Apple Pop Life

Inside Brody's world

2008-05-12T22:46:00.000-07:00

I'm about 98.9999 percent sure that I'm smarter than Brody Jenner.

I'd also be willing to wager the college fund of my unborn children that I'm funnier and more personable than The Hills reality star. I'd probably be a better boyfriend, too, in that not-going-to-give-you-VD kind of way at least.

I'm not, however, better looking than Brody Jenner. And I'm certainly not as wealthy ... two things that are most certainly the reason why Brody was mobbed by young girls and paparazzi in front of The Ivy in Beverly Hills today while I was little more than a physical obstacle standing in the way of teenage hormones gone mad.

Los Angeles is a weird place. It's moments like what happened in front of The Ivy -- a notorious celebrity hotspot -- that makes this abundantly clear. On the surface, Brody Jenner seems like a nice enough dude. He posed for pictures with his fans and even gave the photographers in ill-fitting Pink Floyd T-shirts a smile or two. He also had on a really cool pair of sunglasses. But the girls on that sidewalk were squealing like The Beatles had just stepped on the field at Shea.

This is odd, of course, because Brody Jenner isn't really famous for anything at all. Seeing people go batshit crazy over someone so seemingly inconsequential is tough to wrap your head around ... this is especially so when you happen to see it in person.

Walking back to the car, I explained to a friend that Jenner passed my "Switch Test," that being, I would trade places with that person if given the chance. That decision was a rash one, naturally, as Jenner's celebrity status is a ticking clock, while my status as a non-chode will likely have a much longer shelf life.

And in that end, not being a chode is all that really matters. Suck on that, pretty boy.

23 is the loneliest number

2008-04-17T15:36:00.000-07:00

I understand making the case for Don Mattingly as the unluckiest man on the planet is flawed on several levels.

Facts are facts, after all. He had a successful career as a professional baseball player, blessed with unique physical gifts that made him a multi-millionaire. His exploits on the field and humility off it made him a revered icon of the most decorated franchise in sports. He has three healthy children. He probably drives a Saab. The list goes on and on.

But when the Yankees passed on Mattingly to hire Joe Girardi as their new manager in December, true Donnie Baseball fans knew another chapter had been written in a story that too often has been star-crossed.

It wasn't just that Mattingly was the favorite to become the 34th manager of the Yankees -- the entire interview process seemed to be a mere formality. Four seasons earlier, it was Mattingly who had been handpicked by George Steinbrenner and tutored under Joe Torre to become the future Yankees skipper. It was a carefully scripted ascention to power, and the club followed it step by step until, of course, the time came to actually hand the reigns over. Torre's split from the club became bitter, and some in the organization began to view Mattingly as a sort of "Torre clone" -- a laid-back non-confrontational type who didn't have the edge to see the team through difficult times, particularly in October. Torre's measured approach to managing -- a style that helped guide New York to four titles and 12 straight playoff berths -- was suddenly out of vogue under the new Steinbrenner regime.

Enter Joe Girardi -- square jaw, crew cut, and said not to possess not an ounce of bullshit -- carrying a resume that included a Manager of the Year award for leading a young Marlins team to playoff contention in 2006. Nevermind the fact that he was fired at season's end for clashing with management, or that he had a bad reputation among some peers and the local media for a terse know-it-all attitude. "This man was stern!" Hank and Hal likely squealed in delight as a morose George sat meekly in the garden. In the eyes of the young Steinbrenners, the only thing separating the Yankees from first-round failure and World Series glory was a good kick in the ass. Right! Right?

To Girardi's credit, he aced his interview by all accounts. And with The Boss obstenibly out of the picture, Mattingly lost the front-office ally that mattered most. Talk about Girardi's expert pitch to club officials all you want, but this decision came down to timing. It was right for Girardi, and it cost Mattingly.

But hasn't bad timing always been the case for Mattingly? He came into the league in 1982, one season after the Yankees advanced to the World Series. New York then proceeded to suffer through its longest playoff drought in team history. By 1994, Mattingly's career was winding down, chronic back pain having rendered him a shell of the player once viewed as a surefire Hall of Famer.

When the strike wiped out the '94 season with the Yankees sitting atop the AL East in mid-August, Mattingly's postseason plight became a national story. "Good old classy Don Mattingly just saw his only chance at the World Series go by the boards. What a cryin' shame!" Even the most optimistic Mattingly fan had to worry.

But a sliver of fortune arrived a year later when the Yankees made the playoffs as baseball's first American League Wild Card. New York clinched in Toronto on the final day of the regular season, Mattingly going down on one knee and pounding the Sky Dome turf in joy after the final out was recorded. I still have MSG's postgame coverage on an old VHS tape, the image of a joyful Donnie running to the visitor's clubhouse, bats in one hand, glove tucked under his opposite arm, smiling like a little boy on Christmas. It was perfect.

Mattingly seized his once-in-a-career opportunity. Knowing his days in pinstripes were numbered, Mattingly treated his chronic back pain as an afterthought in what would be his only postseason, swinging like the perennial All-Star he used to be. Using a leg kick that generated more torque in his swing, Mattingly batted .405 in the series with a homer and five RBIs. Standing in the back row of the bleachers when his name was announced at the Stadium before Game 1, I had goosebumps that lasted minutes. When he hit a two-run homer off Andy Benes into those same bleachers in Game 2, I watched on television with tears in my eyes. It's not something I'm ashamed of. It was a touchstone moment of my childhood, a moment I'll never forget.

The Yankees fell in five games to the Mariners in a classic series, a devastating final chapter to Mattingly's playing days. With his contract up and under the realization the Yankees were looking in another direction -- Steinbrenner made that clear with cowardly leaks to the press -- he graciously gave the team an out, announcing he would not try to catch on with another team in 1996. It wasn't a retirement speech, because Mattingly didn't want to retire. But when the Yanks traded for Tino Martinez, Mattingly's future as a Yankee was sealed. He officially retired in 1997, his truncated career still impressive enough to put him near the top of several offensive categories in franchise history.

Everyone knows what came next. With Mattingly back home with his family in Indiana, the Yankees captured the World Series in 1996. And again in 1998. And again in 1999. And once more in 2000. It makes those titles forever bittersweet for any true Mattingly fan. He was out of the money again. In interviews, he always insisted that the timing didn't sting, but it's hard to imagine the competitor in him not dying a little bit each time the team celebrated another championship.

Mattingly rejoined the Yankees as a hitting coach in 2004, a historic collapse against the Red Sox that lives in on infamy in the franchise's history. And despite rave reviews for his talents as a teacher, the Yankees went on to suffer through a trio of embarassing first-round playoff knockouts. Even as a coach, Donnie Baseball couldn't make it to the World Series.

Of course, it would have been too perfect, too easy for Mattingly to get the Yanks skipper job and get that long-elusive championship ring. Classy as always, Mattingly refused to rip the Yankees on his way out the door, even if he may have had every right to do so. Instead, he thanked New York and its fans for all they had done for him and he simply moved on. It was a gesture of humility, the act of a true leader and a captain.

A new season has begun, and for the first time since 2003, Mattingly is nowhere to be seen on the Yankees bench. Hoping to keep his managerial aspirations alive, he took a coaching job with Joe Torre's Dodgers club, only to step down when marriage troubles went public by way of an ugly incident in Evansville that ended with Kim Mattingly's arrest for public disturbance. One can only hope these private issues get resolved without further embarrassment.

When you grow up idolizing a sports figure, it's natural to keep tabs on them after you've grown up. Even as their playing days fade from memory, that connection built over years remains hardwired in your brain. It's for that reason I'll always pull for Donnie Baseball, even if I don't have anything to tangibly "root for" anymore. We've never met, but the relationship is absolutely real and personal.

So wherever you are Donnie Baseball, I tip my cap to you. Fortune may not always be on your side, but I'm lucky to call you a true idol.

Thoughts on Santana-to-Mets

2008-01-30T13:44:00.000-08:00

I sincerely love baseball. I respect the game so much I would ask its father for permission to propose marriage before I went down on bended knee, Boyz II Men-style. Did the tall, velvet-voice brother in that group use a cane for medical reasons or was it purely aesthetic? Do you think it kept him from getting ladies who were into dudes that jogged and played volleyball and stuff? I always wondered about that. ANYWAY, here's a few thoughts running through my mind after I heard the Mets' trade for Johan Santana went down.

Don't you find it odd that the Twins, realizing they would be getting 25 cents on the dollar, were still so adamant about dealing Johan before the season began? Why not keep him, see if Liriano regains form following his Tommy John and take your shot in '08? Worst-case scenario, your team doesn't play well and you trade him at the deadline in July to a club desperate for that "final piece of the puzzle"? Makes sense right?

Well, after doing some reading today, it seems this deal may have been on a fast track for a reason. Santana was scouted during the second half of last season by several teams and the reports were a bit scary. Decreased velocity and an unwillingness to throw his slider during the final two months was the word. Does this mean he's hurt? In decline? Or was he simply not sufficiently pumped up pitching for the also-ran Twins? This is an interesting subplot to take note of.

Add to that the fact that he's 29 on Opening Day and commanding a long-term deal at the highest salary EVER for a pitcher, and this is far from a slam dunk for the Mets. That said, this was probably a deal the Mets felt they had to do after the disgraceful end to their '07 season. It makes their team much better on paper, and they didn't give up their two best prospects or Reyes to get it done.

But trading for veteran arms remains a risky proposition. The Yankees made a similar move four winters ago when they acquired a reigning Cy Young Award winner named Randy Johnson. We all know how that turned out. The Mets' gamble is safer than that -- Johan is younger, doesn't have the injury baggage and is coming from the AL to the NL instead of vice versa. But it's still a gamble nonetheless.

It's a great deal if the Mets don't work under any kind of budget in terms of payroll (which they may or may not, I have no clue). But if a deal is deemed too rich by the freaking Yankees, it must be viewed as an ass-load of money by the league in general.

But, again, I agree with the trade for the Mets. They HAD to do something, especially coming off last season's disaster and with a new stadium on the horizon in '09. I'm glad my team -- and the Red Sox -- didn't get him. Hughes is regarded as one of the league's best prospects and Melky is a solid player, especially defensively. Like most Yankees fans, I'm excited to see my farm talent develop. It's how we became a dynasty 10 years ago. If I'm a Mets fan, my only worry is that they're paying Johan for what he did in his past as opposed to what he'll do in the future. Santana will likely be very, very good this season. But how about five seasons from now, when he's 34 with 120,000 miles on his odometer and still costing the team $20 million a year? Was it still a smart move? Maybe, maybe not.

From a purely business standpoint, I don't think the trade makes fiscal sense. But the Mets have the money to make this move, appease their pissed off fans, and get better in the short term. That's the good thing about rooting for a big market team. Having deep pockets is like having a Wolf from "Pulp Fiction." No matter how big the screw up, you can still clean it up without longterm damage.

Whether the Wolf's located in New York, L.A., Boston and Anaheim are good for baseball is an entirely different issue altogether ...

Hope on low supply in Hollywood

2008-01-23T09:41:00.000-08:00

For the second time in as many weeks, I saw a movie that completely and totally undermined the power of the human spirit. This bums me out.

Last week I caught "28 Weeks Later" on DVD, a sequel to the 2002 pseudo-zombie cult classic "28 Days Later." In the movie (note: Spoilah Alerts abound), the virus that turns otherwise affable English folk into flesh-eating beasts has returned, and we watch as a young family attempts to survive a brutal hunt by both the monsters and the U.S. military. They don't. In fact, the movie's final scene depicts the nu-zombies climbing the subway steps adjacent to the Eiffel Tower. Would you like your freedom fries with BLOOOOOOOD???? Nice.

And then there was "Cloverfield," a movie about a mysterious creature attacking poor, beleaguered Manhattan. New York County is having a rougher decade than Fred Durst, huh? I was very excited to see this flick, and for the most part I enjoyed it. It's kind of how I hoped the 1998 "Godzilla" monstrosity would have turned out. And it definitely was scarier watching it in New York City; many of the neighborhoods of Manhattan are artfully re-created, and the manner by which they are destroyed seems horrifically realistic. (The sight of the doomed Brooklyn Bridge's American flag disappearing into the darkness of the night was especially chilling.) By the close of the film, the protagonists (a bunch of obnoxious 20-something yuppies) bite the dust hard core, taking 35 percent of Arcade Fire's fan base with it.

In each case, the movies left me disheartened. By the time the credits role for each film, there is little reason to hope. I'm not typically good with horror films for this very reason. I like happy endings. Like Brett Michaels, I need something to believe in. It's an attitude that would lead Rob Zombie apologists to label me "a pussy." I would then tell them to move out of their mom's basement.

And no, I don't need a ridiculous "Ra-ra Go America!" ending like "Independence Day" (though Bill Pullman's final speech remains highly rad), but I do believe leaving the viewer with a smidgen of hope can be done artfully without disrupting the bleak nature of the work.

Of course, the case can be made that "bleak" is what people relate to in the aftermath of Sept. 11. When the Twin Towers were ambushed, a generation of Americans learned that sometimes terrible things happen without either reason or a silver lining. Sometimes a bad situation allows no escape. It's understandable why a filmmaker wants to tap into that uneasy psyche. That's why you have a scene in "Cloverfield" where a neighborhood of terrified East Villagers are covered in the white ash of destroyed skyscrapers. And it may be why a key aspect of "28 Weeks Later" revolves around the U.S. military losing control of a situation they shouldn't have been involved with in the first place.

Then again, dead hipsters and a zombie-infested Paris may not be such unhappy endings after all. Everything in life is a matter of opinion, I suppose.

Joy, apprehension in Yankee land

2008-01-17T13:34:00.000-08:00

Remember that feeling you had the night before you went away to college? The pit located in the center of your stomach, a mix of anxiety and excitement that just ate up your insides? The packing, the preparation, the last dinner at Charlie Brown's when your parents speculated you weren't eating because of narcotics use? It was a stressful time to be sure. Luckily, that apprehension faded when you got to campus and adjusted, but until that time came, there was nothing to do but wait and hope that things would work out.

Well yeah, that's what it's like to be a Yankees fan right now.

I can't ever remember being more scared and excited about a team's prospects heading into a new season. On the one hand, you have a loaded roster of position-player talent and a pitching staff widely thought to be one of baseball's most promising.

But then there's Hank Steinbrenner. Crazy ole Hank Steinbrenner, a man who petrifies me on every level. He comes off in the media like an irrational version of his Old Man, if that's even possible. He looks like a mean person, the type of dude that would put razor blades in apples on Halloween. He hardly seems the patient and even-keeled type, a pair of traits you'd hope for when your organization is committing to any form of youth movement. Poor Brian Cashman must be spinning in his grave.

Wait. Cash is still alive? Is he still in baseball? Which team is he with? Best of luck to him wherever he is.

ANYWAY, this is an organization clearly at a crossroads. After a series of postseason misfires, the club made the right decision in parting ways with Joe Torre. Joe Girardi has quite the job in front of him, but it's one I believe he's well-suited for. In fact, for all his bluster -- and let's face it, playboy is a Wizard of Oz tornado-level windbag -- Hank hasn't pulled the trigger on any franchise-deflating moves since taking over day-to-day operations. He made the right decision at manager (with all due respect to the great Donnie Ballgame), played hardball and won (sort of) during the A-Rod contract saga, re-signed Mo and Posada (a PR necessity) and has resisted trading away his farm (so far) for Twins ace Johan Santana.

So no, the sky isn't falling in the Bronx. And here's the thing that a lot of people don't seem to realize ... this team was so to a championship run in 2007. Chien-Ming Wang's playoff meltdown completely obscured the fact that the Yankees were baseball's best team down the stretch of the regular season, a squad that clearly outplayed the world champion Red Sox in the second half. I'm not going to go sour grapes saying New York was the better team than Boston, but I will say the difference wasn't as vast as the playoff results seemed to indicate.

Can Wang be trusted anymore? It's going to take awhile, at least for me. In fact, Wang's Indians gag job has landed him in the unsavory position of having to wait until October to prove his true worth, a place more popularly known as the Alex E. Rodriguez Baseball Abyss. This is not a good place to be.

I don't worry about soft-spoken Chien though. Is he a true ace? Nah. We shouldn't be asking him to be something that he's not. The problem isn't so much Wang (assuming the ALDS was an aberration), but rather that we're asking the best No. 2 pitcher in baseball to be our No. 1. Round peg, square hole, ya dig?

NOW, if either Joba or Hughes pitch like the phenoms they're supposed to be and seize that ace role, this is a team that's going to be very difficult to beat. That, my friends, is the exciting feeling in my stomach.

But the nervousness remains. The bullpen is a major question mark. I love him more than 10 cent wings, but Rivera is clearly slipping, and I only envision those shaky outings increasing at age 38. LaTroy Hawkins was a poor signing and I CANNOT believe I have to put up with another season of the terminally-awful Kyle Farnsworth and his stupid Charlie Sheen "Major League" glasses. I hold out hope that Humberto Sanchez -- the hard-throwing right-hander acquired in the Gary Sheffield trade -- can serve as a wild card here. He missed all of 2007 following Tommy John surgery, but he could be ready by the All-Star break. And a little birdie told me that Mark Melancon (another Tommy John survivor) could be an impact player in '08. Melancon is a former University of Arizona closer who the Yanks selected in the ninth round of the 2006 First-Year Player Draft. If healthy, the 22-year-old right-hander may get his shot sooner rather than later if (when?) the Hawkins/Farnsworth duo falters.

And then there's of course, Hank ... a figure in some ways more important to the Yankees' future than Hughes, Chamberlain and Kennedy combined. Will he remain under control and listen to his baseball people? For all his warts, Hank's Old Man eventually learned to let his baseball people lead the way (a suspension helped), paving the way for Gene Michaels and the Yankee Dynasty of 1996-2000. Did Hank learn from his father, or will Yankees fans live through the frustration of the 80s all over again?

It's all more stressful than meeting my pot-ingesting, Creed-adoring freshman roommate. Pass the Tums please.

In defense of Juno

2008-01-14T12:19:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend and I went to see "Juno" the other night. We both liked it, making us part of a growing swarm of Americans pushing the film toward the $100 million box-office marker.

I thought the movie was smart and well-paced, and I really liked the performances, especially Ellen Page as the title character, Michael Cera in the copyrighted Awkward Michael Cera Role and Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner as the troubled WASP couple. That said, I'm not here to provide another glowing review. Instead, consider this post a preemptive measure of defense of the film.

The attack has already begun, mind you, and it's coming from within these very walls. A dialogue-driven indie flick like "Juno" is geared to cater to the blogosphere, so when the mainstream grabs it and makes it their own (see: Dynamite, Napoleon), it's only a matter of time before bloggers revolt with great vengeance and furious anger.

An example of this disgust came from Apple Pop Life buddy and future colleague Bob over at the re-born My Blog Is Poop.

"[Juno] had a cute Dawson's Creek-ish response for EVERYTHING. I know she was supposed to be “quirky” and “original” but since when does quirky and original mean “could write for The Colbert Report at 16 while simultaneously pushing a baby out of her vagina”?"

Bob makes a fair point and I don't think he's completely off-base. Page's character may have been a little bit too whip-smart for the sake of realism, and the dialogue was indeed burdensome at times (it's been awhile since I was 16, but I'm fairly certain teens aren't talking on hamburger phones and saying things like 'Honest to blog' to each other.) In fact, it sounds more like a 29-year-old screenplay writer trying to think like a 16-year-old. Which is exactly the case here with Diablo Cody.

That said, the cutesy script wasn't enough to derail the movie. I know that's the main point of contention for the "Juno" haters chomping at the bit out there. I'm here to say that said haters should step off, yo. Is the chintzy dialogue a footnote that warrants mentioning? Sure. But it ain't worth throwing out Juno's baby with the bathwater.

Life in the mix

2007-12-18T11:09:00.000-08:00

I've been on this Earth for 27 years, and I've been earnestly making compilations for 15 of them. I've successfully adapted with the technology, morphing from tapes, to CDs, to iPod playlists. My earliest incarnation dates back to 1992, a compilation that included contemporary hits by Technotronic, Boyz II Men, Vanessa Williams, Guns 'n' Roses and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. That's called "eclectic." Some would counter "gay." Whatever it was, to this day whenever I hear the final chords of "Under The Bridge," my mind skips to the opening piano chord of "November Rain," matching the track listing of my beloved first mix. That tape has literally hard-wired itself into my brain. I think I really liked that tape.

As a 12-year-old, my music inclinations only went so far. Ninety percent of thoughts at that point in my life were based upon Yankees first baseman Don Mattingly. Music was haphazardly dashed amongst the remaining 10 percent, included in a potpourri of food products, Christmas, wiffle ball and wrestling pay-per-views.

That dynamic didn't last for long, however. Girls soon took center stage and I soon realized that mix tapes could be used as a weapon of love. I quickly learned I could take a collection of songs and use the lyrical and symphonic message to procure dates to winter dances. I'd say this was manipulating the artist's original intent, but rock 'n' roll has always been about getting girls anyway. The only difference between me and Adam Duritz is the music he chooses is his own. My mix tape is his Counting Crows record. It's just a natural extension.

So the next time you make a mix remember the golden rules. Mix the message with the music. Pace is key. Keep it to 14 tracks or less. And provide some cover art. It's all about the cover art. Chicks dig the cover art.

Hogan knows heartbreak

2007-11-27T10:10:00.000-08:00

As you've probably heard by now, Hulk Hogan is back on the market. This is not his choice of course, the 54-year-old wrestling legend was recently served divorce papers by wife of 25 years, Linda.

Hogan -- real name Terry Bollea -- is reportedly shattered by his marriage's demise, the latest setback for the reality TV star. As a kid who grew up on the WWF in the late 80s and early 90s and actually paid money to see Suburban Commando in theaters, I was kind of bummed by the news.

It seems more than a little suspect that the recent downturn in Hogan's fortune has happened in concurrence with his popular VH1 reality show Hogan Knows Best. After all, marriage woes are only the latest in a series of setbacks to befall the Hogan clan. This month, Hogan's 17-year-old son, Nick, was hit with criminal charges in the street racing accident that left the passenger in his Toyota Supra brain dead. Meanwhile, the elder Hogan has been the driving force in attempting to get his 19-year-old daughter's recording career off the ground. Brooke Hogan has achieved none of the critical or commercial success that her father envisioned, but has nonetheless become an easy target of bloggers across the Internet. Her ominously titled 2006 album Undiscovered stiffed, despite a lead single buttressed by famed Houston rapper Paul Wall.

