-row. I've been listening to The Beatles since my fat head emerged from a Jeanne Farrell c-section back in 1978, so do you see the parallels?
It's time for another year of jokes about Sam's affinity for Aerosmith, stone-wash jeans, and slanted, blanket statements, like "Terrell Davis is the best running back of all time." It's time to discuss Abe's love for marijuana, even though his old lady has straightened him out to the degree that he now owns multiple pairs of pressed chinos -- and wears them regularly. "Big Guy loves liquor" jokes will follow, as will digs at Phelps, Oneida, and Colin, who most of us only know as "the guy who works with Baker, wears a Red Wings hat, and has a shitty team every year."
And, as usual, there will be no jokes about Thielman. JT is my Buffalo Messiah, and this rule is my 11th commandment.
Without further adieu, let's get this thing rolling. In honor of Baker's new Jersey land acquisition, Springsteen's "The Ties That Bind" is now serenading this typing, this week's Farrell Four.
1. The Man vs. The Machine - During our on-line draft in August, Sam poured himself a nice, crisp glass of Powerade, put a pencil behind his ear, and laid out his resources across the Man Room floor. He gave Kelly enough copies of US Weekly to last well into the Nutley night. Then, amongst his commemorative plates and freaky Don Mattingly figurines, he started to draft the catalysts who would unite as Vick's Doggy Day Care. In Week One, he faced a man who handed his draft over to technology, disappearing into the Charleston night to drink his weight in rum. Would Sam's savvy picks of Brandon Jones, DJ Hackett, and Tony Scheffler pay big dividends? Absolutely not. BG stomped Sam "Bill Polian" Konz (81-58) on opening week, holding that aforementioned trio to 1 point. Ol' Shawn even had the audacity to start fantasy poison Eddie Kennison (0 points), who hasn't been good since Crystal Pepsi was cool (which is to say "never").
2. Points Are Pointless - Both Abe and Colin's team lit up their respective scoreboards in Week One, posting 106 and 101. Unfortunately, neither have a "w" to show for their explosions. Still, I Haven't Pissed Since 2/2007 established himself as a force to be feared, giving his Phelps Phoes and loathsome league champions Fear Chuck a scare without relying on large numbers from LT, Alge Crumpler, or Deuce McAllister (who was only drafted to appease Abe's iron-fisted old lady). As for The Steamed Hams, they could make noise this year, but will not depend on Plaxico Burress to hump out 35 points per week. With Travis Henry in the backfield, they will produce -- and reproduce. If there were points awarded for illegitimate children or pending paternity suits, I would give The Steamed Hams the money now and seek shelter from the downpour of Henry-ish kin.
3. Points Are Pointless 2 - In the war of attrition that was The Electric Mayhem's battle with Ice Tray Warriors, the points were hard to come by. Stephen Jackson fisted my squad with one point, Vernon Davis laid an egg, and Matt Jones took his own pointless dump on JT's sidelines. Though his lust for Asian prostitutes is still unmatched, Shayne Graham was held out by Mayhem management, causing a dearth of points in the kicking game. Still, his squad squeaked past the Warriors 55-48, in what was the worst game of any kind since the Bills' 9-6 Orchard Park win over the Dolphins in 1988. With this match-up behind me, I'd like to petition the commissioner to see to it that I'm no longer forced to face Thielman. In every one of our tilts, I feel like we're replicating the scene from "Braveheart" when the Scottish approach the Irish for battle: as Buffalonians, we're always fighting off the cruel hand of regional fate (i.e. the Everett injury and last-second Elam kick); when asked to face another man of my ilk (even Northtown trash), I'll always lie down my sword (or mouse). That's why I told Phillip Rivers to take a shit against Chicago and to take Vince Jackson with him; this at least made the game closer. Thielman, we should unite the clans and we'll be unstoppable. Unite us!
4. The "Fell Asleep In A Parking Lot" Boner Of The Week - In honor of Big Guy's asphalt slumber party a few week's back, I'm giving out this new award weekly. The first one goes to Hiscox who, instead of assuming Randy Moss would light up the Jets' secondary like Sam's Zippo at a Poison concert, he started Kevin Curtis and Jerry Porter. Moss went ballistic, scoring 27 points, and would have led NRD to a Week One triumph over the unpredictable Boat Racerz. Instead, Curtis and Porter combined for seven points, leading a drunken Hiscox to his own parking lot of shame. Spooning this week's isolated lamp post and reeking of gin, he should be ashamed.
Until next week, get ready for Smash and the Dillon Panthers, do not videotape defensive signals, and buy multiple copies of my book (Week One cheap plug) at www.farrellstreet.com.
Until that first, original entry, enjoy:
As I write this, I'm listening to The Beatles' "Back In The USSR."