In truth, Hogan has taken a perilous road in American entertainment on two levels. Scores of his wrestling contemporaries have met early demises due to the mental and physical rigors of the gig. The Chris Benoit tragedy finally provided a spotlight on what has been a serious problem in the industry for years ... humans simply aren't built to endure the non-stop schedule of a professional wrestler. It's a truth that has WWE chairman Vince McMahon's hands covered in blood. Hogan survived a long career in the ring only to become a prime figure in the world of reality television, an industry famous for tearing apart the relationships that it documents. Whether or not Hogan realized this when he signed the dotted line is irrelevant now. He was chewed up and spit out by a fly on the wall.

No, this isn't a story about how reality television is destroying the moral compass of America. But it has done what Andre the Giant, the Iron Shiek, Sgt. Slaughter and countless other heels couldn't.

It destroyed Hulk Hogan.

Creep: To be or not to be

2007-10-14T19:59:00.000-07:00

Radiohead is giving their new album away. You already know this. Everyone already knows this. You -- technologically-inclined music consumer -- probably downloaded In Rainbows hours after it was made available this past week. I have not.

Don't get me wrong ... I'm into Radiohead. I have several of their releases. Full disclosure, I'm a 1993-1997 Oxfordshire SpaceRok kind of guy, which I suppose makes me some kind of hipster neanderthal. After all, understanding why Kid A or Amnesiac are masterpieces is a key component to Williamsburg cred. That's not me. I'm not technically cool. Noel Gallagher was the author of my senior quote. I have every Counting Crows record.

Even still, In Rainbows will be in my iPod eventually. But how will it get there? The hook of Rainbows is well-documented: you can download the album from Radiohead's official Web site at any cost. It's an admittedly ballsy marketing ploy, even when you factor in that Thom Yorke and Co. are wealthy beyond comprehension. You have to figure that the band will take a financial bath on this, and it's hard to deny that it's pretty damn cool that they don't seem to give a shit.

But how much do I pay? On one hand, I want to reward a great band for an innovative approach to getting their product out to the masses during a unsure time in the music industry. On the other hand, the music industry that Radiohead belongs to has truly manhandled me. Like, slipped GHB into my spritzer kind of manhandled. Overpriced albums and Ticketmaster surcharges have been the bane of my fan experience. Metallica banned me from Napster for downloading "Fuel." I don't even like Metallica, or really even "Fuel" for that matter. So for once, I can battle a little bit out of the red. I have all the power. Suck it, Lars.

A colleague of mine paid $15 for Rainbows, which seems excessive. I mean, iTunes would charge $9.90 for the 10 songs that make up the album, that's if Radiohead was actually on iTunes, but whatevs. On the opposite end of the spectrum, it was reported that about one quarter of the buyers have paid nothing at all (discounting the nominal credit surcharge). This seems like a bit of a dick move.

So by using my incredible math skills (I once got a 39 on a state-mandated arithmetic test and I'm not even technically retarded) I think I'll split the difference and pay $7.50. Hmmmm ... that seems fair.

Wait. They're giving the thing away! Like, for free! What am I doing?

To quote Ralphie Parker from The Christmas Story: "Don't bother me ... I'm thinking."

Being there then

2007-08-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

To this day, it remains one of the clearest memories of my formative years.

August 26, 1997. Oasis had just released Be Here Now, the long-awaited follow-up to the multi-plaltinum jaugernaut What's The Story (Morning Glory)? and me and four of my closest high school friends were about to get our first listen. Driving back from our annual summer sojourn to Wildwood, N.J., we popped the cassette -- yes, the cassette -- into Bob's 1989 Buick LeSabre. In a car full of 17-year-old fans of the British rockers, this was a momentous occassion (excluding Brian, the resident Oasis-hater of the group who preferred the company of headphones and the new Mustard Plug record). The five days prior had been about concealing wine coolers in 32-ounce Mountain Dew bottles and trying to get lucky on the boardwalk. But now on our long ride back to New York, the priorities had changed. As the opening coda to "D'You Know What I Mean?" filled the inside of the cavernous LeSabre, we all felt like we were part of something. Our Sgt. Pepper had finally arrived.

I cannot understate this enough. This record was a big deal. Earlier that spring, U2 had released the techno-fueled Pop, a veteran band trying so hard to re-invent themselves that they had forgotten who they were in the first place. Elsewhere, the rock landscape was littered by bands without the pedigree to remain relevant beyond an album or two. Dozens of pretenders ruled the airwaves while the Sarah McLaughlin-led Lilith Fair explosion was threatening to wipe the electric guitar off the pop landscape. Rock needed the next "biggest band in the world." And Oasis were counted on to be just that.

As the LeSabre lumbered north, we sat silently through 12 songs and nearly 72 minutes of what seemed like the greatest album ever recorded. With the volume turned up so high that it left ears ringing for a day afterward, Be Here Now was everything we could have hoped for. Overblown? Maybe. Indulgent? Probably. But it was rawk. It was defiant ("My Big Mouth"), anthemic ("Stand By Me") , gorgeous ("Don't Go Away"), even majestic ("All Around The World"). Sometimes it was all those things at once. Noel Gallagher had done it, and his working-class band from Manchester was about to have the world in the palm of its hand.

Or so we thought. Being 17 is funny on so may levels in retrospect, you're either too naive or too stupid to understand just about everything. Be Here Now turned out to be a prime example. While What's The Story ... and debut album Definitely Maybe were crammed with catchy songs that seemed to have purpose, the music on Be Here Now didn't say much at all. It was the sound of rich rock stars with too much money, too much time, and too many drugs. Any lyrical and melodic shortcomings were simply remedied with a wall of sound that'd make Phil Spector shoot someone. Um, again. This was noise on top of noise. Swirling orchestral arrangements and mountains of guitar overdubs -- "My Big Mouth" was said to have 30 alone -- dominated throughout. Johnny Depp provided slide guitar on a song ("Fade In-Out"). There was even a reprise. A reprise for fuck's sake! Despite glowing initial reviews, critical and commercial response to the record cooled at a remarkable rate, setting in action a backlash that the band never truly recovered from. Less than two years later, Liam and Noel Gallagher were the only original members left in the band -- in-fighting and drug and alcohol abuse pushing founding members Paul "Guigsy" McGuigan and Paul "Bonehead" Arthurs by the wayside. And despite eight million units sold, Be Here Now had earned its boneyard description as a drug- and ego-fueled disaster. Cocaine -- it turns out -- is a hell of a drug.

So you probably think I'm one of the thousands of people who pawned off their copy of Be Here Now -- Melody Maker famously reported in 1999 that it was the album most sold to second-hand record stores. But you'd be wrong. Over the last 10 years, it has remained a consistent soldier in my record collection. For all its pomp, and beneath all the layers, and the Johnny Depp, and the fucking reprise, there remains an album with melodies that deposit themselves in your head for days, and hooks big enough to make Sandy Koufax jealous. And it's all powered by Liam Gallagher, the then-24-year-old lead singer whose signature snarl simply plowed over anything that stood in the way. A powerhouse vocal performance that remains transcedent to this day.

So yeah, a lot of things have changed since I was 17. And while I've had some regrets in the 10 years since -- living off a credit card, dating idiots, buying the Zwan album -- loving Be Here Now, warts and all, will never be one of them. I can turn it on and instantly remember being in the backseat of that beat-up LeSabre hearing a collection of songs that changed my life.

Hmm ... maybe it was my Sgt. Pepper after all.

All hail the Queen of Glycerine

2007-04-12T17:51:00.000-07:00

You probably spend more time doing nothing than you realize. I know I do.

The list of what constitutes "doing nothing" is surely vast. I count surfing the Internet, watching syndicated court programs and supporting "grass roots" political candidates as just a few. Sleep isn't factored into this equation, because when you slumber you're actually resting your mind and body. This is necessary for another long day of B.O.-laced subways, overpriced coffee and tepid Sanjaya jokes.

Naturally, this brings me to Gwen Stefani. While killing time recently, I found myself on the popular video sharing Web site, YouTube. For reasons unknown, I gravitated towards Mrs. Gavin Rossdale ... I must have had a hankering for confessional offerings by blondes in flowing blue sun dresses. After watching several clips, I came to the conclusion that most every heterosexual American male does. That being, Gwen Stefani is pretty damn perfect looking.

But that wasn't all.

I also realized that the Orange County-bred singer has a far more important place in modern American culture than most people realize. And that is this: Gwen Stefani, without anyone really noticing, has become the queen of Generation Y.

Stefani was born in 1969, making her 37 years old and a chronological member of Generation X. But her cultural rise -- beginning in 1995 with No Doubt's 15 million-selling Tragic Kingdom and cresting 10 years later with the worldwide success of "Hollaback Girl" and accompaning solo album Love. Angel. Music. Baby. -- made her an institution for many before between 1978 and 1982.

This is not to say that you must be a huge Gwen Stefani fan to agree with this assessment. I own a ND greatest hits package and several of Stefani's solo singles on my iPod, but I would hardly classify myself as a diehard fan. It's more about respecting the fact that artist's have been chewed up and spit up in a quarter of the time that Stefani has been in the spotlight.

And if you disagree with placing her at Gen Y's throne, who do you submit in her place? Over the past 12 years, no woman in entertainment has remained more culturally relevant. She has the entire package -- musical chops, a large and diverse fanbase, her own fashion line, a high-profile marriage and, of course, that whole stunning beauty thing. She's a once in a generation talent, and sometimes I don't know if this is fully appreciated by the general public.

Of course, the you can make the claim that the crown was handed to Stefani by default -- this was Britney Spears' title to lose, and she surely did just that. This won't be disputed. But if Britney's stunning fall from grace illustrated anything (other than provide fair warning not to marry dirtbags, do drugs and have babies in succession), it was that this global spotlight business is slippery stuff. While others have tumbled (Brit-Brit), faded from view (Alanis) or were eventually exposed as one-dimensional prisms (Jessica), Stefani has soldiered on with grace.

So I guess this is my way of saying thank you, Gwen. The queen deserves proper respect.

It's only rock 'n' roll (but I like it)

2007-03-29T21:19:00.001-07:00

I grew up in a home where I heard four musical artists almost exclusively throughout my formative years. I'm not even remotely kidding about this. Two of them -- horrific freak crooner Barry Manilow and 70s folk siren Carley Simon -- were Mom favorites that I successfully managed to tune out before permanent damage could be done. The other two were the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. You may have heard of them.

There is a popular theory about the latter two super groups that I happen to put a lot of faith into. It goes something like this: Everyone in the world can be divided into one of two categories. You're either a "Stones Person" -- which amounts to a kind of free-wheeling, outgoing and impulsive extrovert type -- or you're a "Beatles Person" -- a slightly more introspective and thoughtful brand of human, free in mind, body and spirit. Of course, I'm not sure you can divide all people like this -- it's doubtful a suicide bomber on the Gaza Strip is likely to side with either Mick or Macca on matters of the heart -- but it holds true more often than not.

The beauty of this breakdown is that you don't have to be a fan of either group to be part of this study -- although it's a serious red flag to me if you don't like at least some tunes by either band. I mean, c'mon. Not sure what category you fall into? Luckily I have a simple and effective test to determine just that.

Listen to the The Beatles' "Let It Be" -- off the 1970 album of the same name -- and the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" -- off 1969's Let It Bleed. I mean really listen to them. Dissect the lyrics, soak in the melodies, get lost in the atmosphere. Which of these songs grab you first? Which one changes the temperature of the room? When you figure that out, you have your answer.

A closer look at the two songs helps to explain why. The menace in Mick Jagger's voice is palpable in "Gimme Shelter," telling the story of a dark cultural acopolyse that's "just a shot away" with the opposite spectrum of love and peace "just a kiss away." It's a chaotic world teetering on the brink. The lyric and melody cuts a direct correlation into the unpredictable nature of a Stones Person.

"Let It Be," written and sung by Paul McCartney, is a deeply personal gospel-like tune with a theme centering on the loss of a love in your life and how that figure endures as you move on. That's how I hear it anyway. Over a soft piano intro, Macca croons, "When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom ... Let it be." I've never written a song, but just typing that made me jealous. I can only imagine how the lead singer of Hinder feels. Upon closer review, the vulnerable nature of "Let It Be" draws a connection to the dreamy and reflective nature of the Beatles Person.

Personally speaking, I think deep down I always wanted to be a Stones Person at heart, but in the end I became a product of Beatlemania ... with sprinkles of Keith Richards. You can't choose where you end up. It's in your DNA.

Now you may be inclined to ask, "Hey Dan, ye of the shocking social insight, steep intellect, generous looks, and incredibly large hands, can a Beatles/Stones love combo make it in the longterm?"

The answer is ... yes. In fact, the argument can be made that Beatles/Stones combinations make the best partners, as the relationship will be more dynamic and encompassing in scope. The worst all-Beatles pairings can develop into that boring married and/or engaged couple (you know who they are) who watch "The Ghost Whisperer" on Friday nights and attend way more garage sales than common logic should dictate. On the flipside, two Stones people gone bad can be mired in one of those explosive relationships where the couple basically do two things: Fight and fuck. This is entertaining at first to outsiders (hilarious even), but it grows old ... quickly.

That said, it's important to note that all Stones People are not whiskey-guzzling, smack-shooting, mass impregnators and walking semen dumpsters. Nor or all Beatles People stoner hippies, bizarre zealots, and doughy peaceniks. Let's try to keep that in mind.

Chances are, you've dated both Beatles People and Stones People. Think back to your ex's and I'm sure you can divide them right now without much of a problem. Hopefully, a pattern emerges. Your more lasting relationships will likely fall into one category or the other. Remember that in the future as you navigate the Highway of Musical Love (it's Exit 12 off the Hutch).

And with that, I'm going to grab a Gatorade and watch some bad Court TV murder mystery programming. I'll discuss the devasting effects of Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits tomorrow. Until then, let it be.

Yeah, I'm a Beatles guy all the way.

Perverted Justice, indeed

2007-03-28T20:55:00.000-07:00

Chris Hansen's got balls, I'll give him that.

As an avid fan of Dateline NBC's wildly successful To Catch A Predator series, I can tell you that Hansen -- who on the surface looks like your typical blandly handsome network newsman -- knows nothing in the ways of fear.

On each Predator installment -- and I believe there have been roughly 312 of them at this point -- Hansen comfronts another sorry bastard sick enough to want to hit skins with kids and dumb enough to try to meet them in their homes to do it. The pedophiles come in all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds, and Hansen treats each of them like they just shot his dog and dragged it through town. Hansen gleefully reads the damning chat transcripts to the horrified men, graphic dialogues that torpedo any possible alibi. Again, Hansen is positively giddy as he does this. Sometimes it seems a bit like piling on to me -- 90 percent of the dudes realize that their lives are, for all intents and purposes, over as this is happening -- but then I remember these guys like to do children. This typically sterilizes my sense of pity.

Now here's where Chris Hansen's blandly handsome balls come in. In the segment's infancy, this sting operation was like shooting fish in barrel. But now the pervs know the score. It's discussed in chat rooms (this has been reported, I don't know firsthand). And as has been proven in several instances, many of these men are armed and dangerous. One man had an army supply store in his trunk when he was arrested, another -- a shamed Texas politician -- barricated himself in his home before putting a slug into his head. That's one way to evade prison.

Is it just me, or is Hansen putting himself in serious harm's way each time he agrees to do another one of these programs? Maybe it's worth it for him, he is infinitely more famous now and he even has a book coming out about his experiences. Maybe in a business where everyone looks the same, journalistic risks are almost impertative to separate yourself from the pack . Maybe that's part of the reason Bob Woodruff has a dent in his head.

Bottom line is, I don't want Chris Hansen to get picked off by some pervert. It's good to have people like Chris Hansen around. In fact, if I ever find myself face-to-face with, say, a rabid grizzly bear, I want Chris Hansen by my side.

(Chris Hansen -- dressed in an impeccable suit and sporting perfectly-coiffed sandy blonde hair -- steps in between me and savage beast of nature. I have no explanation how this scenario presented itself.)

Chris Hansen: "Why don't you take a seat right there."

Grizzly bear: (Stunned, stammering) "This isn't what it looks like, I wasn't going to ..."

CH: "Wasn't going to what? Tear my friend Dan limb from limb and then eat his flesh?"

GB: "Nooooo ... I just wanted to talk to him."

CH: "That's not what this chat log says."

GB: "Fuck."

Don't let me down, Jack

2007-03-27T20:13:00.000-07:00

As an American, I watch a lot of TV. It's pretty ordinary behavior. I'm a consumer. I consume. And let it be known that I don't discriminate in my viewing habits. I love a great movie or TV show (Shawshank Redemption, Arrested Development) as much as an awful one (Masters of the Universe, Step By Step). I'm no snob.

And in all this time watching entertainment good and bad, I've learned that there are only two things that I cannot bear to witness. One, I can't deal with people getting framed. This is torture. I just sit there like a madman blasting the local law enforcement for their obvious shortcomings in character judgement and crime detection and it saps all of the enjoyment out of it for me. Second, I abhor when pets or retarded people are killed. This is just uncalled for. In fact, if you know of a television program or motion picture that involves a mentally handicapped person being framed for murder who is then executed along with his loyal dog (this may or may not have been the plot of The Chronicles of Riddick), please alert me immediately so that I can take the proper steps to avoid it.

I bring this up because Monday's episode of 24 featured a mentally-challenged computer wizard (I know, I'm stumped, too) named Brady who looked like dead meat fo' sure. I mean, in any given episode of 24, 13 to 10,000 people have their lives come to a violent end, and it didn't seem like poor ol' Brady even had a chance. His brain was weak in matters not involving HTML code, he kept on complaining about red peppers, and he was (without his knowledge) involved in business with nefarious terrorist-type characters that included his own brother. Playboy was getting iced in my mind. I didn't think there was any doubt about it.

Seeing as the Kiefer Sutherland-powered thriller is one of my favorite shows on TV, you can understand I was torn. Should I change the channel? If I do, will I miss another poorly-acted scene by President Palmer that will reveal a pivotal plot point? And what if I miss another scene involving Ricky Schroder? WHAT IF I MISS ANOTHER SCENE INVOLVING RICKY SCHRODER! I don't even want to think about that. (chills)

So I decided to stick with it, and luckily, Brady survived the hour by the slimmest of margins. But he's not out of the woods yet. Not by a longshot. Jack Bauer promised to personally ensure his safety, typically a guaranteed death knell for any character on the show. For further reading, please see every woman that Jack has ever bonerjammed with since 2001. It's a graveyard of bitches, yo.

So now 24 takes on a new identity for me. While you worry about whether or not the Western seaboard will be destoyed, or if the evil vice president who looks like my fourth-grade teacher is going to start a nuclear war, I'm going to be focused on the physical well-being of my new friend Brady.

And you thought he was the retarded one.

A tribute to an overlooked soul

2007-03-26T19:45:00.000-07:00

So I'm not sure if you've heard, but Anna Nicole Smith died a little while back. She was a Playboy playmate and actress, and she married a billionaire who died because he was incredibly old and weathered. And now she's dead, too. I suppose they're together now, if you believe in Jesus and angels and harps and stuff like that.

Apparently, she had a substance abuse problem. I surmise this because a medical examiner announced today that Smith was on seven different medications when she accidentally overdosed. How could those close to her let her spiral so far out of control? I mean six prescriptions ... fine. But seven? Unacceptable.

Geez, I really hope you know who this woman was. You may or may not have masturbated to her likeness in Skyscraper, a 1997 erotic thriller that aired after 2 a.m. every Saturday night on Cinemax until Y2K hit. Hoity-toity film buffs thought it was laughable that Anna played a scientist in the movie. I thought it was pretty awesome.

Is she still not ringing a bell? OK. She was in the third Naked Gun movie that everybody saw but nobody remembers, and she had a short-lived reality show on E! that co-starred Howard Stern.

No, no. Not that Howard Stern. This is a different guy. This Howard Stern is kind of a swarthy fellow, a lawyer I believe. There is speculation that he may or may not be a serial killer. I'm pretty much terrified of him.

So yeah, Anna Nicole Smith is dunzo. I think she was a real talent and more people should be aware of her untimely passing. Tell all your friends. America deserves to know.

Drew Barrymore, Gray Sweaters, and the Intricacies of the Female Mind

2007-03-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

I have a job that is probably unlike yours. I can give a million reasons why this is so, but for the purposes of this story I'll only say that everyone in my office wears blue jeans and has a 12-inch television with cable capabilites sitting on their desk. Obviously, these two perks are kind of rad.

I sit across from a girl at said job I call Kiki. Kiki is not her real name and she says she doesn't like it, which I surmise is why I address her as such. She is tall and thin, has fairly prodigious red hair and was apparently a highly decorated volleyball player during George W. Bush's first adminstration. She plays something like 393 instruments and has a bizzare vendetta to bring down talk show host Rachael Ray. I know no one else in the world like Kiki.

We also disagree on just about everything. Kiki calls me an idiot at least once a day for being sexist, or insulting, or both, which I never get mad at because 80 percent of the time she is probably correct. The advantage of this clashing of opinions is that it leads to some pretty interesting discussions -- sassy "he said-she said" exchanges not unlike low-grossing George Clooney-Michelle Pheiffer romantic comedies from 1996.

On Sunday, I was working on my computer when I received an instant message from Kiki telling me that her "favorite bad movie from high school" was on. My interest was immediately piqued, being a scavenger of all things culturally relevant from the preceding decade. My remote soon found its way to Comedy Central, which was airing the 1999 Drew Barrymore-vehicle Never Been Kissed. Having previously seen the film in theaters with a old girlfriend, I immediately explained to Kiki that I took umbrage with the premise of the picture.

"This movie is bullshit," I protested via the powers of AIM. "I know Drew wasn't looking her best here, but there's no way she wouldn't have been laid (let alone kissed!) by the time she was 25 or whatever. She was foxy and had BOMBS."

Though it was clear she was trying to suppress laughter, Kiki apparently didn't believe that mammary glands should be likened to explosives.

"You are a pig."

Kiki then told me that the best part of the movie was on the horizon.

"The gray sweater is coming up."

"Huh?"

"Michael Vartan is going to come onto the baseball field to kiss Drew Barrymore and he's going to be wearing a gray sweater."

Apparently, the outerware of the former Alias star and Jennifer Garner paramour had caused quite a stir in the mind of Kiki and another female friend of hers. To me, Vartan appeared to be wearing fairly standard v-neck garb. What was I missing here?

And that's when I realized Never Been Kissed is female pornography.

por·nog·ra·phy (pôr-nŏg'rə-fē) Pronunciation Key
n.

Sexually explicit pictures, writing, or other material whose primary purpose is to cause sexual arousal.

It all made sense! When the handsome and kind Sam Coulson (Vartan) walks onto the baseball field to kiss the sweet and relatable Josie Gellar (Barrymore), every woman watching begins to fantasize. The scene is especially effective in that the film fades to black immediately afterwards -- leaving the female audience to picture their own happy ending -- the marriage, the house in Westchester, the four kids, etc. I call this the "crack ending" in a chick flick, because 90 percent of women can't get enough of it and they'll always come back for more. This is why Matthew McConaughey owns a $10 million ranch in Texas.

To me, Hollywood romantic comedies and San Fernando pornographic films are far more similar than people realize. They both illicit more-or-less the same response in terms of their target audiences. They just take different routes to get there. In the end, they get people off, in their own unique way. The two industries may share little in common on the surface, but at the end of the day they are delivering the same fantasy-based message to the brains of their respective demographics.

I see no difference between Michael Vartan's sweater and Jenna Jameson's vagina.

"What are you talking about? That makes no sense," Kiki responds, writing off my theories as the rantings of a madman. "You're being an idiot."

Like I said, 80 percent the time she is probably correct. This time she is not.

Fall Out Boy: "Infinity on High"

2007-02-07T12:40:00.000-08:00

For Fall Out Boy fans, the initial inspection of “Infinity on High” — the group’s fifth studio album and first since their 2005 multi-platinum breakthrough “From Under the Cork Tree” — will likely produce a huge sigh of relief. Rest easy, Wentzites. The group has not grown beards. They make no public response to the war in Iraq. Their increased production budget did not beget a strings section.

In other words, they haven’t gone off and gotten all damn serious on us. Bassist Pete Wentz is still writing songs about girls, and singer Patrick Stump is still composing and delivering those confessional offerings with all the passion of a crushed teenage boy alone at home on the 14th of February.

This is, of course, a good thing. We Americans have a soft spot for such simplicity in our pop music. There’s nothing wrong with songs about Saturday night. And while Wentz’s public image and the group’s considerable popularity amongst the teen set make FOB a polarizing entity, it should be noted that they may be smarter than they’re given credit for. “Infinity on High” is the sound of a band seizing their moment in the cultural spotlight and running towards it, not away. And while there might not be anything as instantly gratifying as “Dance Dance” or “Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down,” there is certainly enough over the 14 tracks and 48 minutes to warrant repeat listens.

Take the first single from “Infinity,” “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arm Race,” a pounding three-and-a-half minute romp that starts out like an old-school R&B jam before thrusting into a chorus that’ll deposit itself in your head. Throw in a Justin Timberlake-inspired call and answer break before the final chorus, and you have yourself a well-earned hit single.

FOB are clearly disciples of the Primitive Radio Gods school of unwieldy song titles, culminating in the album’s highpoint, “I’m Like a Lawyer with the Way I’m Always Trying to Get You Off (Me & You).” Unfortunate moniker aside, “Lawyer” hits on all cylinders with a bouncy verse segueing into a catchy-as-hell chorus. Other album highlights include the high energy “Thanks For The Memories,” charging “The Carpel Tunnel of Love,” and hand-clap sing-along “Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?”

A superfluous drop-in by label mate Jay-Z (“Thriller”), obligatory yawn-inducing ballad (“Golden”), and some softness on the back end keeps “Infinity” earth bound, but by then the album has already proved its worth. This is pop music for the 21st century listener—clean, catchy, and infinitely accessible. And while it can be speculated on whether FOB’s hordes of “TRL” devotees will follow them as they evolve, it’s impossible to deny that they admirably represent their place in time.

Dan Hanzus is a freelance writer based in New York City. He can be reached at dhanzus@gmail.com.

A U2 diary from the future

2007-01-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

Through the power of time travel – the scientific details of which can be neither divulged or even referenced to from this point onward – I have navigated to the year 2026 to witness and report on an event that will captivate the imagination of the world … and, no doubt, countless supporters of a little band out of Dublin, Ireland.

It’s finally here. The night we’ve all been waiting for. The hibachi is packed, the cooler is stocked and the car has a full tank of gas. Turn up the music, and buckle your seatbelt because it’s June 22, 2026 – U2’s 50th anniversary tour has finally hit Jersey!

An occasion of this magnitude must be documented for historians:

4:17 – We are on the road, making the voyage to East Rutherford, NJ. Our solar-powered car must pull to side of the road when some cloud cover rolls into the area, but it quickly dissipates and our journey resumes. While waiting, we listen to U2’s latest album, Man, the group’s first new recording since Bono announced at a New Year’s Eve concert in 2010 that the band needed to “go away and dream it all up again … again.” We agree that the first seven tracks of the album are excellent, the last four not so much. “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” my brother winningly prods from the back seat.

4:54 – We glide into the parking orb and find an ideal spot close (but not too close) to the port-o-potties. We lament the lack of progress of the portable restroom in the last 20 years, which still smells like human waste mixed with a month-old chicken lo mein. As expected, U2’s Man Tour draws a more, ahem, veteran crowd; there are an inordinate amount of gray-haired men with ponytails and middle-aged women wearing fanny packs. The crowd does skew young in some areas of the lot, assumedly do to the success of Man’s first single, which is the theme song of a particularly popular CW teen drama starring Suri Cruise and the cryogenically-frozen head of her father.

5:45 – While we soak in the celebratory atmosphere, we discuss why we think the band decided to come back after all this time away from the road. Some think Edge’s new marriage to a fortune teller has something to do with it, while others speculate Bono needs the money, having squandered much of his fortune on an ill-advised theme park in central Africa. On Interference.com (still the preeminent source for all U2 news and information!), it is reported that Adam needs money to pay his staggering medical bills since getting back together with tempestuous former supermodel Naomi Campbell. We all pretty much agree that Larry’s doing it because he likes to play drums.

7:55 – We enter the building just in time to catch the tail end of opening act Oasis Starship, which features a weathered-looking Liam Gallagher and four unknown backing musicians. I am told later that Noel sued his brother several years earlier upon his departure from the group, forcing the alteration in the band’s moniker. Anyway, “Acquiesce” was enjoyable.

9:00 – The house lights dim and anticipation builds to a near fever pitch as U2 are about to make their first metropolitan area appearance since the Hillary Clinton administration. The stage setup combines all of the elements of past U2 tours. There are white flags, video walls, Trabants, giant golden arches, disco lemon mirror balls, beaded curtains, and two separate catwalks -- one in an egg contour and another in a heart shape. There is also a b-stage somewhere in the parking lot, which puzzles us from a logistical standpoint.

9:05 – One by one, the band appears to thunderous applause. The Edge has finally embraced his baldness, eschewing his signature skull cap in favor of a more natural “rich-man’s Phil Collins” look. Adam – his arm in a sling after serving the wrong flavored tea to Naomi earlier in the week – is reduced to a silver-haired cheerleader, but the crowd loves him anyway. We all agree – even the men in our group – that Larry is still pretty damned good-looking.

9:10 – After what seems like an eternity, Bono finally appears stage left. Oddly, the B-Man looks exactly the same as he did 20 years ago, to the point that it’s almost creepy. One considerable difference is that he has grown back his mullet from the Unforgettable Fire days, a hairstyle that has improbably regained its standing in popular culture in recent years. One interesting note: Bono seems to have a halo over his head at all times. Seated in the upper deck, I cannot decipher whether this is a special effect or an actual luminous ring of splendor. The crowd is strangely unaffected by this – assumedly because they wouldn’t be surprised by either reality.

9:53 – What a glorious return for Dublin’s finest! The band is in fine form. Bono is levitating – literally levitating – around the arena with nary a lifted eyebrow from the crowd. The Edge hasn’t lost a beat, his guitar shimmering and shining like his uncovered cranium. Adam is working keyboards with his good arm and Paul McGuiness Jr. has managed to track down the roadie from the ’93 ZooTV Sydney show to handle bass duties. Larry has yet to smile, but seems largely content.

10:40 – The band is breaking out the big guns tonight. After Bono gives a rambling speech about the kingdom of heaven and the scent of the top of a newborn baby’s head, 77-year-old Bruce Springsteen is beamed live via satellite from a Belmar, NJ rest home for a touching acoustic duet with Bono of “Satellite of Love” segueing into “Jersey Girl.” The crowd bellows, “BRUUUUUUUUCE,” which Springsteen acknowledges before diving into his second serving of tapioca.

11:06 – The band rips into a rocking rendition of the classic rock staple, “Vertigo,” before Bono admits to the crowd that he just found out that the English translation of “catorce” was 14. “What do you think of that The Edge!” Bono yelps while gesturing wildly, as the rest of the band shares a smirk, seemingly aware of the faux pas all along.

11:20 – U2 launches into an epic performance of “Where the Streets Have No Name,” with backing vocals from a deep and booming voice from above which everybody agrees is definitely not coming from the sound system. Bono then gives a 38-minute speech on why his African theme park failed (there were apparently “overhead” issues), before closing the show with a tender rendition of “One” – featuring a helping hand from an alarmingly rotund Mary J. Blige, clearly now in the Aretha Franklin stage of her career.

11:31 – Bono levitates out of the building during “40” and the rest of the band brings a truly epic show to a close. As we head to the car, “Howwww lonnnng, must we sing thiiiis song?” echoes through the parking lot and we all pretty much agree that forever is the right answer.

Frankly, I’m convinced Bono might be able to make this happen.

Take me to St. Looie ...

2007-01-16T12:27:00.000-08:00

Tonight I come to you live from a St. Louis airport where I am deep into a delay caused by poor weather conditions on the East coast. Ironically, my incoming flight to Missouri – which was business related, me not being one to take the metaphorical imagery of a giant steel arch too seriously – was delayed (then cancelled!) as well. Now, I’m no Sam Champion (being neither a weatherman nor latently homosexual) but I’m pretty sure that my flight issues on Friday and then Monday were caused by the same weather system that rolled through the Great Plains and into the New York metropolitan area at a rate that improbably managed to perfectly sync up to my individual travel plans. Obviously, this was fucking awesome luck.

They should make a movie about me where Shooter McGavin looks deep into the camera and utters gravely, “This is another … perfect storm.” I cannot foresee a scenario where this doesn’t make more money than a Justin Timberlake suburban gang biopic.

So yeah, me bitching about my life in real time and then sending it up to the Internet for public digestion makes me almost like a real-life “blogger.” This is unchartered territory for sure. Pretty soon, I’ll be adding superfluous links to my text and people will start leaving comments that aren’t about penis-enlargement medications or weight loss/anti-depressant hybrid pharmaceuticals. This could be the beginning of something big.

(FAST FORWARD 20 MINUTES. AFTER A TWO-HOUR DELAY, DAN HAS BEEN INSTRUCTED TO BOARD AEROPLANE. DAN PUTS AWAY LAPTOP, GRABS TOM PETTY BIOGRAPHY AND SETTLES INTO SEAT FOR TRIP HOME. THE RESIDENT ANGRY BLACK STEWARDESS THEN ALERTS ALREADY EDGY PASSENGERSHIP THAT AEROPLANE WILL NOW TAXI FOR 120 ADDITIONAL MINUTES. DAN WONDERS INTERNALLY WHY HE WAS BOARDED IN THE FIRST PLACE AND ALSO IF GOD EXISTS. ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, THE MUSIC FILTERING OUT OF THE SPEAKERS OF CONTINENTAL FLIGHT 2521 IS THE THEME FROM KARATE KID II. THAT’S THE ONE IN JAPAN WHERE THE GUY PLEDGES REVENGE ON MYAGI FOR STEALING HIS GIRL LIKE 70 YEARS AFTER THE FACT AND DANIEL-SAN NAILS SOME HOMELY LOCAL THAT ISN’T A QUARTER AS HOT AS ELISABETH SHUE. IT WAS DUMB.)

The St. Louis airport – I don’t know its name although I’m sure it has one – is very, very low key when compared to the JFK, La Guardia or Newark Liberty (which pretty much seems to be the case throughout the country.) The lines are shorter, the ceilings are lower, the lights are darker, the security guards less dickey. I feel like an airport says a lot about its city; it’s representative in a way. And that’s the case here. I also saw a cop on a Segueway, which was pretty much the highlight of my weekend. I wasn’t here long enough to make a judgment either way, but I’ll give you some quick hits about St. Louis before I go.

-- It’s cold as ballz
-- They love their Cardinals at a level difficult to fathom
-- Some people have accents, some don’t and there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it
-- My cab driver gave me some great info about the area’s recent history (ALWAYS pick the brain of your cab driver about a new city you’re in … they love that shit and you’ll learn something.) If he doesn’t speak English, feel free to be silent and continue thinking he’s a terrorist
-- The arch thing is actually stainless steel (I think) and people carve stuff into the base of it, something I found surprising.
-- Nelly was there … in spirit
-- I don’t think they get VH-1
-- Did I mention I saw a cop on a Segueway?

Okay, my plane’s about to take off, although it’s kind of snowing now. This is turning into some real Richie Valens “La Bamba” shit. Looking forward to heading back … the one thing I keep taking out of these visits to different American cities is how great my hometown actually is. Take me home, country roads.

Don't look back in anger

2006-12-22T11:25:00.000-08:00

I've reached a stage in my life where I've started to feel old. I have gray hairs. It takes me more than a single orange Gatorade to bounce back from a hangover. The fact that a band calls itself "Panic! At The Disco" and nobody has even the slightest problem with this mystifies me. I also wish those rotten kids would just get off my damn porch already.

But when my buddy sent me this link yesterday with the joking IM accompaniment, "We're changing our New Year's plans," I nearly keeled over. On Dec. 31st, the Mom-rock vehicle Jack FM will host the "Orange County New Year's Eve" concert in southern California. At first I figured it wasn't a big deal, radio stations have Jingle Ball-type soirees all the time during the holiday season. But this concert was different. Surreal, even.

Everclear. Soul Asylum. JR Richards of Dishwalla. A graveyard of 90s alt-rock acts, forgotten and presumed dead since the end of the Clinton administration. The artists that provided the soundtrack of my youth now bunched together with touring 80s washouts like Blondie, Brett Michaels of Poison, Berlin and Thomas Dolby. You're telling me that Dave Pirner -- the same guy who wrote "Runaway Train" AND routinely saw Winona Ryder completely naked -- is performing on a bill with the "She Blinded Me with Science" guy? Really?

There was a time when being a youth of the 90s separated you from the lameness of the 80s teens. You were relevent. They were cheesy. Your music -- your culture -- mattered. They were old, you were young. But now 44-year-old Art Alexakis is playing low-level music festivals to climb out of bankruptcy; singing "Santa Monica" with a group of nameless backing musicians and you're wondering where the time went. "Watch the world die" indeed.

I guess this is the natural progression of things. You don't really appreciate being young and part of the culture that accompanies it until it's gone. One second you're 16, and the next thing you know you're out of college with a crap job, a pile of student loans and credit card bills and you're thinking, "This used to be much less complicated." I grew up in a time where bands like Live, Counting Crows, Oasis, Third Eye Blind, Stone Temple Pilots, Semisonic and the Wallflowers were young and vibrant entities. They sounded great, and more importantly, they meant something to you, no matter how silly that might seem in retrospect.

Now, most of these bands are footnotes in history. Many were dropped by their record labels when buffoons like Fred Durst and Jonathan Davis desecended upon the scene with "nu metal" in the late 90s, taking up so much of the musical landscape with their mindless clatter that nothing was left for the popular culture they displaced.

Some of these groups would catch on with independent labels or put out albums on their own, but the writing was already on the wall. Their time in the spotlight had passed. Faced with the pride-swallowing notion of playing in front of a dozen people in a club less than a decade after playing to thousands in arenas, most bands don't make it. Bands point fingers at themselves, their management, the record labels that won't support them. It's usually just a matter of time before the in-fighting consumes them.

The ones that survive do so at all costs, and that's why events like the Orange County New Year's Eve bash exist. They serve a purpose, and there are just enough loyal fans and nostalgia hounds to make it work on both ends. If you want, you can look at this doggedness not to just quit and move on as sad -- and in a way you may be right. But you can also see it for what it truly is ... bands and individuals who love to play music and are willing to suffer any indignity to do it forever. There's a nobility to that in my opinion.

So a little more than a week from now, the Dishwalla guy will step up to a mic on a small b-stage, plug in his guitar and tell a bunch of Laguna Beach soccer moms all his thoughts on God. I'll be 3,000 miles away, but you can bet your Doc Martens I'll be thinking of my friends from the 1990s as I move on to 2007.

Where have you gone Jakob Dylan? An Alternative Nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

My blog is alive, but does it truly live?

2006-11-30T20:43:00.000-08:00

When you have a Web log that you update on a, ahem, irregular basis, you tend to find yourself thinking of that old falling tree/empty forest/did it fall? proverb. "Am I really writing 1,000 words on the Counting Crows to no one inparticular?"

The worst part is when you finally get a comment, someone who actually appreciates your smart and witty offerings to the general public. Could it be a publisher, seduced by your siren call? An old girlfriend that has finally realized the error of her ways? Adam Duritz, lead singer of '90s rock act, Counting Crows? The answer, sadly, is always no. If I'm lucky, it's typically some douchey blog surfer calling me an idiot. Or some dude trying to sell a thousand beepers by midnight. -- I really like your blog. Would you like to buy 1,000 beepers? CLICK HERE!

A blog is like a relationship. If you don't take care of it, it will go away. Actually, it doesn't go away, it's relevance does. Wait, your saying my blog isn't relevant? Well fuck you too, Sasquatch.

ANYWAY, the producers of "Law & Order: Criminal Intent" may know how I'm feeling. As you probably know, NBC has spawned 144 spinoffs of L&O. This has led to two realities: a) a bi-weekly six digit paycheck for a guy that unironically calls himself Ice-T and b) the end of the world -- which is being brought on by reality a).

I transferred to Northeastern University in Boston in 2000, where I proceeded to not get laid a lot for a calendar year. In that time of involuntary celibacy, I watched the original "Law & Order" quite regularly. The late Jerry Orbach was a masterful man, and he was joined by the fiercely foxy Angie Harmon (who apparently exists only in theory these days, assumedly due to her starring role in "Good Advice," a straight-to-video Chaz Sheen vehicle detonated upon the public in 2001). So my roommate at the time would strum his guitar and smoke tons of weed -- he kept his reefer in ziplock bags with orange peels for "fresh" purposes -- and we'd comment on Angie's skirts and admire Orbach's ability to not give a fuck about "proper police protocol." RIP, Jerry.

My bout with forced-celibacy did not last forever. The tremendously inconsequentional downside to this was losing touch with L&O. But when I saw a commercial for a "very special" Law & Order: Criminal Intent with guest star Michelle Trachtenberg last week, I was back in. I find Trachtenberg oddly sexy. She kind of gives off that, "I'm batshit insane, which is very bad in some ways but very good in others" vibe, and I'm into that. And since the premise of the episode revolved around her playing a popular video blogger who is kidnapped and held for ransom online, I was intrigued.

I don't want to overstate this, but this was the greatest show I've ever seen. I shit you not. I'm now going to type a plot synopsis without slowing down for the next six minutes. If it doesn't make sense, I apologize:

So Trach and her live-in bf get kidnapped during a live Web cam posting ... only they're not really kidnapped, it's an elaborate hoax ... or IS IT? Chris Noth aka Mr. Big is on the case hardcore, his big penis swinging from Manhattan to Elmira trying to crack the shit. A mousy redhead detective is also with him, presumably because of his large genitals. Trach's bf's ear is cut off by the kidnappers live to an assumedly petrified online audience, so us viewers are all like, "Well hell yeah, this is real, go get the bastards Mr. Big!" But NO, the fake kidnappers cut off the bf's ear to make the kidnapping look more realistic! They cut the dude's ear off for EFFECT! TREMENDOUS! It's a hoax to get ransom money via online donations from readers of Trach's vid blog! Trach's in on it too! So is the dude who's ear was cut off! DEDICATION MY FRIENDS! Long story short, one of the faux-kidnappers gets accidentally iced in a staged gunfight (he was killed with a slug, The Crow stizz) and Trach's bf ends up getting sentenced to a lifetime term in a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison. On top of that, somehow Trach gets the money -- I'm foggy on how this happened legally -- and she moves to Hollywood, but not before she does a sitdown with Larry King (CAMEO!) which Big and his mousy partner watch on a giant screen in Times Square, which OF COURSE symbolizes that Trach became what she always wanted to be ... A STAR. Roll credits.

Anyway, since I watched this alone, I was hoping someone in cyberspace also saw this incredible episode and will chime in on it. I'm officially using my blog for conversation purposes. I will now go to Duane Reed to buy a bottle of poison.

NFL, Week 1: Change is overrated

2006-09-12T12:59:00.000-07:00

As I was taking in the action of Week 1 of the NFL season on Sunday, I suddenly realized why football – a punishing game of bone-crushing brutality and barbaric strength – brings me so much inner-peace every year without fail. In a life of perpetual uncertainty, the National Football League is a supreme constant. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever will.

Peyton Manning will have a commercial that I will find kind of amusing, even if I’m supposed to hate him like everyone else. Chris Collinsworth will talk down to me at a head-scratching level that will fill my soul with glorious anger. Someone in the studio will call James Brown “JB”, and I’ll think for a moment that racism has infiltrated the halftime telecast.

Dick Vermeil will cry, Herm Edwards will botch a two-minute drill, and sideline shots of Mike Martz will make you want to punch him in his pompous face. Brett Favre will look old and weathered, Michael Vick will disappoint you, and Terrell Owens will remind you why he can be a complete jackass as he carries your fantasy team week after week.

Jeremy Shockey will get more publicity than he deserves, someone will ask Troy Aikman about concussions, and Suzy Kolber’s undeniable friskiness will make you empathize with Joe Namath all over again. Bob Costas will be short on HBO, Shannon Sharpe will be unintelligible on CBS, and Terry Bradshaw will laugh too hard at something that isn’t really that funny on FOX.

One of your top three fantasy picks will blow out his knee, Bill Cowher will inadvertently spit all over his players while delivering a pep talk, and you will marvel how Drew Bledsoe is still in the league. Dan Marino will have a vague look that he has no idea what’s going on around him, Tom Jackson will remind you of Panthro from ThunderCats, and you will see John Madden’s gray hair accented by burnt orange eyebrows and ask your nearest buddy, “Has he always looked like that?”