Why? Well, I wanted to get into a mindset of familiarity to write this stupid fantasy football shit for the 15th year in-a-row. I've been listening to The Beatles since my fat head emerged from a Jeanne Farrell c-section back in 1978, so do you see the parallels?
It's time for another year of jokes about Sam's affinity for Aerosmith, stone-wash jeans, and slanted, blanket statements, like "Terrell Davis is the best running back of all time." It's time to discuss Abe's love for marijuana, even though his old lady has straightened him out to the degree that he now owns multiple pairs of pressed chinos -- and wears them regularly. "Big Guy loves liquor" jokes will follow, as will digs at Phelps, Oneida, and Colin, who most of us only know as "the guy who works with Baker, wears a Red Wings hat, and has a shitty team every year."
And, as usual, there will be no jokes about Thielman. JT is my Buffalo Messiah, and this rule is my 11th commandment.
Without further adieu, let's get this thing rolling. In honor of Baker's new Jersey land acquisition, Springsteen's "The Ties That Bind" is now serenading this typing, this week's Farrell Four.
1. The Man vs. The Machine - During our on-line draft in August, Sam poured himself a nice, crisp glass of Powerade, put a pencil behind his ear, and laid out his resources across the Man Room floor. He gave Kelly enough copies of US Weekly to last well into the Nutley night. Then, amongst his commemorative plates and freaky Don Mattingly figurines, he started to draft the catalysts who would unite as Vick's Doggy Day Care. In Week One, he faced a man who handed his draft over to technology, disappearing into the Charleston night to drink his weight in rum. Would Sam's savvy picks of Brandon Jones, DJ Hackett, and Tony Scheffler pay big dividends? Absolutely not. BG stomped Sam "Bill Polian" Konz (81-58) on opening week, holding that aforementioned trio to 1 point. Ol' Shawn even had the audacity to start fantasy poison Eddie Kennison (0 points), who hasn't been good since Crystal Pepsi was cool (which is to say "never").
2. Points Are Pointless - Both Abe and Colin's team lit up their respective scoreboards in Week One, posting 106 and 101. Unfortunately, neither have a "w" to show for their explosions. Still, I Haven't Pissed Since 2/2007 established himself as a force to be feared, giving his Phelps Phoes and loathsome league champions Fear Chuck a scare without relying on large numbers from LT, Alge Crumpler, or Deuce McAllister (who was only drafted to appease Abe's iron-fisted old lady). As for The Steamed Hams, they could make noise this year, but will not depend on Plaxico Burress to hump out 35 points per week. With Travis Henry in the backfield, they will produce -- and reproduce. If there were points awarded for illegitimate children or pending paternity suits, I would give The Steamed Hams the money now and seek shelter from the downpour of Henry-ish kin.
3. Points Are Pointless 2 - In the war of attrition that was The Electric Mayhem's battle with Ice Tray Warriors, the points were hard to come by. Stephen Jackson fisted my squad with one point, Vernon Davis laid an egg, and Matt Jones took his own pointless dump on JT's sidelines. Though his lust for Asian prostitutes is still unmatched, Shayne Graham was held out by Mayhem management, causing a dearth of points in the kicking game. Still, his squad squeaked past the Warriors 55-48, in what was the worst game of any kind since the Bills' 9-6 Orchard Park win over the Dolphins in 1988. With this match-up behind me, I'd like to petition the commissioner to see to it that I'm no longer forced to face Thielman. In every one of our tilts, I feel like we're replicating the scene from "Braveheart" when the Scottish approach the Irish for battle: as Buffalonians, we're always fighting off the cruel hand of regional fate (i.e. the Everett injury and last-second Elam kick); when asked to face another man of my ilk (even Northtown trash), I'll always lie down my sword (or mouse). That's why I told Phillip Rivers to take a shit against Chicago and to take Vince Jackson with him; this at least made the game closer. Thielman, we should unite the clans and we'll be unstoppable. Unite us!
4. The "Fell Asleep In A Parking Lot" Boner Of The Week - In honor of Big Guy's asphalt slumber party a few week's back, I'm giving out this new award weekly. The first one goes to Hiscox who, instead of assuming Randy Moss would light up the Jets' secondary like Sam's Zippo at a Poison concert, he started Kevin Curtis and Jerry Porter. Moss went ballistic, scoring 27 points, and would have led NRD to a Week One triumph over the unpredictable Boat Racerz. Instead, Curtis and Porter combined for seven points, leading a drunken Hiscox to his own parking lot of shame. Spooning this week's isolated lamp post and reeking of gin, he should be ashamed.
Until next week, get ready for Smash and the Dillon Panthers, do not videotape defensive signals, and buy multiple copies of my book (Week One cheap plug) at www.farrellstreet.com.
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