The Jets will blow a game they have no business losing, the Patriots will win a game they have no business winning, and Lions fans will wish Wayne Fontz would just come back to them, like a siren call to a special lover who left too soon.

All these things will happen this year, and they’ll happen again the next, but it will never become even remotely tiresome. I will watch from September to February, and you’ll do the same, and then we’ll count down the days to do it again when the calendar turns over.

Football brings me peace. Nothing ever changes. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A matter of death and near-death

2006-07-04T21:53:00.001-07:00

The way I look at it, everyone will almost die at least once.

If this hasn’t happened to you yet, it will. If it has happened already, it may happen again. If it’s happened to you two or more times, and you’re still reading this Web log and are presumably, well, alive, then my best advice is not to ever watch the Final Destination movie trilogy. No one wants to learn that their fate is sealed from Devon Sawa.

I’m pretty sure that I’ve already almost died once. It was April Fool’s Day 2005, and I was driving on the Palisades Interstate Parkway on my way to work. Rumbling around a bend at 60-mph, I couldn’t see that some nature-loving dickface 200 yards in front of me had come to a complete stop in the passing lane of the highway to allow a grouping of Canadian geese cross the roadway. I shit you not. I slammed on my brakes, stopping just in time. The guy behind me didn’t – plowing into me from behind. My Honda Accord was completely totaled, the trunk now residing in my backseat. Somehow, I came out of the accident completely unscathed. Nevertheless, it sucked and I definitely, almost died.

I’m not alone with this car thing. My bet is that the majority of people’s near death experiences come via the roadway. Cars are scary machines, if you think about it. But there are other ways that I, and presumably you, could have and still may die, or almost die. I was watching Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime the other day, and some college frat boy from the 80s got drunk with his friends one night in Pennsylvania and was found dead in a campus stairwell five days later.

Which got me thinking … I’ve been drunk enough to be killed DOZENS of times. So have you. When people drink, they are stupid. In fact, now that I think about it, I was almost hit by a train on the Jersey Shore a few summers back, almost got run over by a cab and a T train in Boston during college, walked, er stumbled, through the nastiest ghetto area of Atlantic City at like 3 a.m. by myself, accidentally threatened to beat up a cop (which would gotten me thrown into prison where I’d, in turn, be killed), gone swimming in the ocean/pool/lake at night, almost been in dozens of fights that could have led to a inoperable vertebre injury, the list goes on and on and on.

Did I mention I almost run over by a Zamboni machine while covering a high school hockey game? Well yeah, that happened, too.

And since I'm a lot like you, that means you've probably had your definitive near-miss (eg, your Honda incident) and your series of less death-defying brushes (eg, your Jersey Shore incidents). My working theory as of tonight is that there's a set number of Jersey Shore incident that you can accumulate, and once you hit that number, it creates a pentultimate Honda incident. I'm guessing the number is 38. I may be insane.

In summation, you will almost die at least once in your life. And you actually die once in your life. But you can also almost die more than once without definitely dying, although the two aren’t mutually exclusive. And the number 38 is somehow involved.

Now I’m just confusing myself. Everyone just try to be careful. That includes you, Devon Sawa.

The Deconstruction of Counting Crows

2006-05-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

It may be hard to believe now, but there was a time when it was OK to be a Counting Crows fan.

I know this. I was there. I was one of them. If you were an angst-filled teen in the mid-90s, but not in the Marilyn Manson/Type-O Negative "I want to spill the blood of my parents" sorta way, the Crows were the band for you. Led by the mopey but cool-on-his-own-terms Adam Duritz, the band channeled Van Morrison, R.E.M., Bruce Springsteen and The Band and put it in an accessible package that everyone could get into. When the band broke big-time with "Mr. Jones" in 1994 and followed it with a slew of successful singles on their still-excellent debut, August and Everything After, the little band out of San Francisco had hit it big.

And no one benefited more from this sudden windfall than Duritz himself. If "Mr. Jones" was all about busting out of obscurity to become "big stars," then Duritz was suddenly living a life that saw his ultimate dreams realized. And what would you do if you were living in 1994 and you were the lead singer of the hottest new music act in the country? Time's up. You'd have sex with the half the cast of "Friends," that's what you'd do. And that's what Duritz did. God bless him.

As someone who fascinated about Jennifer Aniston and Courtney Cox's breasts regularly throughout the first Clinton administration, I can attest that this double-score earned Duritz respect all across party lines. You didn't have to be a Counting Crows fan to be an Adam Duritz fan anymore -- he had now become the national symbol of the average-looking Joe who could pull any tail he wanted if he just played his cards right.

The Crows' music, meanwhile, immediately began to evolve in the face of fame -- for better or worse. Recovering the Satellites, released in 1996, eschewed much of the rootsy charm that made A&EA so likeable, instead featuring a more electric-guitar-oriented sound. Spurned by a press that besieged his personal life and critics that ripped him as a false imitation of his idols, Duritz stopped playing "Mr. Jones" live, saying he could no longer relate to the song. A huge no-no in my book. (PLAY THE SONGS THAT MADE YOU FAMOUS, YOU UNGRATEFUL DICKS.) The band would later reverse field in this practice.

RTS may have been a bit forced and a tad overlong in retrospect, but it was by no means a bad album. I quite liked it, actually. And on the strength of the hit single "A Long December," the band was as commercially-viable as ever.

The Crows took a three-year hiatus before returning in 1999 with This Desert Life, another strong album that seemed to be a more focused and logical companion to their sparkling debut. The album spawned another marginal hit in the catchy "Hanginaround" -- later immortalized as the theme song of "Four Kings," a failed Seth Green sitcom on NBC (is it even necessary to put "failed" in front of "Seth Green sitcom?" As a writer, should I insult my readers with such obviousness?)

I saw the band live several times during this period, enjoying their shows each time. Duritz was getting ... um, puffier ... as the years progressed, and the space between his eyebrows and the beginning of his signature-dreadlocks was growing, but hey, being a Duritz fan was always about knowing he wasn't a male model. I was perfectly content with him getting as fat and bald as he so pleased so long as he play "Anna Begins" on his piano and score with any woman he desired. I wanted him to become my personal Jerry Garcia -- the unsightly, but ultimately endearing lead singer who would tour happily until he dropped dead.

As the new millennium dawned, things began to turn, however. Following another three-year hiatus, the band return with Hard Candy in 2002, an overtly-polished and uneven record that didn't have any of the personality that made the first three albums so enjoyable. The band, meanwhile, began to show the first signs of a more "corporate" philosophy, shooting a ridiculous Coca-Cola ad to pimp their album which was impossible to defend. Trust me, I tried. Suddenly, being a CC fan wasn't so cool. A bit ashamed, I bumped my CC catalog to the second row of my CD collection -- a real slap in the face to arguably the first band that I was ever truly crazy about.

Things continued to get worse from there. Duritz had never hid his fascination with Hollywood -- and its women, in particular -- but now the cracks were showing. When word started to spread that Duritz was collaborating with teen pop act Mandy Moore, the sirens went off. He continued to be spotted with name actresses, but he wasn't pulling the A-listers anymore. The band's 2004 contribution to the Shrek 2 soundtrack, "Accidentally In Love," became a minor hit but lacked any of the teeth of the band's earlier work. Duritz's looks also were targeted, which internet bloggers and other snarky media-types unfairly had a ball with, tearing the now 40-something Duritz to shreds.

The band, meanwhile, had become stagnant. Having released just one studio album since 1999, Crows fans flocked to message boards on the band's official website to air their frustrations. The band seemed to have lost its direction, and fans wanted answers. Duritz chose to answer these criticisms in a strange way, leaving rambling, odd and often nasty salvos that were posted on the band's main page in blog form. Some posts were just plain weird, such was the case with a 11/22/05 entry:

"Look, I want to explain this to all of you. Right now I'm just trying to live my life. I just wanna try and put it back together. The last few years I've been personally just slipping further and further downhill. It got to a point where I felt things were becoming unsafe for me. I've never been the most stable person but i was seriously losing touch with my surroundings and not thinking very clearly. It happens. For some of us, this sort of thing is just a fact of life. You have to try and learn to live with the way your head works or find the drugs that make it work better or whatever. Either way, that's all I'm trying to do. And i know I can't do it on a tourbus. I lost my way out there in the first place."

Ummmm...yeah. You couldn't help but worry for the guy.

The latest news remains bad. The band recently announced a summer tour with the Goo Goo Dolls, excuse me, the FUCKING Goo Goo Dolls, which they aren't even headlining. Though Duritz recently posted that a new album is in the works, it seems to be a largely solo effort that has no real timetable. Chinese Democracy might hit the shelves first.

And worst of all, and perhaps most symbolically, Duritz has hit rock-bottom in his Hollywood conquests. The singer, who has been linked to Aniston, Cox, Monica Potter, Mary-Louise Parker and a host of other smoking A-listers, has recently been spotted with former-reality star and proven alcoholic-ass-clown Trischelle Cantella. Good God, man.

In my heart of hearts, I will always be a Counting Crows fan. It's something that can't be taken away by shitty career choices, bad hair, or C-list girlfriends. They were a part of my adolescence ... what can I do? Whenever their next album comes out, I will buy it, partly out of loyalty, part out of curiosity, but mostly out of faith. I want these guys to get back to what they were. I guess part of me will always think that ... maybe this year will be better than the last.

A wise dude with dreadlocks taught me that once. I'm just hoping he can teach me something again.

Daytime is the right time

2006-03-31T08:20:00.000-08:00

For awhile, I thought Bob Barker and I had shared our last Showcase Showdown.

I was all growns up. No more summers out of school with nothing to do but tune into The Price Is Right, go swimming and play wiffleball. College was over as well, mornings spent nursing hangovers with Barker's Beauties gone with it. When I started working a 9 to 5 job, I had resigned myself to the truth that one of my favorite late morning pasttimes was gone forever.

But alas, an unlikely reunion was around the corner. When I started a new job last month, one that afforded me mornings off, I was reunited with my favorite game show of all-time. It was like I had scored a $5,000 Plinko chip. I was young again.

Though unforseen at the time, my new job had inadvertantly reopened my world to not only The Price Is Right, but to all of daytime TV. So, what are you missing? Let me give you a brief overview:

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Rod Roddy, sadly, is gone. "The Voice of The Price Is Right" passed away from cancer in 2003. He was replaced by some younger, more generic-sounding dickhead. Thankfully, Barker remains stronger than ever. No American television program has ever been more reliant on its star. The old codger that he his, Barker continues to rig the studio audience selection process, allowing the 85-year-old to kiss the cheek (and presumably squeeze the ass) of no less than three 19-year-old California co-eds per episode. That's 15 co-eds a week, 780 a year, 26,520 since 1972. In a related story, Bob Barker is the coolest muthaeffa any of us have ever known.

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There are a TON of court-type shows, which must be very popular because there seem to be three of them being broadcast at any given time between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. Scoring a presiding judge gig on one of these shows doesn't seem too difficult -- I'm pretty sure all you need is the ability to be a hard-ass and perhaps to have taken, but not necessarily have passed, a bar exam at some point since 1960.

Personally, I'm a bit stubborn in coming around to these shows -- Judge Judy is no Judge Wapner my friends -- she's not even Judge Mills Lane, for that matter.

I grew up spending my summer vacations watching the raw and more-or-less completely dispicable "Divorce Court," a show so clear in its motives that its logo was a thumping heart image with a gaping crack splitting through it (making use of the meager '80s computer graphic arts capabilities of the time). If anyone can send me this image, I will reward you with a harem of men or women of your choice.

I used to watch DC regularly with my cousin. It was an enlightening experience, one in which we'd hear things that no two 8-year-old boys should be hearing. I mean, seriously, my mom wouldn't let me sit on the right-front area of the school bus due to its calamitous proximity to the vehicle's gas tank, yet I could sit in my aunt's house and hear lines like:

"I LOST MY JOYSTICK IN 'NAM!"

"IS IT TRUE, MR. SMITH, THAT YOU WERE IN THE BATHTUB WITH MS. JONES...PLAYING 'MILK THE COW?'"

Obviously, this was awesome.

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There are a lot of commercials about diabetes starring guys that look like, but aren't quite, Wilfred Brimley...who I think died from diabetes.

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MTV plays videos from 8 to 11, before launching into seven consecutive hours of Gauntlet and Real World reruns. VH-1 replays their "101 Best Dressed Sexiest Bodies Celebrity Shockingly Thin Oops Reality" program on a loop. There are enough hack comedians saying unfunny things to make your eyes bleed.

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The major networks air a mid-day news show, which I'm fairly certain is just a dress rehearsal for the evening news telecast.

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In talk show news, Regis and Kelly are still going strong on ABC. Meanwhile, Kathy Lee's addiction to pain pills continues to deepen while poor Frank looks for a way out...possibly the fifth floor window. Our old friend Tony Danza has recently been cancelled but is still on the air for now. But fear not Fans O' Danza...you can catch "Who's The Boss" reruns on the UPN 9. Ellen DeGeneres seems to have a very popular show on NBC. Part of me thinks I should be watching it, since both me and Ellen are huge vagina fans.

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The Spanish language station broadcasts and awesome show at noon, titled Mujer, Casos de la Vida Real, which I believe loosely translates to Woman, Your House Is Very Real. I'd appreciate it if my Spanish-speaking readers could help me out with this...I am but a honky.

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Good news, Geraldo is back on the airwaves, with a new show Geraldo at Large (I don't get this title, is he an escaped felon?) that broadcasts on 12:30 p.m. on NBC. Funny Geraldo story: My senior year of high school, our journalism class bussed it into Manhattan for a live Geraldo taping at then-WPIX studios.

Why our journalism teacher would take us to see GERALDO RIVERA for a lesson in the craft of newswriting is beyond me, but that's another discussion. Anyway, me and my friends all planned on making a farce of the event (naturally), which entailed being general jack-asses in the studio audience (this was not a stretch). Our goal was to anger Geraldo, if at all possible.

So, just as we seating ourselves in the back of the studio audience and plotting out our scheme to draw the ire of the Mighty G, the show producer's lead out two sobbing women onto the stage. Turns out one of the guests of the day's show was a mother whose daughter had been shot and killed by her deranged boyfriend LIKE A WEEK EARLIER. They even played 911 tapes and everything...it was brutal. Our plans to be dicks throughly trounced, we had to settle for an awkward meet-and-greet with Geraldo after the show, in which we all addressed him by pronouncing his name with a hard G...a definite no-no. "GER-RALDO! GER-RALDO! We love you!" Needless to say, he spoke with like two of us before flashing a confused smile and turning his back. Ahhhh, high school.

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I'd write more, but I have some television to watch. Inside Edition has a home run on its hands today, they are airing a piece on a 7-year-old body builder named "Little Hercules." Some things you simply cannot miss.

Life is good.

MySpace for rent

2006-02-14T09:36:00.000-08:00

I must testify...I'm a MySpace whore.

Or so says my buddy Bob, who has mocked my apparent willingness to submit and accept friend invites from anyone I've ever shared air with since 1980. Since signing up for the service three months ago, it only seemed natural that I build my contact list as quickly as possible. I didn't want to be the loser with three friends (counting the ubiquitous Tom) and one message from some fledgling emo band. Geared in this mindset, it made sense that I accept all invitations, even from the girl who drooled on my shoulder during a particularly touching All-4-One ballad at the Spring Fling in '96. (Said Dan: "Doesn't she know this is silk!!!") I digress, but the point is this: If I'm on this site, I might as well do it right. I'm no MySpace elitist, dammit!

Disclaimer: For those of you unaware of what the hell I'm talking about so far (a thought that mystifies me if you are indeed reading an obsolete Web log right now), My Space is a social networking Web site offering an interactive network of photos, blogs, user profiles, groups, and an internal e-mail system. As of January 2006, MySpace is the world's seventh most popular English language Web site, with over 50 million users. (And with that we wrap up the educational and plagaristic portion of today's post.)

It is fully understood that I am incredibly late to the MySpace party. The hipsters have already endorsed, renounced and now declared jihad on the service. This, as is the case with most hipster crusades, is of little consequence to me. I think the service is kind of cool to be honest. You get to post pics, scribble some inconsequential bullshit about yourself and then look at profiles of other people who do the same exact thing. It's not cold fusion or anything, but it's better than editing press releases.

In the last month alone, I have re-connected with my first ever kiss, my first "love", my old college roommate, my prom date and my token "forbidden fruit underclassman crush" (who happened to be my prom date's sister...awkward.) Of course, the argument could be made that these personalities that define your past fade into oblivion for a reason, and by reconnecting with said characters you indirectly upset the karmic balance by which your life is built upon thus potentially destroying the gravitational and existential pull of the Earth as we know it. Actually, I just thought of that myself and it's scaring the shit out of me. MOVING ON...

MySpace is not without its flaws of course. People tend to reveal FAR too much about themselves in their personal profiles -- I have a very close friend who casually revealed that she had "never been in love," making this seemingly grand commentary on her life public knowledge for cyber space without so much as uttering a single word about her travails to me. I also don't need to know that my little cousin's best asset is "her boobs," or that one of my ex-girlfriend's "is known" to use a vibrator twice a day. Known to who? NOT ME! This superfluous and often embarrassing information would best be checked into the safe recesses of the mind, me thinks.

My theory is that people sit alone at their computers typing this highly personal information thinking that the content will remain private once you click the submit button. This is nuts to me. Of course, this is coming from the same guy who wrote a blog post in December about going to a bar by himself, so really, take everything here with a grain of salt.

If you were to read my profile, I'd like to think you get an idea of what the main dish is, but not the main ingredients. I'm fine that people know who my favorite music group is (U2), but I'll be damned if you're going to find out when I first noticed "changes" in my body (1992). You know what I'm saying? I hope so.

In the end, it's important to understand the limitations of the service and take it from there. If you're looking to find love or a best friend, chances are you're going to either be disappointed (best case) or brutally slain (um, worst). But if you're just looking to share some photos with buddies, re-connect with old acquaintances, discover some new music or just make fun of random people with no meaningful ramifications (a personal fave), this is the place to be.

If nothing else, it's better than actually doing work, right? I thought so.

Like Monkey

2006-01-18T07:25:00.000-08:00

I want to love Love Monkey. I really do.

Technically speaking, it hits on all the pre-qualifiers necessary to peak my interest on a weekly basis. It's dramatic, but it's also a comedy -- a dramedy if you will. It centers on the likeable guy from Ed, the record industry and music in general, sex, sports, and being single in Manhattan. All very good. Did I mention Jason Priestly is prominently involved? Well yeah, he is.

For all intents and purposes, I should love this show.

But I don't love it. I'm not even sure if I like it. And it kills me. For the second straight week, Monkey (which airs Tuesdays at 10 p.m. on CBS) managed to piss me off to the extent that I literally groaned out loud three separate times. These weren't internal monologue groans either -- which I employ multiple times each day in a variety of social settings -- this was an audible release emitted from the caverns of my quality-pop culture-craving soul.

This baby was sooo close to being there. After all, as a 25-year-old single male living in the big city (or Hoboken, whatever), it's as if Love Monkey is the brainchild of a Hollywood power meeting in which they rolled out a $50,000 projector, flashed my face on the screen and said, "This is the guy we want. Reel the bastard in." (Appeased, the honchos moved on, canceling Emily's Reasons Why Not before summarily executing Heather Graham.)

And maybe that's why I'm so bothered by the show. I'm supposed to relate to Monkey. It's in my predisposition to connect with Monkey the way women intrinsically connected with Carrie Bradshaw and Sex and the City (I suppose). I say this because Monkey is essentially about my life. Not in the literal sense of course -- I'm not a record executive, nor I am in my mid-30s, nor have I ever shot the shit with one Brandon Walsh. But there are clear parallels nonetheless.

Look at it this way. Let's say some random lunatic with a robust white beard and a pipe (preferably wooden) came up to me on the street and told me to boil down the essence of my life into a crude, three-tiered structure. And let's say instead of a) running or b) punching said vagrant in stomach, I complied. The list would probably look something like this (in no particular order):

LIFE GOALS (01/06)
1) Establish and build a career
2) Navigate through love, sex and relationships
3) Hang out with friends, drink beer

This is not my whole life, obviously. I do have to walk my dog. But these are the three basic touchstones of it right now. They also happen to be the core principals of Monkey.

So we have a home run then, right? Wrong...the show is still somehow whiffing on me. Let's look at other potential deal-breakers. Maybe it's the casting/acting? Nah, I don't have a problem there. 7/10. The writing? Cliched, yes, but it genuinely works at times. 7/10. Female sex appeal? Could be better, but there are some prospects. 7/10. Jason Priestly? 11/10.

And that's when I realized -- I've been looking at the whole thing backwards.

Here's the death knell of a show like Monkey for me: This is a show that may be about me, but it's not geared for me. There's a vital distinction there. It's probably how high school kids in Laguna Beach feel when they tune into The OC (or Laguna Beach: The Real OC, presumably). Or how a Dallas socialite felt as she watched Dallas back in the day. Or how Gary Sheffield reacted to a plotline from Dean Cain's The Clubhouse. Okay, scratch that last one, but you get my point.

When Tom listens to "Rock 'n' Roll All Nite" by Kiss each morning, it makes me furious because I know a true music guy would dig far deeper in Gene and Paul's back catalogue for some sunrise inspiration. I know for a fact that no one that works for a small indie label would ever say that their favorite song ever was Starship's "We Built This City" (even ironically). I know that a true Dylan fan would never swear by a greatest hits compilation -- they'd insist you picked up Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks, Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, or even one of his born-again albums.

I know that it's not easy to hang out with all your guy friends at once without girlfriends (and I presume, wives) getting in the way of things. I know that bars in NYC are not packed wall-to-wall with beautiful and flirtatious females craving carnal knowledge. I know that if I was a star of the 2000 National League champion Mets, I'd probably be noticed in bars more often than Tom's friend is.

In short, I notice everything. And it ruins the show for me. I'm too close to it, and I cannot help but tear it apart because of that connection. I suspect this is not the case for most people across the country, and since the show is well-scripted, acted, and advertised, I assume it will do well.

Next Tuesday at 9 p.m., I'm going to be faced with a quagmire. Should I watch reruns of MTV's The Gauntlet, looking for the exact frame when I decided that Beth was the most unattractive woman on Earth? Or should I continue my NBA Live '06 season on PS2, succeeding with a Knicks team (and female front office) that is safe from the evil clutches of Isiah Thomas? Should I do something actually constructive like read or go the gym?

Nah. When push comes to shove, I think I may just tune into Monkey once again. But why would I want to watch a show that drives me absolutely insane; a program that stings me constantly with its inherent flaws; an hour of T.V. that is seemingly about my life (but not really about it at all)?

I guess I just want to know how it all turns out.

***UPDATE 2/14: Love Monkey has been cancelled after three episodes. Turns out the show just sucked. My apologies.***

A Very Apple Christmas

2005-12-22T10:57:00.000-08:00

How well do you know your Christmas music?

That may be a rhetorical question at this point, whether you're black, latino or Anglo-Saxon (much love, Nasir). Whether you're cognizant of it or not, you've heard "Last Christmas" by Wham! approximately 400 times since the beginning of the month. It is widely known (well, not really) that 40-something domestic radio programmers love hearing George Michael lament the loss of gay holiday love in England. Not that there's anything wrong with that -- you know, George's love of balls or the song itself.

Christmas music is unique, naturally endowed with a cyclical shelf life that allows each hit to stay fresh forever. The songs lie dormant for 11 months of the year, their happy nostalgia and familiar melodies locked away in musty radio station closets across the country. As FM radio regurgitates Nickelback ballads about photos and Three Doors Down rockers about how awesome war is, these holiday classics wait their turn. Quietly. Patiently.

Following Thanksgiving, the rollout begins. The classics slowly begin to show up across the dial, providing a much-needed respite from the Top 40 wasteland. The songs are put in constant rotation, and just when you think you're going to carve your eyes out if you hear Bono belt out "Well, tonight thank Goood it's them instead of YOUUUUUUUUU" one more time, Dec. 26 hits and as quickly as these gems arrived, they disappear. It's a perfect science, a Christmas tradition on par with egg nog, presents and mistletoe.

Since I'm in the Christmas spirit, I will now bestow upon my 10s of readers my list of must-have contemporary Christmas songs. If you make a holiday compilation and you're missing any of these classics, start again. Jesus hates people who make shoddy holiday mix compilations. It's true...check out the New Testament.

"Baby, Please Come Home" - U2: If you're looking for an impartial viewpoint on all things Bono, you've come to the wrong place (I think "Pop" is one of the great albums of the '90s after all). That said, it's hard to deny this '80s classic, recorded during a soundcheck in the midst of the band's triumphant "Joshua Tree" tour. "Baby" is two minutes and 22 seconds of holiday bliss direct from Dublin's finest.

"Happy X-Mas (War is Over)" - John Lennon: It's our first Beatles sighting, a timeless song featuring Lennon's classic vocal and a whole bunch of political and social undertones that I kinda tune out. Oddly, I always find myself humming along to the children's choir that provides the backing vocal. (I hope that comment doesn't get me on some neighborhood watch list.)

"Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" - Bruce Springsteen: Recorded live during the Springsteen's massive "Born in the U.S.A." tour, "Claus" provides a glimpse into Springsteen's legendary on-stage banter with both his band and audience ("Everyone out there been good this year? Ooooh, that's not many, heh heh, you guys are in trouble, heh heh." Combine Springsteen's holiday cheer with a still-amusing guest vocal turn from longtime E-Streeter Clarence Clemons and you've got a winner. "Clarence, you been rehearsin' real hard to get a new saxophone?" Quintessential Boss.

"Do They Know It's Christmas?" - Band-Aid: If you turn your radio dial clockwise right now, this song is probably on. Released in November of 1984,this Bob Geldoff-penned tune immediately debuted at Number One in Great Britain, and was Number One on the American charts two weeks later. It eventually sold 50 million copies, beating sales of Scott Stapp's recent solo album by roughly 50 million. In addition to vocals from Sting, McCartney, Bono and the like, "Christmas" featured some of the most respected artists of the day, such as Bananarama, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Human League and Spandau Ballet. Okay, some of the most popular artists of the day.

"Christmas Wrapping" - The Waitresses: I don't know much about this band but I always loved the horn section of this song and the chick singing always sounded hot to me. Of course, if I googled her right now she'd probably look like Bea Arthur, so maybe some stones are better off left unturned.

"Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth" - Bing Crosby & David Bowie: Bing, who recorded one of the seminal Christmas albums of the 20th Century in "White Christmas," tapped Bowie for a one-off recording to be included in his annual Christmas special in 1977. Bing kicked just a month later, but left behind this gem. To suit each singer's strengths (and insatiable egos, I presume) Bing crooned "Drummer Boy" while Bowie provided a soothing harmony with his rendering of "Peace." A must-have for any holiday collection.

"Blue Christmas" - Elvis Presley: Before Elvis died on a toilet bowl, he managed to record this catchy Hawaiian-style ode to loneliness during the holidays. I've never really understood Elvis' status as a pop culture immortal, but there's no denying this song. (Elvis fans would rip me in the comments section for that last comment if Elvis fans actually had computers...or even existed for that matter. Hmmmmmmm...)

"Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree" - Brenda Lee: I don't know much about this song other than it's great and it was prominently featured in Home Alone. If its good enough for Kit Culkin's brother, it's good enough for me.

"Wonderful Christmastime" - Paul McCartney: Our second Beatles entry, this may be the worst song ever recorded. Seriously, have you ever heard this monstrosity? Oddly, I love it anyway.

"All I Want For Christmas Is You" - Mariah Carey: I have to admit, I never thought Mariah Carey would crack any "Best Of" list of mine besides maybe a countdown of "Chicks Who Will Most Likely Get Real Fat in the 2010s," which makes "All I Want" all the more impressive an achievement. In a decade thats greatest holiday offering came by way of Adam Sandler's "Hannakuh Song," Mariah rescued the mid-90s with this bouncy ode to being horny on Christmas. Extra points for her looking so frisky in the video...who knew a snowsuit could be so fetching?

"Little Saint Nick" - The Beach Boys: I love, love, love this song, although I can't shake the image of a completely and utterly insane Brian Wilson holed up in a master suite of the Chateau Marmont, eating squid and freaking out as this song rumbles through his head like a freight train over and over and over again. Merry Christmas!

"Last Christmas" - Wham!: Sure it's a little over the top (clocking in at over six minutes), but it's catchy as hell and let's face it: A gay Christmas song was long overdue. Like Brian Wilson before him, I can picture Andrew Ridgely (aka the Other Guy in Wham!) sitting in his cluttered London flat, humming this tune and waiting for a phone call from George Michael that will never come.

You'll notice on this list a disturbing lack of holiday mainstays recorded in the past 15 years. We're definitely in a drought of sorts, although I can imagine Chris Martin slaves over his piano at least three hours a day trying to get his piece of the Christmas pie. And rightfully so. You come up with a good guitar riff or a nice melody, and you may have a hit that will probably come and go faster than you can say Chumbawumba -- and that's if you're lucky. But if you can craft a beloved song that connects with the holidays, its almost like irrelevance cryptonite...you're remembered forever. Hard to think of a better Christmas gift than that.

Happy Holidays.

Friday I'm In Love

2005-12-19T07:57:00.000-08:00

I did something tonight that I've wanted to do for a long time.

It's a Friday night in Hoboken and I have absolutely nothing to do. I mean, seriously, nothing. Nuh-thing. None of my roommates are around, and all of my immediate friends are either at holiday parties, are out of town, or are just plain MIA. Clearly, tonight is going to be about me and only me.

This isn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you. Most people would classify my plight as a somewhat sad or pathetic situation, but I'm actually fairly cool with it. Don't confuse things, I don't want to make this a regular happening...I'm pretty sure too many of these nights made Jeffrey Dahmer eat people. But every few weeks or so, I can most certainly deal with hanging out in the apartment chillin' OG-style.

Tonight was different however. I didn't have a problem being on my own so much, but I still did want to go out. So after careful thought I made a decision that I had contemplated many times before, but never had the guts (or will power) to go through with.

I was going to go out...by myself.

Listen, I don't know if this is something that people do a lot. It probably is. I mean, I've seen random dudes at bars just chillin' on their own with a Budweiser or whatever before, so I know I'm not creating cold fusion or anything. That said, I've typically viewed said random Budweiser dudes as tragic figures in a way, so I rather not be grouped into that bracket thank-you-very-much. I'm more the guy who was perfectly content with hanging out by himself, but wanted to check out the local scene. Let the record show that not even I buy what I just typed, but we're going to roll with it anyway.

After watching MTV Hits for about two hours (Incredibly, I just discovered I had the network after nearly two years in my apartment -- channel 188 for those scoring at home), I hopped in the shower, got dressed and headed out the door at about 11. A one block jaunt brought me to 10th and Willow -- an undersized but spunky establishment best known for serving free chicken wings on Monday nights during the football season (try the barbeque, watch out for the teriyaki). I approached the front entrance where a bouncer was denying some guy in front of me for not having proper identification. When I went to take my driver's license out, he waved me in...always a bit of a bummer. I've officially decided that my leather jacket inexplicably makes me look like I'm 32 years old (I'm 25). That said, I may be ushering it into retirement shortly (either that or I'll keep it in the closet until I'm 33, at which point I'll wear it every day until it disintegrates, presumably sometime in the 2040s. My children will be perpetually embarrassed by my appearance.).

Stone sober, I walked into a bar packed with completely obliterated patrons. People were slobbering all over on the dance floor, spilling their drinks, looking generally disheveled...it was a meat locker. Is that what all bars largely-comprised of 20-somethings looks like? If so, wow. This non-drunk thing is really giving me some perspective.

I went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Nine dollars. Nine dollars! Do drinks really cost this much in bars? Dear God...this sober thing is a real eye-opener. So I get my drink and turn towards the...NINE DOLLARS? Did I really just pay nine dollars to buy a gin and tonic in Hoboken? If I can impart one piece of wisdom on you tonight, it's this: The next time you open your wallet or purse after a long night of revelry and incredulously declare to your buddy or girlfriend, "How the hell did I spend (insert gross national product of Belize here) last night?" Well, you bought 6-8 drinks and a round of shots. Simple as that.

So I turn around and try to be as casual as possible. Although I'm a little warm, I purposely keep on the leather jacket because the point of this exercise is not to try to look appealing in an effort to pick up women...that would put me in the Budweiser Dude bracket. Tonight I'm just a dude just chillin' with his T&T. A 32-year-old dude. This isn't so bad after all.

I glance up at the TV on the adjacent wall. The Knicks lost by double digits to the lowly Hawks tonight and they are playing highlights. I see a portly girl across the way looking at me funny, but I'm fairly certain she's a lesbian so I don't make much of it. The deejay plays one of the eight techno/house songs I like. This is a list bookended by Technotronic's 1991 hit "Shake Dat Body" and Da Rude's classic 2001 house anthem, "Sandstorm." There are six more songs of this ilk that I thoroughly enjoy, I don't know their titles, but I know they came out between 1991 and 2001.

ANYWAY, things are going okay at this point. Halfway done with my (nine dollar) drink, I decide to walk the premises. It is during this journey, awkwardly making my way through a crowd of drunken white people getting down to "My Humps," that I realize something. Being completely hammered and being completely sober and alone at a bar produce the exact same outcome for me. When I get completely trashed, I tend to separate from my friends and just kind of walk the Earth like Kung-Fu. I do a lot of observing but very little talking, save for an "Excuse me" or "Move" every four seconds or so. Strange thing. Unfortunately, the walk through the crowd serves to derail my night out, as I see several groups of friends having a great drunken ole time together and suddenly I'm overcome with the feeling that I'm Budweiser Guy. It's time to hit the eject button. I finish my drink, my nine dollar drink, and head towards the exit. The chubby lesbian smiles at me as I walk by, but this love connection must remain dormant -- my night is done.

Tomorrow will be different. I'm meeting some friends in the city for wings and beer to watch football during the day, then I'm going to MSG with a buddy to check out the tepid Knicks, and finally back to a bar in the Boke to close things out. When I see a random Budweiser Guy, I nod at him and lift my drink skyward. He will think I'm gay.

But if all that falls through, there’s always Plan B. In that case, look for the 30-something Irish-looking guy in the leather jacket and introduce yourself. First drink's on him...mixed drink requests will not be honored.

A Kong-sized disturbance

2005-12-15T08:20:00.000-08:00

Let's do some roleplaying.

I'm a SWM, 25, blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic build, thick 11", cut, I get off on chunky peanut butter.

For all of those who navigated to my blog by googling "roleplay + chunky peanut butter," you are excused. I just Nexxt'ed you. Freak. Don't give me a virus on your way out, cyber-nerd.

This is a different kind of roleplaying. You're me. You love King Kong. The mythical beast was a part of your childhood for as far back as you can remember. You grew up watching the 1933 original religiously. The tepid 1976 remake was required weekly viewing. You watched 1962's King Kong vs. Godzilla so consistently that you wore out your VHS tape and had to buy a new one. You even enjoyed (relatively speaking) the 1986 sequel King Kong Lives, where Kong, despite being shot roughly 179 times by helicopter-mounted robotic machine guns AND falling off Tower 2 of the World Trade Center, lives (the title is pretty dead-on) and is transported to some jungle facility where he starts nailing a female version of himself. He also has a heart problem...I think. I vaguely remember Linda Hamilton being prominently involved (this was in the awkward five-year gap where James Cameron wasn't returning her phone calls).

"Hey Jimmy, yeah, it's Linda...again. I just heard Arnold wrapped up shooting on that jungle alien movie with Carl Weathers. You...you think we can get rolling on T2 now? I know you're there Jimmy, please pick up...we need to talk about this. My agent just handed me this ludicrous King Kong script and I know it's horrible but...I'm...so...hungry. Jimmy?" (dial tone)

Anyway, you're me and you love King Kong. When news come down that Peter Jackson in remaking the original, you're pumped. You're not a dork so you don't know much about the Lord of the Rings trilogy, but you do know that PJ seems to be rather qualified. The film finally premieres and you and six of your fellow Kong-loving family members buy tickets for the opening night. You haven't seen a movie on its premiere date since the Drew Barrymore romantic comedy 50 First Dates -- which was nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. This clearly is a big deal for you. Coincidentally, you are single at the time.

You settle into your seat and the three-hour epic begins. You're enjoying the movie quite a bit. Naomi Watts is a comet, you're glad to see that Jack Black will be able to put his great-grandchildren through college, and you snicker unmercifully at Adrien Brody's nose to the point that you whisper amongst your cousins that a Kong vs. Adrien Brody's Nose battle would garner even-odds in Vegas.

Then it happens. About 20 minutes into the film, a small child to your right lets out a squeal. Uh-oh. Then another little critter in the same area pipes up. Ten minutes later the two hell-raisers are walking up and down aisle directly to your right, talking to themselves. Why? Because little kids are stupid and they talk to themselves (I did it and so did you).

Understandably, I was filled with rage. SOME MORON BROUGHT THEIR PRE-SCHOOL AGED CHILDREN TO THE THREE-HOUR FILM, KING KONG? Seriously?

I mean, you have to be a mental zero to do this. First of all, these two children were both six years old tops, hell they could have been twins, it was dark. You can't expect for them to sit quietly for a 180-minute movie. Secondly, while Kong isn't exactly Child's Play, Friday the 13th, or Ocean's 12, it ain't Babe: Pig in the City either. The movie had some scenes that would have scared the shit out of the five-year-old version of myself. Finally, the father, a Latino-gentleman in his 20s, seemed to be perfectly content with letting his children ruin the movie experience for the rest of the sold out theater. My own father, who would have never stood for this shit back in '85 (without a doubt, he would have threatened me with the now legendary "Moroccan Belt"), was sitting right in front of me, his jaw bone clicking -- a sure Dad sign that he's about the flip the fuck out.

Finally, after about 45 minutes of this nonsense, the audience openly revolted on the guy -- clearly one of the funniest things I've ever been a part of. First a random woman piped in with a "Find a day-care!" (a B- comment) to which the audience chuckled. The ice broken, in came a few "Get them out of here!" grunts followed by my cousin Matt blurting out "I hate kids!" The line of the night came from some dude in the back row who yelled out "Use condoms!" That incurred hearty applause. I even impulsively chipped in with a random "Jesus Christ!" -- presumably in the spirt of the holidays -- to which Latino Dad shot me a look either designed to frighten me or just because he's not down with the Lord's name being used in vain.

Defeated, the guy gave up, dragging his two adorable scants out of the theater. The audience broke into applause, although that may have been more due to the extreme closeup of Adrien Brody's nose. Man, that thing's big.

So that was it. The movie was a tad long but mostly incredible (it gets the Apple Pop Life stamp of approval) and the night was salvaged by the departure of the world's most most selfish film patron.

Bringing your kindergartner to movie theaters...the true eighth wonder of the world.

Finding Jessica

2005-11-30T22:10:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to lie, the breakup of Nick and Jessica affected me on a certain level.

Not on a substantial level, mind you. We're not talking "Dude, isn't this where you parked your car last night?" or "By the way, your girlfriend's a great kisser" stomach-punch territory here. We're more in the "Damn, I wore brown socks with black shoes" realm. Sure, it doesn't really matter, but if I could do it again, things would have went down differently.

I really have no reason to feel this way. I mean, should I care about the relationship of two seemingly vapid celebrities? Really? If somebody offered me a $20 bill with the caveat that accepting the currency meant the immediate dissolution of Nick and Jessica's union, would I not be $20 richer? A man has to eat, you know.

And yet, when I logged online to check my fantasy team Thanksgiving morning, the site of the news on Yahoo's headline pane made me pause. If only for a brief moment, the marital failings of the Newlyweds literally halted my day.

Please allow me a moment while I attempt to ratchet my heterosexuality meter back to normal levels…

GIRLS. FANTASY FOOTBALL. CARS. SLIM JIMS. SEX. OLD SPICE. BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN. CHEWING TOBACCO. JOYCE HYSER.

But here's the thing. Now that I've had some time to process the situation, I've come to realize that this has nothing to do with a chode who named his boy band after the standard measurement for body temperature. It was about her. I like to think that I knew Jessica Simpson before she was Jessica Simpson...back when she was viewed as just another cookie-cutter blonde in the teen pop resurgence of the late '90s. When my friend Bob came up to me at Tower Records with a copy of Simpson's debut CD and declared her "hotter than Britney," I may have vehemently disagreed with his statement but dear God did I respect his right to voice it. She was young, blonde, buxom and overtly virginal...hitting for the cycle at the tender age of 18. Who cared if she had a grating single out at the time -- anyone remember the unfortunate “I Wanna Love You Forever?” -- or that in her video she was inexplicably positioned in front of a huge crop duster, or that her nose was a little suspect, or that she was the out of the medalist round in the Britney-Christina-Mandy Orlando Olympics. Through it all, she was still sexy as hell and best of all, she remained under the radar somewhat.

That all changed with her marriage to Lachey and the subsequent launch of Newlyweds, a show that blew her career wide open. She was no longer mine and mine alone...and I hated Lachey for it. In a half-baked counter-attack, I spent the majority of 2003 formulating conspiracy theories that placed Lachey at the scene of anything bad that ever happened. Ever. Bad day at work? Lachey. Rent check bounced? Lachey. Hindenburgh disaster? Lachey. JFK assassination? Lachey. Rocky V?...you get the point. Oddly, this smear campaign never really got off the ground.

Given this perspective, I guess I got what I wanted. Maybe that skip of a heartbeat last Thursday had nothing to do with being upset by the end of the Simpson-Lachey union. This I am grateful for. More likely, it was a moment of joy: My Jess was back on the market. Gone was Newlyweds, chicken or tuna jokes and Christmas Specials with needless and unwarranted 98 Degrees reunions. In its place a completely unattached Simpson, free to the world. So get ready for the slew of paparazzi photos when Jessica hits her inevitable "I'm Going To Nail Half Of Hollywood And Not Even Think Twice About It" phase, the FHM spread with Ashlee, the acceptance of "more mature" movie roles meant to shake her innocent image and the oncoming fallout and subsequent bitter estrangement from her father, Joe Simpson, more popularly known as The Creepiest Man Who's Ever Walked The Earth.

All of which will lead to the No. 1 potential benefit of a newly single Jessica...the inevitable sex tape. It's not an "if," it's a "when" at this point. Let’s just hope she does it with Johnny Knoxville...I think they'd make an incredible couple.

BEER NUTS. IVAN DRAGO. HUNTING. CARBORATORS. SKELETOR. UNION REPS. METALLICA. BOOBS.

There, that's better.

Old Man River

2005-11-05T05:13:00.000-08:00

And on his twenty-fifth Halloween, Dan doth hit the dance floor. Hard.

Sometimes when you dance like a drunken maniac -- as I did Saturday Night at the Frying Pan on Chelsea Pier -- these things are bound to happen. Maybe it was Ron Burgundy who crashed into my left knee, or the Burger King football guy, or one of the 7,000 chicks that went as a French Maid (innovation, ladies). All I knew was it felt like someone had just went at the inside of my left knee with a dull chainsaw and now I was on the floor, dragging myself out of the maze of humanity like a Vietnam jarhead fresh off an unexpected meeting with a minefield. Dance floor 1, Dan 0.

Five minutes later, propped up on a chair like Bernie Lomax in the Hamptons, I couldn't help but wonder the eternal twenty-something question: "Am I getting too old for this?"

I find myself acting that question a lot lately. Sure, in this particular instance I can't be taken too seriously. I did have my hair slicked back in a pseudo-ponytail with artificial drug residue and requisite nosebleed lining my nasal cavity after all (my official costume title was "'80s Stock Broker Partying Too Hard After Closing Mega-Deal"). But even still, when I'm laid up on my couch Sunday morning missing my weekend kickball game (I'm a virtual red flag super-center) the question kind of hangs there like a torn knee ligament.

When do you get too old to do stuff that was perfect okay three, four or five years ago? You know, if I had just been socializing with a gin and tonic with a small group of friends talking career and stuff like those dorks I see at PATH station bars, my leg wouldn't feel like Joe Theisman in the fall of '85 right now. But noooooooooo, I needed to do that extra Jaeger shot, you know, the one that makes you feel invincible. Mortality 1, Dan 0.

So as I vegetate on the couch for another night – I ironically signed up for the gym 12 hours before my injury – I'll have plenty of time to ponder my future bar-going existence. Cos right now baby, all I've got is time.

That, and a fucking busted knee.

Steven Seagal: The bloated step-father I never had

2005-09-10T20:25:00.000-07:00

My lifelong connection with Steven Seagal began innocently enough.

It all started with Out For Justice, a story of a Brooklyn cop named Gino Felino on a quest to avenge the murder of his partner, the ubiquitously name-checked Bobby Lupo. Released in 1991, Justice holds a special place in my heart for reasons beyond Seagal's adopted Brooklyn dialect for the role -- an unforgettable and uproarious achievement to say the least. Justice also happened to be the first R-rated movie I can remember my Dad letting me watch with him -- a seminal moment for any 11-year-old boy.

The movie had recently made its cable debut and it featured enough gratuitous violence, nudity and foul language to make even Larry Flynt squirm. Obviously, this was incredibly fantastic and I remember praying that my Mom wasn't going to walk in and ruin one of the greatest things that had ever happened to me. When Seagal uttered the immortal salvo, "I'm going to cut off your head and piss down your throat" to some random crony, I mean, I was practically beaming. The transition to manhood had officially begun.

As I headed through my early teenage years, Seagal's star continued to rise in a series of memorable films. There was Above The Law (Chicago cop unravels a political conspiracy, kills many), Hard To Kill (L.A. cop emerges from seven-year coma to avenge murder of wife and partner, kills many), Marked For Death (Chicago cop avenges death of partner and takes down Jamaican voodoo drug ring, kills many) Under Siege (Ex-Navy Seal and chef on battleship has chance encounter with terrorist hijackers, kills many) and Under Siege 2: Dark Territory (Ex-Navy Seal on vacation with niece has chance encounter with different set of terrorist hijackers, kills many).

There's never been much of a gray area with Seagal. Like Aqua Teen Hunger Force ,Phish or Renée Zellweger, you either get it or you don't. I always got Seagal -- a talented physical specimen who masked his limiting acting abilities by attaching himself to an endearing and productively recyclable persona. His shtick garnered a loyal cult following -- the handsome, smooth-talking and morally-sound protagonist who bent the rules but never broke them, who took out the bad guys and got the girl. Pulling this off isn't as easy as it seems. Stallone never managed to make his cop characters likeable (Cobra, anyone?), I could never take Chuck Norris seriously for some reason (Jonathan Brandis may have played a prominent role in this) and Van Damme never managed to recover from that movie where he thwarted a terrorist scheme by playing goalie for the Pittsburgh Penguins. When it came to action stars of his era, there was Seagal and there was everyone else.

Unfortunately, all great things come to end and for Seagal, his career was no exception. Under Siege was his commercial high water mark, grossing more than $150 million worldwide. But in the years following the film, a noticeably, um, thicker version of the now incredibly wealthy star began to emerge. His ego had grown with his waistline and he earned a reputation in the industry as a nightmare to work with. He married and divorced Kelly LeBrock, his co-star in "Hard To Kill" (bad move) and began to use his box office clout to spin his films towards personal crusades, namely the protection of the environment (even worse). The recipe for disaster was in place. Before long, he had become a sad parody of himself, relegated to straight-to-video releases.

The current version of Seagal isn't the one I remember, however. My Seagal will forever have his fastball. The same Seagal who once said "I'll take you to the bank Senator, THE BLOOD BANK," the same Seagal who cleaned out an entire bar with a cue ball and sock, the same Seagal who made it possible to put "pony tail" and "bad ass" in the same sentence. That Seagal will always be one DVD click away.

Hard to kill? More like impossible...and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The Pussycat Dolls and their collective right to live

2005-08-31T14:03:00.000-07:00

I spent an unhealthy amount of time yesterday pondering the collective fates of the Pussycat Dolls.

What constitutes an unhealthy amount of time is debatable, of course. I probably spent about five minutes honestly thinking about it while on a run last night, followed by another five minutes thinking if it would be something worth writing about. All told, that's 10 minutes of thinking about the demise of a presumed one-hit wonder pop group with no redeemable social values, which is probably about 11 minutes too many.

Who are the Pussycat Dolls you ask? First off, I will laugh at your limited pop culture range, while simultaneously brooding my irreversible status as a 25-year-old jettisoned from the desired demographic of MTV culture. After that, I will explain that the Pussycat Dolls are a singing group of six reasonably attractive young women who have a hit song called "Don't Cha" on heavy rotation at MTV, Z-100 and the like right now. I suppose they are supposed to be the younger, cuter, American cousins of the Spice Girls, even if "Don't Cha" couldn't hold a candle to "Wannabe," "2 Becomes 1" or even "Spice Up Your Life" for that matter. I shouldn't know that.

It should also be noted that their name contains a slang word for female genitalia, which I'm 90 percent sure a really fat record executive with a pony tail and a big cigar (a.k.a. the guy from Wayne's World) came up with. Not really relevant here, but I thought it warranted mentioning.

So the Pussycats, comprised of Alpha Dog lead singer Nicole Scherzinger, Carmit Bachar, Ashley Roberts, Jessica Sutta, Melody Thornton and Kimberly Wyatt, have this new song that more or less is the worst fucking thing I've ever heard.

Musically, I've heard sorrier summer Top 40 anthems. It's not going to be confused with Sugar Ray's "Fly" or any other summer classic but it ain't LFO's "Summer Girls" either. It kind of just cruises along for three minutes or so with a semi-catchy hook, aided greatly by a video that showcases the girls jumping around a lot and basically whoring it out. No problem there. Added bonus points for succeeding despite a superfluous and awkward Busta Rhymes cameo.

So musically and visually, you could do worse. But then there are the lyrics...

Now I understand examining the lyrical content of a singing group that names themselves after their own private parts is akin to studying the acting habits of Mario Lopez, but this is something that had to be addressed and I doubt Kurt Loder or Greg T. "The Frat Boy" were going to touch this one.

Let's start from the top:

Baby ooooh
I know you like me (I know you like me)
I know you do (I know you do)
Thats why whenever I come around
She's all over you (she's all over you)
I know you want it (I know you want it)
It's easy to see (it's easy to see)
And in the back of your mind
I know you should be fucking me (babe)

Catchy, I know. Let's break this down. So you're a Pussycat Doll and you see some dude on the dancefloor that you decide you want to take home, presumably to bone. The guy's girlfriend sees you are flirting with him on the dancefloor, so the girlfriend understandable attempts to "mark her territory" if you will, by dancing closer on her man. That defense won't deter a Pussycat, however, who whisper sweet nothings into the ear of their prey in an effort to make the subject realize he "should be fuckin'" them. Very nice.

The chorus?

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Don't cha
Don't cha
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?
Don't cha
Don't cha

Okay. So if you're a straight dude, or a lesbian, or even a gay dude who watches Jessica on Laguna Beach, you know that 94 percent of women are inherently crazy. And crazy girls like the Pussycats are one of the reasons that normal girls become crazy. I mean, you have to be a pretty mean-spirited bitch to pick off some other girl's man right in front of her eyes. But only the most slutty and vindictive of these homewreckers will actually brag about it and turn it into a three minute pop song. Amazing.

I know she loves you (I know she loves you)
So I understand (I understand)
I probably be just as crazy about you
If you were my own man
Maybe next lifetime (maybe next lifetime)
Possibly (possibly)
Until then no friend possibly
Is a drag for me

A lover's lament? Hardly. The closing verse insinuates that if the Pussycat and her target, ahem, man, can't bang on this night, it ain't happenin'. The Dolls even pull the existential card, declaring a future hookup must wait until "next lifetime." That's some deep stuff. The Cats close shop by saying friendship is not an option. Fair enough.

And now back to my original point. Last night, I wondered if the Pussycats had actually sealed their fates by releasing such a overtly negative and nasty song for public mass consumption. I even toyed with the idea of whether or not they deserved to die for a song that re-inforces such hurtful behavior to millions of impressionable young girls. In retrospect, I may have been a little out of line even within the confines of my inner-monologue, but it warrants mentioning.

Don't worry about me though. Maybe I'm missing the whole point -- the "Pussycat Experience" if you will.

"We're the newest thing, man. We're a song-and-dance group, and it's not just another cookie-cutter group. It's just like our song says, we're 'Hot, Raw, Freaky and Fun,' " said the Alpha Dog Scherzinger. "I just think we're on the forefront of groups to come out. The Spice Girls weren't bad, but we're the newer version. So I guess it's not 'Girl Power,' it's 'Doll Power.' "

On second thought, I don't think I'm missing a thing. Please excuse me while I curl up on the couch and pop in my Ginger Spice solo album.

There's a Spice Girls reunion on the horizon, you know.

Trouble in the Bronx

2005-08-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

If last April someone from the future were to knock on my door (i.e. a man with a silver jumpsuit and cataract sunglasses) to tell me that the Yankees would be 60-52 after 112 games, I'd do two things. First, I'd ask him if Stephen ever got back with Kristen. After that, I'd tell him I was very displeased with the Yankees.

I mean, how could you not be? These are the $200 million dollar Yankees after all, the same team that Vegas put an unheard over/under on regular season wins at 101. The same Yankees that signed Randy Johnson to be the Ace, Carl Pavano to be the Ace Understudy and slotted in Mike Mussina into the super-cushy Backup-Ace Understudy slot. The offense featured a small army of All-Stars and future Hall of Famers. It was an embarassment of riches.

Well, the Yankees aren't going to win 101 games. I would seriously consider signing off on 91 at this point. Today, word came down from Dr. James Andrews -- a.k.a. the Grim Reaper of Shoulders -- that Carl Pavano had a case of right shoulder tendenitis and was most likely done for the season. Unfortunate, but not a big deal, we've still got the Big Unit right? Not right. It was also officially announced today that Johnson would miss his next scheduled start with a bad back that many in the organization fear may never get better. Well, it's a good thing we signed Jared Wright, right? Ummm, no. Wright -- a questionable signing from the beginning -- hasn't pitched since April 23, and only now appears close to making it back to a major league mound. How 'bout rookie sensation Chien-Ming Wang? Former superstar Kevin Brown? Ummmmm...you get the point.

I'm not the biggest of Brian Cashman fans, but the rash of injuries to the Yankees' rotation has been so unthinkable, so absurd, how could you put any blame on the general manager? If we really need a sacrificial lamb, can we please check the credentials of team trainer Steve Donahue? I know he's been in the Yankees' dugout for roughly 78 years now, but are we sure he wasn't somehow grandfathered into the position? Someone has to look into this.

The Yankees rotation now consists of Mike Mussina, Shawn Chacon, The Artist Formerly Known As Al Leiter, Aaron Small and a player to be named later. Not exactly the stuff that dreams -- or winning streaks -- are made of. And if you're starting to worry about the Yankees playoff prospects (now 5 games behind the Red Sox and 4 behind the A's for the final playoff spot) you are not being paranoid. This is a team in serious trouble.

Then how are the Yankees still eight games over .500 and within striking distance for a playoff spot? That one's simple. The 2005 Yankees may very well end up with the dubious distinction of being the first team to include the league's Most Valuable Player (A-Rod) and the Cy Young award winner (Mo Rivera) and not make the playoffs.

How good have these two guys been? A-Rod's had more game than Talan-Hawk-Thunder-Cloud (yep, two Laguna Beach references), earning every dollar of that monster contract -- relatively speaking, of course. And Mo? What else can be said? He's the greatest relief pitcher who's ever lived, bouncing back from last October's Red Sox miseries to have his best season ever at age 33.

The rest of the team has more or less delivered as expected. Cano has been a nice surprise at second, filling the offensive void of the bumbling old man in center who stole Bernie Williams' uniform. Sheffield, Jeter, Matsui, Mussina and Sturtze have performed more or less as expected. Posada has slipped a bit, but he is a 33-year-old catcher with a ton of postseason mileage on him. Giambi has been a great story, and an even bigger surprise. Joe Torre seems to lose a little more off his fastball every year, but he is still the right man to manage this group. The core is still there, and it will be there playoffs or not next season.

In the end, it all goes back to that shredded pitching staff. Whether it is bad luck, bad conditioning, bad front office decision-making or something else, it is becoming to be more and more a possibility that the franchise's postseason appearance streak won't live past 10. Is it time to deliver that eulogy speech on the 2005 season? I wouldn't go that far.

I would consider readying a draft of the speech on your laptop, however.

A-Rod's Revenge

2005-07-15T06:51:00.000-07:00

Balboa-Drago. Bayside-Valley. Hogan-Zeus.

In the annals of revenge, it stacked up with the greats.

Tie game, ninth inning, Fenway Park. Curt Schilling versus Alex Rodriguez. Gary Sheffield on second after another missle of an extra-base hit. The stage was set.

Schilling -- with a noticeable gut and goatee camoflauging a newfound double-chin -- fired a splitter towards his hated rival. The Boston ace's offering didn't split however, settling in the lower half of the strike zone. Right down the middle.

A-Rod powered his bat through the zone and made perfect contact, the ball jumping off his lumber to dead centerfield. Johnny Damon raced back to the fence but his actions were merely perfunctory. As Daily News writer Mike Lupica noted to Globe scribe Dan Shaugnessey in the Boston press box, Rodriguez's drive nearly tore a hole through the 2004 championship banner atop the centerfield flagpole. Game over.

Rodriguez didn't gloat after the game. He never does. His answers often seem as if he is reading off a teleprompter, carefully worded so as to offend no one, from rivals to teammates to bat boys. There's no Reggie Jackson in A-Rod. Yankees fans tend to struggle with this, a man with looks, un-godly baseball talents and a quarter billion dollar contract, unable or unwilling to express his superiority over an opponent. It'd be nice to see the Post featuring a grinning Rodriguez pointing at the camera with the headline, A-ROD: "EAT SHIT AND DIE SCHILLING" or maybe even random speculation, A-ROD LINKS 9/11 TO DOUG MIRABELLI. But alas, Rodriguez says nothing to sell papers, keeping it all inside.

But if he doesn't express his satisfaction with the media, it doesn't mean it's not there. The 29-year-old has taken his share of verbal barbs from the Sox over the past year. First came the infamous brawl last July in Fenway, when after contesting getting hit by a pitch, Sox catcher Jason Varitek got in his face and barked "We don't throw at .260 hitters." Ouch. After an expletive-filled exchange, Varitek shoved his mitt in A-Rod's face, igniting a bench-clearing brawl. The fight and subsequent dramatic Sox win was seen as a catalyst that led to Boston's title run. In the playoffs that season, Boston players, including Schilling, called Rodriguez "bush league" for his instinct-driven karate chop of Bronson Arroyo's glove hand in Game Six. Then came spring training, as one Boston player after another attacked A-Rod for not being "a true Yankee," having achieved none of the team accolades that marked the careers of Jeter, Posada, Williams and Rivera. The slight was unfair, because frankly, who else but those four players could claim such success?

But you knew it killed him. It killed him that he had a down year in his attempt to fit in with his new team and fanbase in 2004, killed him that he faltered in the final games of th ALCS, tore him up that his teammates didn't say a word in his defense.

When Sheffield finally spoke up for A-Rod during the All-Star break last week, saying that things would be different if Sox players went after A-Rod again, it was an important sign. His own team had finally accepted him -- even if it took MVP production for it happen. It had to be a load off his broad shoulders.

And then there was Schilling. Too often, he had been the catalyst of these unfair snipes at Rodriguez. Schilling, ye of the bloody sock, now badly out of shape and trying to contribute to his team as a closer. With one pitch, A-Rod finally answered back. A 430-foot answer. Sportswriters throughout New York would have given their lone collared shirt to quote what was going through A-Rod’s mind as he rounded the bases.

The road is still uncertain for these Yankees. Injuries have decimated the staff, and now it seems as if promising rookie Chien-Ming Wang is out for the season and then some with a bum shoulder. Tonight the Yankees send some dude named Tim Redding to the mound; if this were the WWF, Bobby Heenan would dismiss him as a "ham-and-egger." A tomato can. A pushover. I’ll call him batting practice.

The problems aren't going away, but for one evening they can be forgotten. For one night, Fenway, the New York-Boston rivalry -- and revenge -- belonged to A-Rod.

It's about time.

The Adventures Of Tony Clark

2005-06-08T11:06:00.000-07:00

The Kennedy assassination. Amelia Earhart's final flight. The whereabouts of Bin Laden. Zack Morris' first biological father.

All great world mysteries. All pale in comparison to this.

In a baseball season that continues to make less and less sense to me, this may be the ultimate kick-in-the-nuts-head-scratcher. Tony Clark is hitting .370? Tony Clark!!! I haven't been this confused since Doink The Clown temporarily paralyzed Crush with a mechanical arm.

Just so you know, through June 8th, Tony Clark, yes that Tony Clark, has as many or more RBI than the following Yankees (RBI totals are in captions):

Tino Martinez (30)
Jorge Posada (28)
Derek Jeter (21)
Bernie Williams (19)
Jason Giambi (15)
Ruben Sierra (10)
Tony Womack (10)

Excuse me while I go draw a warm bath and break out the razor blades.

(For those uncertain of Apple Sports Life's frustration, please contact Major League Baseball for games 4-7 of the 2004 American League Championship Series.)

Yankee Rising

2005-05-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

It was an inning that defined a young season...an inning that changed everything.

Friday night, May 6th, 10th inning, tie game. Light-hitting Oakland first baseman Scott Hatteberg pulls a bases loaded ground ball down the line to Tino Martinez, the Yankees normally sure-handed first baseman. Tonight would be an exception though. Martinez boots the ball, scoops it up, and fires wide past Jorge Posada at home. In his haste, he had failed to even touch up at first base. Everyone is safe, two runs score on the play. The Yankees would make three errors in all in the fateful inning, eventually losing a game that dropped the team to 11-19, dead last in the American League East. It was the franchise's worst 30-game start in nearly 40 years.

The Yankees, it seemed, had officially hit rock bottom.

Their fans weren't far behind. I was one of the lucky ones, fortunate enough to be an active dollar drink night participant at Rogo's in Hoboken. I watched the gory climax, took a deep shot and followed that with an even deeper breath.

"This cannot continue," I said to myself.

"Common logic dictates a change," I continued.

"I'm hungry," I digressed.

Who could have predicted such a freefall? Following the humiliation that was the 2004 ALCS, the Yankees were supposed to be locked and re-loaded, keyed by the trade for Randy Johnson, a transaction that secured the coveted ace they had missed so dearly against the Red Sox. Things started off well enough -- Johnson beat the Sox in the season opener and the team followed that with a second win over their hated rivals. A sweep was in the air when Joe Torre summoned Mariano Rivera to close out the series finale. Rivera buckled however, and the Sox escaped the Stadium with a win.

Watching Rivera falter again, as he did so famously the previous October, seemed to knock the wind out of the team. They danced with .500 for the season's first week before the losing march began. They looked old, slow and lethargic, taking punch after punch without so much as a return. The culprits were everywhere: Bernie was overmatched, Wright was The Bust, Johnson was hurting, Gordon was shell-shocked, Pavano and Mussina were shaky and Rivera wasn’t dominant. Giambi? He would be turned away from my softball team at this point. Meanwhile George stewed in his owner's box as rumors began to swirl that Mel Stottlemyre would suddenly have a lot of free time on his hands. Torre fired back at the rumors and criticized Steinbrenner for even considering such a short-sighted move. The Bronx Zoo had returned.

The national media, meanwhile, reveled in the struggles of the "$200 Million Dollar Team." The vultures were out in full force as countless stories publicized the team’s woes from every possible angle. It seemed that every columnist had waited for this moment...the end of the Yankees. Nostalgia swarmed for the days of Barfield, Balboni and Stankiewicz, days when Don Mattingly sat on the bench with long hair and a bad back and Stump Merrill day-dreamed how many sandwiches a .500 season could buy him. These were grim times indeed.

But something happened on the way to 1990. The Yankees stopped losing. Completely. Following the Friday night debacle versus Oakland, Mike Mussina tossed a complete game shutout to stop the bleeding. Kevin Brown -- whose wall-punching fiasco and subsequent ALCS meltdown made him the antithesis of everything the '90s Yankees epitomized -- followed with seven shutout innings of his own in a second straight win. And so it began. Following another shutout win last night in Seattle, the team has incredibly and improbably won 10 consecutive games – their longest winning streak since 1998.

The national media begrudgingly turned their venom elsewhere, recognizing their moment in the sun had passed. The Yankees were back.

Where do they go from here? A win tonight against The Artist Formerly Known As Jamie Moyer would complete a sweep of their West Coast swing and send them steaming into Shea for a showdown with an old friend named Pedro. How's that for drama? Meanwhile, the continued surprising play of the Orioles and Blue Jays, as well as the steady start by the Sox, still has the Yanks looking up in their division. The team has plenty of work to do, but do you honestly doubt their chances? I didn't think so.

Yes, the Yankees are back. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

Meet The Mets

2005-03-04T21:02:00.000-08:00

(The following is Part 2 of Apple Sports Life's New York baseball preview)

The year 2000 feels like a long time ago, doesn’t it?

It does for me anyway. It was my first year away at school, living in Boston, looking the very definition of homesick. The map for the “T” might as well have been in Chinese, my roommate smoked cheeb 22 hours a day, and I could count the number of friends I had on Jim Abbott’s right hand. Coincidentally, that fall would be the only semester of my college (or high school) life that I made a Dean’s List of any kind. The formula goes as follows: Zero Friends + Zero Sex Life x Intimidating New Environment = 3.7 G.P.A. I could write a book on the life of a transfer student. Just a surreal experience.

Anyway, I point Y2K out to highlight the last year that the New York Mets fielded a legitimate contender. After coming within a Kenny Rogers of pushing the heavily-favored Braves to a seventh game in the ’99 NLCS, the Mets -- behind the leadership of ever-entertaining Apple Sports Life fave Bobby V -- made the leap in 2000, securing a Wild Card berth for a second consecutive season and then disposing of the Cardinals and Diamondbacks to reach the Series. The successful run met a bitter end, however, as the Yankees put the final touches on a dynasty with a 4-1 Subway Series win. The hated team from The Bronx even celebrated at Shea. Ouch.

The Subway Series thumping seemed to knock the wind out of the franchise. Following a half-hearted defense of the NL pennant in 2001 and a worse stinker a year later, Bobby V was pushed out the door and off to Japan via the Baseball Tonight studio in Bristol. Cue the regretable Art Howe/Jim Duquette era, which I’m convinced was a Bud Selig case study to reveal what would happen to a major market team when a manager and GM team get overmatched in every possible situation. By the time the Batman and Robin of Incompetence were shown the door, the Mets had unfurled a trio of sub-.500 seasons.

The team was losing ugly too. Me and my sportswriter colleagues used to have a pool to see at what date in the season our Mets beat writer would crack and begin writing with open disdain for the team he was obligated to follow. Last year I believe the winning date was Sept. 4th...I just missed a free steak.

Losing is one thing, but it’s been more than that with the Mets. It is the "little brother" mentality that really drives everyone associated with organization nuts – from the fans straight to the top of the front office. The Yankees (playoffs spasms excluded) continue to be the picture of excellence: winning 100 games a year, selling out the Stadium, procuring network deals and signing the biggest free agents. George’s checkbook dictates an “Anything you can do, I can do better” mentality between the franchises…and it’s a tough act to live up to. If the Mets are Ashlee, the Yankees are most certainly Jessica.

So imagine your surprise as a Mets fan when after four years of getting beaten on by their older sibling, they actually hit back. Owner Fred Wilpon, presumably fed up with the abomination that has been building around him, hired Omar Minaya as the new GM and handed him the checkbook with a bunch of blank pages. Omar was desperate to make a splash upon taking the reigns, and he did that by signing Pedro Martinez. People that complained the Mets overspent (four years, $53 million) didn’t see the big picture. Omar was making a statement -- the Mets were not looking to rebuild.

Minaya then received an incredibly lucky break. The Yankees, tied up in a messy transaction for Randy Johnson, backed off in their efforts to acquire Astros stud CF Carlos Beltran. Minaya, seeing his good fortune, pounced on the opportunity. When the Astros couldn’t get a deal done, the Mets cashed in.

Suddenly, the Mets had signed the top everyday player on the market...and the top pitcher. Take that George. There was a new swagger in Flushing now, typified by the Mets decision to hold Beltran’s introductory press conference on the very day the Yankees introduced the Big Unit across town. George no like. This make George angry.

What you have now is one of baseball's most intriguing teams. Intriguing, because there are so many perplexing questions: What does Piazza have left? Will Kaz Matsui handle his shift to second? Can Jose Reyes finally stay healthy? Can David Wright make the leap? How will the mild-mannered Beltran handle New York? Will the bullpen get anybody out?

And then there’s Pedro. The days of 23 wins, 300 K's and a 1.75 ERA may be long gone, but a 18-8, 3.00, 200 I.P., 220 K season is certainly fathomable, isn’t it? More importantly, he is a proven winner who is too proud to watch a team crumble around him. Like him or hate him, he's succeeded in whatever he's done. That can be infectious.

With all those question marks, it’s tough to gauge this team. If somebody found Biff’s Sports Almanac from Back To The Future 2 and told me the Mets won 90 games in 2005, I wouldn’t be shocked. On the flipside, a 90 loss season wouldn’t floor me either.

But at least little brother hit back for once. If anything, it’s a start.

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New York Mets (2004 record: 71-91, fourth place, NL East)

Key Arrivals: RHP Pedro Martinez, CF Carlos Beltran, 1B Doug Mientkiewicz, LHP Felix Heredia, 2B Miguel Cairo

Key Departures: LHP Al Leiter, LHP John Franco, C Vance Wilson, RF Richard Hidalgo
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An Open Letter to Isiah Thomas

2005-02-28T14:13:00.000-08:00

Isiah Thomas
President, Basketball Operations, New York Knickerbockers
Four Penn Plaza, 2nd Floor
New York, NY 10021

Mr. Thomas,

Salutations Mr. Thomas, I hope this letter meets you in good health and spirits. If you don’t mind, I’m going to refer to you as Isiah for the balance of this letter.

Isiah, I’ve been meaning to write you for some time now and your recent acquisitions at the trade deadline last week finally spurred me into action. By way of introduction, I am a 24-year-old lifelong devotee of your organization. Some of my favorite moments as a sports fan came courtesy of your team, from Starks’ dunk over MJ in the ’93 playoffs to Ewing’s putback slam to clinch the ’94 conference championship to Houston’s leaner against the Heat five years after that. I cherish these memories and I must thank your franchise for that.

So please understand Isiah why I must call you to task on your recent moves as the Knicks chief of basketball operations. I cannot grasp what your plan is for my team, and judging by public outcry, I am not alone in this. To be honest Isiah, I have no clue what you are thinking. If you don’t mind, I’m going to refer to you as Thomas for the balance of this letter.

You see Thomas, when you were announced as the new leader of my team, we were apprehensive. We had heard the stories: How you were a talented but dirty and inherently unlikable player, how you ran the long-running CBA into the ground, how your teams with the Raptors and Pacers always seemed to underachieve with above-average talent.

And while we had our reservations, we gave you a chance. Maybe it was those two rings, maybe it was because Patrick was gone and we needed something fresh, maybe we saw you watch those games from the tunnel with that sly smile, and we believed no man could look so supremely confident without the goods to back it up. How misguided we were.

If you don’t mind, I’m going to refer to you as The Problem for the balance of this letter.

Sadly, it comes down to this: In just 14 months on the job, you have effectively destroyed any chance for my team to contend for a NBA title for the next 10 years. Almost out of defiance to the previous regime, you overhauled an entire roster, intent on making it out of your own image.

You chose to build around a point guard who is paid like franchise player but has never played like one. You took on career underachievers and traded away serviceable talent. Last week you jettisoned your only true center essentially to get back two first round draft picks that are higher than ODB. You took back a couple of has-beens, never-will-bes and another $23 million on your already shipwrecked cap number to boot. No general manager in the NBA gets more thank you cards and fruit cakes during the holidays than you.

I am writing you this letter so that you will go away. We don’t want you here anymore. When the stories circulated that you were going to skip town on yet another franchise/organization that you had doomed, we just hoped the door wouldn’t hit your Armani suit on the way out. Of course, we weren’t that lucky.

I don’t know if you know this, but there was a time when the Garden was the most exciting place in sports. Maybe you remember the electricity of MSG as a player -- it was a jolting current that could lift players and teams to another level. That current is gone now. Do you know where it is?

Of course you don't. And that’s why you’re The Problem. You don’t have any answers. No substance, only style. We know better now, but it's too late. You’re a fraud, and we’re just along for the ride…one poor decision at a time.

Sincerely,

A troubled fan

Thank you, Barry

2005-02-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

February is a pretty difficult month for me.

With both Woman’s History Month and Black History Month in full swing, I’m already feeling a bit overlooked. Even more pressing, February is the unquestionable graveyard of the sports calendar, which puts things on a whole different level. The NFL and college football are history. Baseball is just shaking out the cobwebs. NCAA hoops won’t truly heat up until March. The Knicks and Nets are floundering, rendering the NBA useless. The AFL, featuring Bon Jovi’s Philadelphia Soul, the Georgia Force, and the New Orleans VooDoo, may or may not exist. The NHL is dunzo, though that’s not such a biggie for me seeing as I haven’t watched a complete hockey game since Game 7 of the 1994 Stanley Cup finals.

Needless to say, these are the 28 worst days of the sports year. And that’s why my ride home from work was so special yesterday. If the battery on my iPod hadn’t had kicked an hour earlier, I may have never have heard it. But the stars were aligned. A feast of entertainment was about to poured out upon me.

The date was February 22, 2005. Or, as it will be known from this day forward, The Day Barry Bonds Was Proven Insane.

For those unfamiliar with the situation, Barry Bonds – sitting on both 703 home runs and the biggest drug scandal in the history of American sports – reported to the San Francisco Giants spring training complex in Scottsdale, Ariz. yesterday.

Bonds was expected to be hit with a barrage of questions regarding BALCO and the steroid scandal that he is the face of. In a defiant tone and with the biggest head I've ever seen, Bonds went on the offensive.

Some particularly insane excerpts from Barry’s press conference with reporters: (transcripts courtesy of ESPN.com)

Q. Jose maintains that he did take steroids -- [inaudible] -- Mike Greenwell feels he should get the MVP because Canseco admitted that he used steroids. What's your opinion on that? And people who achieve awards, should there be an asterisk or maybe it taken back?

BONDS: … I mean, you can't -- you guys are like rerun stories. This is just -- this is old stuff. I mean, it's like watching "Sanford and Son," you know, you just, rerun after rerun after rerun.

You guys, it's like, what, I mean, you can't -- it's almost comical, basically. I mean, we've got alcohol that's the No. 1 killer in America and we legalize that to buy in the store. You've got, you know, you've got tobacco number two, three killer in America, we legalize that. There's other issues. You guys are going to be the same people next week as some tragedy happened, how we need to save our children and everything else and next week, you're the same people sitting there coming, how we should be doing this and how we're evil people, or, you know, you guys, it's one thing after another. You know, pick one side or the other. Are y'all going to be good people or are you all going to be who you are and make the game or sports what it is? It's become "Hard Copy" all day long. Are you guys jealous? Upset? Disappointed? What?

Ummmm…okay. And no Mike Greenwell, you can't have the 1988 MVP award. You idiot.

Q. Everybody in this room agrees with what you said, this is a circus --
BONDS: I like you. What's your name, man?
Q. What would be your solution to end the circus?
BONDS: I think that allow Major League Baseball, Bud Selig and the Union and its players, allow the drug testing program to work. Allow it to work. Let's go forward. I truly believe that we need to go forward. Okay, you cannot rehash the past. If that's the case, we're going to go way back into 19th, 18th centuries in rehashing the past and we'll crush a lot of things in a lot of sports if that's what you guys want. If you just want a lot of things out of the sports world, then we can go back into the 1800s and basically asterisk a lot of sports if that's what you choose and that's what you want to do.
If that's going to make you happy and everything, then go right ahead, figure it out, who you want, it's going to go all the way down the line.
But, things that happen in sports, in all sorts of sports, it's time to move on. Every time there has been incident, it has been corrected and now that it's being corrected, I think we need to go forward, move forward, let it go. Y'all stop watching Red Foxx in rerun shows and let's go ahead and let the program work and allow us to do our job.

Did Barry just reference 1700s America and Red Foxx in the same answer? Yes. Yes he did.

Q. What's going to be your approach to repair it from here on out? [Do] you expect other people to come clean and move forward?
BONDS: We just need to go out there and do our jobs, just as you professionals do your job. All you guys lied. All of y'all and the story or whatever have lied. Should you have asterisk behind your name? All of you lied. All of you have said something wrong. All of you have dirt. All of you. When your closet's clean, then come clean somebody else's. But clean yours first, okay.
But I think right now baseball just needs to go forward and you guys need to turn the page and let's move forward. Let us play the game, and we will fix it. I think we all want to, I think we all have a desire to. I think we all are hurting, including myself.

Barry has now labeled over 100 bitter sports reporters in a cramped room as “liars.” This will not go over well.

Q. What are we moving forward from?
BONDS: OK. Strike one, ball one, one out, cheer, boo, yeah, game over, let's go home. I mean, what else do you want to talk about? You know, there's a sports world -- the sports world is as bad as it is because this is the only business that allows you guys in our office to begin with. You can't just go to Bank of America, walk in the office, start interviewing employees. Just the sports world. Well, what for? Well, we don't want to get into the money aspect of it; we'll leave that to the side.

“OK. Strike one, ball one, one out, cheer, boo, yeah, game over, let’s go home.” Must…find time machine…to change…senior quote.

February had just went from an Iron Sheik-level heel to Marty Jannety-level baby face in 25 glorious minutes. I listened to this gold mine on WFAN and following the interview, Mike and The Mad Dog chimed in with their own insights. Mike Francesa labeled the diatribe as “one of the strangest press conferences he’d ever seen” while repeatedly saying “bizzahhh.” Chris Russo – a diehard Giants fan – referred to Bonds as a “weird guy” at least 18 times. I think I agree.

I took the remaining time in my car to reflect on all the insane goodness that Barry had suddenly brought into my life. One day, when my grandson sits on my lap and asks me about the great Barry Bonds and his 800 career home runs, I’ll no longer be at a loss to explain this controversial figure and his place in history.

“OK. Strike one, ball one, one out, cheer, boo, yeah, game over, let’s go home.”

For this Barry, you maniacal bastard, I thank you. We all do.

A Super Sunday

2005-02-08T08:53:00.000-08:00

Is there anything more universal in this country than Superbowl Sunday? It’s a day where everybody is doing the same thing, where degenerate gamblers and girls who love seven-layer bean dip can unite for a common cause. It’s also the only day of the year where an entire city can sell out of Tostitos, as happened in Hoboken on Sunday. That itself is kind of cool, if not wildly inconvenient.

My Super Sunday started off just as every other since I was eight years old. I wake up just south of 9 a.m. and make a bee-line towards my couch to ESPN2, where they run a marathon of those classic 30-minute Superbowl recap shows by NFL films. This year I woke up at about 8:45 or so (after a night of heavy drinking no less) tuning in just in time to see a coked up LT dragging down John Elway in the second quarter of Superbowl XXI.

For those unfamiliar with the Superbowl recaps, you’re seriously missing out. You won’t find a better combination of timelessness and datedness on celluloid. Each show opens with a blast of programmed synthesizer against a picture montage of famous Superbowl heroes transposed next to the Vince Lombardi trophy. The images are of the Superbowl greats – beginning with Lombardi and ending with Montana (who was the Numero Uno Hombre when many of these films were produced).

The intro then gives way to a beaming Steve Sabol, who is nothing short of an icon in my book. The NFL Films president and son of company founder Ed Sabol, Sabol wears stupendous multi-colored sweaters while dolling out a brisk and effective intro and outro of each game.

The game footage itself is tremendous, featuring intimate camera work and miked up sideline insights from everyone from Bart Starr to Terry Bradshaw to Troy Aikman. The slow motion replays that define the series are classic– a practice that would later become an industry standard. The play-by-play dialogue is laughably endearing, where a gruff voiceover professional spouts ridiculous line like, “While Boomer Esiason looked as cold as a Cincinnati winter, Joe Montana and the 49ers were creating a heat wave.” And then there’s the music, which serves as the backdrop for everything. Contemporary to the time of production, Superbowls from the ‘60s feature big band flair, while many of the ‘70s Cowboys and Steelers classics possess an acute disco inflection. By the time the ‘80s roll around, creepy synth and random guitar squeals rule the day, the perfect soundtrack for The Fridge, Phil Simms and Doug Williams.

It's my own personal 12-hour pre-game show...and I don't even have to listen to Chris Collinsworth telling me how he's right and I'm wrong. It's perfect.

Some quick points from Sunday:

-- Paul McCartney is really old: Listen, I love the Beatles. And while I’ll always be more of a Lennon guy than a McCartney guy, you won’t ever catch me legitimately bashing Macca. The guy is a legend. But hiring a 65-year-old with dyed brown hair to play on the world’s biggest stage just smacked of banality, an insult to everyone involved. Sitting in my living room with some friends on Sunday, my roommate Dude Love (a tepid music fan who once ventured in a music quiz that Ringo Starr played saxophone for the Beatles) commented that this was “the worst halftime show he’d ever seen.” The sad thing is, there were probably 30 million other people across the country saying the same thing. Wrong place, wrong time for McCartney and a gutless choice by the NFL. And yes, this upsets me.

-- Boring ass commercials: Another byproduct of the Janet Jackson fiasco, commercials took a decidedly “cute” turn for Superbowl XXXIX. I can’t even think of one spot that legitimately stood out to me as funny. Certainly nothing that made me want to buy something…which is what I think commercials are supposed to do. I think.

And while we’re on the topic of commercials, did anybody see Buddy from “Just One Of The Guys” in that new Circuit City spot? Oh man, 2005 may have already hit its high point. How Buddy (real name Billy Jacoby) has been forced into doing pride-swallowing electronic store commercials to pay the rent of his seedy east L.A. apartment (okay, this is how I picture it) is beyond me. I mean…HE WAS BUDDY! “All balls itch! It’s a fact!”

--Terrell Owens shuts them up: His nine catch, 120-yard performance served as a big ole FU to the white sports media that ripped him all week for being selfish to his team for trying to play. If Andy Reid hadn't read the Herman Edwards Clock-Management handbook before the game, Owens may have been the MVP. After the game, Owens correctly asserted that Brett Favre would have been treated as a saint had he done the same thing. He wasn’t out of line…and this is coming from me, a former white sportswriter. There seems to be a double standard at play here, possibly a guilt by association situation brought on by the Randy Moss/Ray Lewis/Jamal Lewis generation of NFL stars. For a guy without any drug busts, assault charges or offensive hip hop records, he sure seems to get a bad rap. And no, I don’t defend him solely because he was on my fantasy team this year.

Okay, mostly, but not solely.

-- The Patriots are really, really good: The first post-Yankees dynasty has officially arrived. People seem to miss the reasons why this team is so good, reasons that I’ve seen up close as they’ve handed the Jets their lunch for the better part of the decade. This is a team with an assassin for a quarterback, a strong core of solid role players on both sides of the ball and, perhaps most importantly, one of the greatest combinations of coaches ever assembled on one staff. It may be a different formula than your daddy’s dynasties, but it’s just as effective. In the salary cap era, maybe even more so.

Staying warm by the Hot Stove

2005-01-26T08:51:00.000-08:00

We’re going to step away from the NFL today.

There are a couple of motives behind this. First, I realize I’ve been a bit football heavy of late – I may be one NFL column away from morphing into Peter King and writing about my daughter’s field hockey team and the newest mocha offerings at Starbucks for the rest of my days. I'd like to avoid this if possible.

More importantly, I’ve been specifically advised by Apple Sports Life physicians to refrain from writing any further on the Jets and their recent tribulations until my heart rate safely drops from its current Rick James 1982 Super Freak World Tour-levels. The last month of football may have single-handedly shattered the Agony-Ecstasy scale of sports fandom and quite frankly, no more Jets games until September may be the only cure.

So with that out of the way, let’s turn our attention to Hot Stove baseball. In a town that can’t get enough of baseball, is there anything better? It’s become like the season before the season – or maybe even more apt, the season that decides the season. The Yankees are up to their usual tricks following Game 7, which was to be expected. Steinbrenner has predictably gone insane, asking his high-powered baseball executives for little more than coffee and donuts for the last three months. Shockingly, he’s done a serviceable job. The Mets have made this off-season particularly memorable in New York – hemorrhaging money quicker then…well…Rick James during his 1982 Super Freak World Tour.

With that said, I’m going to breakdown the Yankees and Mets off-season movement. I’ll do this in two parts because before I even start typing, I guarantee I’ll end up rambling on for 1,000 words or so on the Yankees. The Mets shouldn’t always be the bridesmaid, should they? Wait, don’t answer that.

New York Yankees (2004 record: 101-61, A.L. East Division Champions, lost to Boston (4-3) in the ALCS)

Comings: LHP Randy Johnson, RHP Carl Pavano, RHP Jaret Wright, LHP Mike Stanton, OF Doug Glanville, 1B Tino Martinez, 2B Tony Womack, INF Rey Sanchez, RHP Felix Rodriguez

Goings: RHP Javier Vasquez, RHP John Leiber, 1B Tony Clark, 1B John Olerud, 2B Miguel Cairo, OF Kenny Lofton, 1B/DH Jason Giambi’s credibility, LHP Felix Heredia, RHP Esteban Loaiza

Listen. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the Yankees needed to accomplish this off-season. For all of last year’s regular season success, the convincing playoff showing against the Twins and even jumping ahead 3-0 on Boston, anyone that closely followed the team knew they were a fatally flawed bunch. With a pitching rotation thinner than a Saved By The Bell: The College Years script, the best you could do was cross your fingers, turn your collar up and hope to slip through the cracks of October without being noticed.

Well, they got noticed. It’s easy to sit back today and ridicule them for “choking” away the ALCS, thus cheapening the immense achievement of your own team (yes, I’m looking at you Bill Simmons) but in reality, the 2004 Yankees were a team teetering on the brink of disaster from August on. Vasquez and Brown were unequivocal busts and when the resurgent El Duque was finished off by a dead arm in late September (a truly overlooked aspect of the team’s downfall) the Yankees were a ticking time bomb. Once the ship began to take on water following Rivera’s blown save in Game 4, there were no aces of yesteryear to save the day. It was baseball’s version of the Titanic – sans Kate Winslet’s fat ass.

So, what do you do when you’re the universe’s most lucrative sports franchise and you need pitching? Time’s up. You buy pitchers. The biggest acquisition of course was Randy Johnson, who couldn’t possibly be any uglier. Luckily, he also may be the most dominating left-handed pitcher in the modern era, so I guess you take the good with the bad. Johnson is a stud the Yankees have coveted since ’98, and he gives them back that true ace that can go toe-to-toe with any other pitcher in the game. Losing Vasquez in the deal is more than forgivable -- add him to the laundry list of players who didn’t have the chops to cut it in New York. (Paging Kenny Rogers…you have a phone call at the front desk…)

The Carl Pavano signing has the potential to swing the division. An argument can be made that Johnson and Schilling cancel each other out (pending Mrs. Schilling’s recovery from ankle surgery, of course). But Pavano swings the balance of power between the starting rotations. This is especially key when remembering that Pavano (an ex-Sox farmhand wunderkind and Connecticut native who grew up idolizing Donnie Baseball) waited until the final hour to decide between the Sox and Yanks. Keep that in mind when CP is facing Wade Miller’s injury replacement in the ALCS.

The remaining off-season movement has been more or less window dressing. Jared Wright has bust written all over him, but when you’re the Yankees you can take a $21 million chance on a No. 4 starter. Tino Martinez was a nice nostalgia signing, I believe he recently did some commentary on I Love the 90s Part Deux. And while Tino isn't the dangerous offensively force he once was, if he gives you .260, 18 and 70 and plays his usual solid defensive first base, sign me up. It’s obviously a huge upgrade over Tony Clark who, God love him, made every Red Sox pitcher during last year’s ALCS look like Brendan Frasier in The Scout.

(An incredulous Bob Costas, paycheck in hand) "Steve Nebraska has struck out 26 straight Cardinals on 78 pitches!!! No mortal can stand in the way of history!!! Except for maybe one!!! One man who could end the perfection…a man who has had an uncharacteristic power surge here in the playoffs…a man whose wicked stroke knows no bounds…the great one…The Wizard of Oz...OZZIE SMITH!!!"

(Okay, I’m paraphrasing above, but casting a 40-year-old Ozzie Smith as the most feared hitter in baseball has to be the most egregious stretch in the history of sports and cinema. I mean, The Scout was released in 1994. Were Al Belle, Frank Thomas or Jose Canseco really unavailable? Hell, I’d even take Ozzie Canseco if given the choice. This just kills me.)

And yet I digress.

Miguel Cairo was a nice surprise last season, but he cut his own throat in contract negotiations and the Yankees scooped up Tony Womack instead. This may prove to be a solid upgrade by season’s end. If Stanton can get back some of that old Yankees magic, he’ll be a great left-handed option out of the pen. Add that to the fact that he was traded for the tragically awful Felix Heredia (to the Mets, no less) and this could end up a very smart move.

And then there’s Jason Giambi. (Cracks knuckles...)

If ever there was a cautionary tale in the modern day free agency era, Giambi is it. He was a perfect fit in Oakland, the face of a Gashouse-type team and the game’s most dangerous left-handed hitter not named Bonds. But he turned down a more than generous offer to stay with the A’s and followed a greener money trail to New York. Giambi's life hasn't been the same since. He has never looked comfortable here, even when he was playing well. And that has not been often, other than a five month stretch in his first season with the team. Now, along with Bonds (ironically), he is the face of the steroid scandal, largely due to the uniform he wears. His body is shot from excessive drug use. He’ll never be the same player who won the MVP in 2000, never come close to earning the millions of guaranteed dollars owed to him in that fateful backloaded contract. Will the Stadium rain boos on him come April? My gut feeling is no, New York likes an underdog and you won’t find a more forgiving fan nation. But if Torre decides to throw him in the fire as a full-time DH/1B, and he’s batting .185 in early-May…look out. His nightmare may be just beginning.

We’ll tackle the Mets next time…

The More Things Change...

2005-01-20T08:21:00.000-08:00

It’s a well-worn expression by now, three words uttered so many times by so many people that an explanation is no longer necessary. Equipped with a semi-tangible knowledge of the game and any sense of history and you have everything you’ll need to understand.

Same Old Jets.

Three words that say it all. Three agonizing words that hurt even to type. Three words that perfectly sum up the complete and utter incompetence of an organization that has been marked by failure since the day a victorious Joe Willie walked out of the Orange Bowl too long ago.

With each passing season, that night in 1969 recedes further in the franchise’s rear view mirror. For people like me who were not around for it, Superbowl III exists merely as legend, alongside Babe’s called shot, the Loch Ness Monster and Skee Lo’s follow-up to “I Wish.”

When WFAN personality and long-suffering Jets fan Joe Benigno told New York Newsday last week that this was the golden age of Jets football, he wasn’t kidding. The statement was an indictment of the franchise’s failure more than anything else, a telling statement that typified how very little the franchise has accomplished. For perspective, in earning a playoff berth in three of the last four years, the team nearly matched the number of playoff appearances for the franchise in the previous two decades combined (4 to 3). Just remarkable. There is no history for this team post-Namath, just infamy.

And it's all of these factors combined that makes Saturday’s 20-17 overtime loss to the Steelers all the worse to stomach. This team was there. They were different than the others. Destiny, for once, seemed on their side. But by 8 p.m. a familiar reality had set in, the Jets forced to cope with arguably the most excruciating loss in the franchise’s history.

There’s no way it should have ended that way either. The Steelers were in their quintessential gag mode, at home, huge favorites, basically begging the Jets to finish them off. Roethlisberger looked like a rookie, Bill Cowher’s jaw was quivering, the crowd was tight as a drum.

But the Jets couldn’t get it done. When Doug Brien pulled his best Ray Finkle impression, missing back-to-back game-winning field goals to close out regulation (including one off the crossbar – classic Jets), it was just the culmination of a day of misfires. The New York Post would blindly demonize Brien as the Jets new Bill Buckner the next day, not recognizing that the epic loss was a team effort, a failure that only the Jets could have managed.

Back in college, I had the opportunity to watch the Patriots in Boston during their first championship run. New England wasn't an all-time great team that year, but they were an opportunistic one...a group that knew what it took to win. If the Jets had Adam Vinatieri instead of Doug Brien, are the Jets golfing today? If you inserted Brady for Pennington, do you think Brady misses the critical Pop Warner-level third down conversion to Moss following Bettis’ red zone fumble? If Bill Belichick was on the sideline instead of Herman Edwards, would Belichick pull the reigns back in the final minute to settle on a 43-yard field goal in the hardest building in football to make a kick? The answer to all three is a resounding no.

In the end this was a Jets team just like all the ones before it…a well-meaning group that couldn’t get the job done when it counted most. They played like a team afraid to succeed, in the end earning the rightful distinction as a loser because of it.

Following the game, the media swarmed around Brien like vultures, picking at the corpse of a guy who will wear the scarlet letter as damaged goods for the rest of his career. The Jets place kicker looked shaken, apologizing to everyone he could think of.

Everyone that is, except the fans…probably the one group of people that these losses affect the most. Fortunately or unfortunately, I attended an open bar party later that night, self-medicating with my good friends Tanqueray and Tonic. Sitting in a cab on the way home, a pang in my stomach rang out, almost reminding the inebriated version of myself of what had transpired earlier in the day. Quietly I stewed, angry that one game and one team could affect me so much.

But it does. And they will. And I’ll be back for more next year, unrequited in my affection for a team that has given me nothing but gray hairs and heartache my whole life. Because deep down, there's a part of me that feels this will all turn one day, that common logic will rule the day. Until then, the long wait for September begins.

Same Old Jets. Couldn’t put it any better myself.

Sizing up Wildcard Weekend

2005-01-04T06:35:00.000-08:00

Let me preface this by saying I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Chances are you don't need that disclaimer. You are reading an erraticly-at-best updated Web log, after all, one that actually features a column trumping the New York Jets (yes, those New York Jets) as your next Superbowl champions. Surely I typed in jest you say. Nope. I was actually serious...a little drunk...but serious nonetheless.

I'm also the same guy that has failed to make my fantasy football playoffs the last three years, a lowly distinction previously designated to autistic children and carnies. I've never played a down of organized football in my life, opting for the safer pastures of the soccer field. Full disclosure, I quit before my sophomore year after realizing that soccer sucked worse than Wrangler jeans. I get sweats to this day at the thought of the Juggling Drill. And if you don't know what the Juggling Drill is, well man, consider yourself lucky.

And yet I digress.

So, a questionable pedigree to say the least. But no matter, because here at Apple Sports Life we like to throw caution to the wind. I'm going to take a crack at Wild Card weekend with one promise: If I get anything less than three of four games correct, I will retire from making NFL predictions.

For a couple of weeks anyway. Onto the picks…

(In honor of HBO immortals Len Dawson and Nick Buoniconti, we're going to do these picks "Inside The NFL" style. No spreads, just the winner. Like men. And by men, I mean like a man who holds the worst Fewest Bets Placed : Most Money Lost ratio in the history of modern sports. Onto the picks…)

Rams at Seahawks (Saturday, 4:30 p.m.)

Is there a more unlikable man alive than Mike Martz? I know there are more established villains in the world, your Bin Laden's and Jon Norris' and what not, but Martz is zooming up the charts, thanks in large part to his smart-ass attitude and please-please-please-punch-me-in-my-stupid-pompous-face routine. The press, his players and his fans all universally despise him and yet he remains gainfully employed. The NFL is funny like that. Make a Superbowl appearance and its like a stay of execution that can last for years. It's the NFL's Overblown Credibility Club. After the Rams became the first team to back into the playoffs with a win Sunday against the Jets, CBS showed a slow motion celebration cackle by Martz that put even Vince McMahon to shame. As for the Seahawks? I think they'll find a way at home, even though Mike Holmgren has been coasting for years on the same bogus cred as Martz. I believe Holmgren handles the books and cleans the pool at the OCC. A side note: I found Shaun Alexander's blowup after narrowly losing out on the rushing title to C. Martin strangely forgivable. Obviously, it came off poorly considering he was in the locker room of a team that had just clinched a division title, but I have to say, I'd be agitated in his place. Alexander is a tremendous player. He has carried that team (20!?! touchdowns) all season. His frustration, although ill-timed, has to be somewhat justified if it costs him serious bonus money. The NFL is different from any other major sport in that these guys aren't set for life just by staying in the game for a couple years. Contracts are backloaded and non-guaranteed -- one awkward cut or ugly pileup could end the ride. Chances are, Alexander will have more money than God by the time he's 30, but the risk in football remains. I think these guys worry about that more than most people think. Pick: Seahawks

Chargers at Jets (Saturday, 8 p.m.)

When the weather gets nasty and I feel the need to vomit at least once a week, that must mean the Jets are playing meaningful late-season football. It's like the stirring of livestock before a twister. This team was flying high a month ago, sitting at 9-3 with "statement games" against the Steelers and Patriots on the docket. Fast forward to the present and the Jets are 10-6 and without a shred of confidence or continuity to be found. Edwards and offensive coordinator Paul Hackett have been lambasted by the media of late, and rightly so. But that truth has partially deflected the blows away from Chad Pennington, who has been uglier than a 4 a.m. PATH train of late. It's funny. Six months ago this guy was "The Franchise" and now most Jets fans don't know what to think about him anymore. As someone who put down a 60 spot for his replica jersey, I stay on the ship for now, but for financial reasons alone. Between the shoulder injury suffered in Week 9 and his strange mini-war with the New York press following the Seattle win in Week 15, Pennington's rep has taken a real hit of late. He desperately needs to show up this weekend. Unfortunately, I'm not sure he can do that right now…not in his current physical (and possibly mental) state. As for the Chargers, you don't win 12 games by accident and the Drew Brees Redemption has been a miracle on par with the Virgin Mary grilled cheese. This was the same guy who teetered on the brink of the NFL scrapheap as recently as a Week 2 loss to these same Jets. Now he's one of the one of the best passers in the league. Figure that one out. The Chargers offense with Tomlinson and Gates is scary, and the normally stout Jets defense shit the bed in a loss to the Rams on Sunday. Throw in the fact that the game is being played in SoCal, and this should be an easy win for the Bolts. But it's never that easy with the Jets. Believe me on this. Going down in flames after a 5-0 start with a one-and-done swan song would be too simplistic. "They didn't have the team," an excepting Jets fan would say. But it doesn't work that way. It never has…and it never will. The Heartbreak Hotel remains vacant for another week.Pick: J-E-T-S

Broncos at Colts (Sunday, 1 p.m.)

If you're smelling blowout here, you are not alone (cue creepy Michael Jackson-Lisa Marie Presley vid clip). Peyton Manning and Peyton Manning's deformed head will shine here, leading to a week of ESPN.com and SportsCenter reports attempting to tie him to Easter Sunday. Five touchdowns here for Manning is not out of the question, one can only hope that he picks on Champ Bailey, who was exposed this season worse than Hootie and The Blowfish in '95. In related news, Dan Marino appeared in Hootie's 1995 classic video "Only Want To Be With You," throwing a pass to lead singer and ardent Fish fan Darius Rucker. Rucker dropped the ball, just as he would do a year later with the release of "Fairweather Johnson." On the Broncos side, Mike Shanahan (a founding member of the Overblown Credibility Club) will do his usual routine, looking as if he has to take a dump for three straight hours. Jake Plummer will take his helmet off following ill-advised pass attempts and expose his unsightly beard. Laughter will ensue. Pick: Colts.

Vikings at Packers (Sunday, 4:30 p.m.)

A few thoughts on the Vikings. First off, giving Mike Tice a contract extension after the Vikes latest inexcusable slide job is like giving Breckin Meyer another primetime sitcom after "Inside Schwartz." You just don't do it. Tice, who exudes a Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer quality that makes him oddly endearing, seems like a nice enough guy, but I wouldn't leave him alone with my iPod for 10 minutes. He has a bizarre knack at messing things up. On the other side, you have Brett Favre, who I predict will be willed to at least three TD passes by whichever announcing team is working the game. Old white announcer guys loooove Brett Favre. It's uncanny. I swear I heard Paul Maguire climax after a Favre eight-yard scramble last month. I think I read somewhere that Dan Dierdorf doesn't wear his wedding band when calling Favre games. Dick Enberg's plea bargain dictates he stay 1000 yards from Lambeau until 2008. I wish I was making this stuff up. Pick: Packers

Jacksonville Or Bust

2004-12-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

They did again. Those bastards got me again.

Every season, year after year, I tell myself not to let this happen. "Dan, you've been hurt before," I say. "You can do so much better. It's not worth it." And yet each time, I cast the good angel on my right shoulder aside, instead buying into the wicked tonic offered by the green devil to my left. Helpless, I drink it down deep. It tastes so good.

The New York Jets are going to win the Superbowl.

This is our year. I can't explain it, I just know. Yes, I know I haven't always gotten this right -- and by always I mean never -- but still. This season is different. This year we make history.

I know there are obstacles. I'm fully aware that Peyton Manning, and Peyton Manning's giant deformed head, score more than John Sencio in his prime. I know that Peyton's brother Fredo, er, Eli, dies a little more every week as Ben Roethlisberger extends his modestly impressive unbeaten streak with the Steelers. And yes, I've heard of a somewhat bourgeoning dynasty percolating within my own division, some team from Foxboro with 26 wins in their last 27 games. Like that's supposed to impress me? Sha.

Here's how I see it: If the Red Sox can win a World Series, surely the Jets can win a Superbowl. Contrary to my original belief, the universe did not collapse unto itself when the Sox won. That was surprising. When the universe remained in orbit when Jimmy Fallon ran on the field to celebrate said World Series victory, something was officially fishy. When ODB overdosed, thus extinguishing my theory that Big Baby Jesus would one day take over the world...that cinched it. The 2000s are the millennium when crazy shit goes down. Dunzo.

In all honesty, I don't see what's keeping this team from the next step. Offensively, Pennington is a born leader with the goods to back it up, the offensive line looks infallible, and Curtis Martin...what can you say at this point? He's making me re-think my whole theory on dating black professional athletes. I didn't think any man could make me feel that away again -- not since Roberto Kelly left.

And then there is the defense. Just a tremendously improved unit. Say what you will about Herman Edwards, buy my man knows personnel. After jettisoning the transcendently mediocre Ted Cotrell as defensive coordinator last year, Herm went out and got himself the meanest, nastiest SOB he can find in Donnie Henderson, who quickly whipped the D in shape. They got smart with their talent as well. Linebackers Mo Lewis and Marvin Jones - who hadn't made an impact for the franchise since the George Sr. administration - were sent to the big farm upstate for presumed euthanization. Starters for an awful Jets D last year, both are now out of football...which says quite a lot if you think about it. The team got quicker, drafting future star Jonathan Vilma with their first pick (12th overall), which is great if only for the fact that when the Jets play on Monday Night Football they have another guy to blurt out "The U!!!" in the starting lineup introductions. Gets me every time.

I've concluded that every team standing in the Jets way has a flaw. The Steelers? They have an absurdly poor track record with home playoff games in their past. Besides that, Big Ben seems primed for a letdown worse than the new Wilco album. The Colts? Well, I've already mentioned Peyton Manning's head (which is both huge and deformed) and then there is the matter of defense. Those things are pretty important to winning in January the last time I checked. The Eagles play in the NFC, which I'm not even sure is covered by FOX at this point.

Then there are the Patriots. The damn Patriots. Haven't quite grasped their Achilles' heel just yet. Let's see. Their coach is incompetent? Nope. Their quarterback is homely-looking and generally unlikable? Not quite. Ummmmm. No running game! Oh wait. Screw it, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

The bottom line here is that this is a destiny thing. Just like the Red Sox were destined for success, just like Jason Giambi's pituitary gland was destined for failure. You can't fight God's will, you just have to embrace it.

I've been wrong before. And by before I mean always. But this is different. A new day has dawned.

This is the Jets year...and I hate them for it.

Green With Envy

2004-11-22T01:07:00.000-08:00

There’s no way for me to describe what it’s like to be a Jets fan without sounding certifiably insane. I know this.

It's a world where up is down, left is right, Anna Nicole is sane and Peter Gallagher's eyebrows are understated. Just crazy.

If I were to give it a try though, I’d say this. To be a true Jets fan, you need to know two things: 1) When things are going bad, they’re real bad. And 2) When things are going good, it’s just a build up for something even worse.

This isn’t one guy’s opinion. This is scientifically proven…not by any scientists per se, but still. Trust me on this one.

The Prologue

Every Jets fan needs to get his initiation. For me, it was as an innocent eight-year-old sitting in a driving rain storm in the Meadowlands with the Old Man in 1988. The Jets and Chiefs battled into overtime where All-Pro running back Freeman McNeil inexplicably fumbles twice in field goal range and the Jets leave the building with an empty 17-17 tie. A letdown to say the least. I remember looking at my dad and seeing the anger literally seething from him. I believe the seeth was red. The team went 8-7-1. The tie cost them a playoff berth. A nice start.

The Dark Ages

Things only got worse from there. The Jets made the playoffs only once in the next 10 years, an 8-8 season and one-and-done bounce out in ’91 against Warren Moon and the Oilers. The Jets spent the next eight seasons ('89-'96) without ever finishing above .500. That’s hard to do. Let’s take a look.

1989: 4-12
1990: 6-9
1991: 8-8
1992: 4-12
1993: 8-8
1994: 6-10
1995: 3-13
1996: 1-15

These were some dirty days. And since you can usually judge a team by its quarterback, let’s take a closer look at that position. Please put the children to bed.

Ken O’Brien: Starter from 1984 to 1991 who shouldn’t have lasted that long. Had one truly good season in ’84 (25 t.d’s, 8 picks, 3,888 yards) but was generally a stiff. Made Drew Bledsoe look like Flo Jo in comparison. Especially bad in postseason (0-3).

Browning Nagle: Tabbed as the future -- until we found out his name wasn't the only thing that sucked. After a promising 365 yard debut against the Falcons to begin his career, things went downhill fast. Started 14 games, threw 7 touchdowns and 17 interceptions. One and done. Bounced around the league for a few years before disappearing in 1997.

Boomer Esiason: A personal favorite and general good guy -- even if he did name his first-born son Gunner. Loved this guy so much, I named my dog after him. That said, his best days were behind him by the time he got to New York. Threw costly interception in Marino's "Fake Spike" game of '94 (I was there). Started for three seasons from '93 to '95 where the team went 17-31. Thank you and good night.

Glen Foley: A minor footnote in Jets lore, Foley was set to supplant Esiason as starter mid-way through the '95 season. Replaces Esiason in a November game against the Pats, takes a blindside hit and dislocates his shoulder. (I was there.) Out for the season.

Neil O'Donnell: Another personal favorite but for reasons I can't explain to this day. Signed to a huge, guaranteed contract coming off an atrocious performance with the Steelers in Superbowl XXX (three picks). O'Donnell was injured and played six games in Rich Kotite's 1-15 debacle in '96. Have I even mentioned Rich Kotite yet? When Parcells arrived and subsequently cleaned house, O'Donnell was one of the first to go.

For those of you keeping score at home, the Jets record from '89 to '96 was 40-85. You can't make this stuff up.

The Awakening
The arrival of the afforementioned Parcells pumped new life back into the franchise. With a coaching staff that included the brilliant minds of both Charlie Weis and Bill Belichick, the Jets went 9-7 and barely missed the playoffs. By '98, Parcells had formed a jaugernaut, led by the resurgent Vinny Testaverde (29 t.d.'s, 7 picks) and the brilliant Curtis Martin. The team went a franchise-best 12-4 and, amazingly, won the AFC East for the first time since the 1970 merger.

Yet even Parcells and friends were unable to escape Gang Green misery. The Jets took a 10-0 lead into the second half of the AFC Championship at Denver before the The Broncos, led by John Elway and John Elway's horse face, rebounded -- reeling off 24 unanswered points in the second half for a 24-10 win. Crushing.

Destiny's Whore

Despite the AFC title game demoralizer, the Jets headed in the 1999 season as the annointed favorites for the Superbowl (Elway had retired in the offseason). But fate thought otherwise. In one of the all-time stomach punches in franchise history, Testaverde blows out his Achilles' tendon in the second quarter of the season opener against New England and is done for the season. A clearly destroyed Jets team stumbles with the brutal Rick Mirer to an 0-3 start. Ray Lucas takes over and the team manages to finish 8-8. The Testaverde injury stands as the great "What If" in Jets history.

Parcells pulled his usual skip out routine after the season and Belichick turns down "HC" position to leave Parcells' fat shadow and join New England (fuck you very much). It's a move I'm sure Belichick regrets to this day. Okay, probably not.

Al Groh eventually succeeded Parcells and the Jets started off the 2000 season 6-1 before folding, finishing 9-7 and missing the playoffs. Testaverde returned that season, but was never the same player again after the injury. Groh resigned after one season, paving the way for a new era.

"You plaaaay to weeeen tha gaaame."

Things a turn for the better with the hiring of Herman Edwards, who pumped new life to the franchise with his fresh and positive look at the game. A new core for the team was introduced following the 2000 draft (the team had a record four first round picks by trading malcontent Keyshawn Johnson). One of those picks would become the new face of the franchise, when the team selected Chad Pennington with the 18th overall pick. Once named starter Pennington became instant star, supplanting Testaverde as starter in 2002 and leading the team to their second division title as well as a stunning 41-0 playoff victory over Peyton Manning and the Colts. Pennington looked flustered in a season-ending loss to the Raiders the following week, but things were truly looking up for the first time in too long.

Of course, these are the Jets, so something bad was around the corner. Pennington shattered his wrist in a pre-season game against the Giants and missed six games of the 2003 season. The Jets couldn't recover with a decomposing Testaverde at the helm, losing their first three games and finishing 6-10.

The Song Remains The Same
That takes us to today. After a 5-0 start, this year's team has now lost three of four, including a heart-breaking overtime loss to the Ravens last Sunday (I was there...I should stop going to games). The cycle is starting again, and I fear a 9-7, no playoff season is staring me right in the face. Pennington has had a star-crossed career, and is once again shelved, this time by a shoulder injury. Quincy F'in Carter is now the quarterback of the New York Jets. A drunk Joe Namath with one eye on Suzy Kolber would be more effective. Kill me now.

Epilogue

But regardless of all the ominous warnings, me and thousands of Jets fan just like me trudge on. Because, the stars will align one day. Our time will come. After all, this stuff can't go on forever. Right?

Wait...don't answer that question. I rather not know.

The Evil-er Empire

2004-11-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

Everybody take a deep breath. We have to talk.

First off...the awful truth. The Boston Red Sox are, indeed, world's champions. No joke. The past two weeks have not merely been a cosmic nightmare of epic proportions for Yankees fans. This really did happen. Hell did freeze over. On a related note, I’ve figured out where we can send the NHL following its lockout.

But that's beside the point. Yankees fans, present company included, should be ready for a difficult 2005. The first salvo comes in April, when the Boston home opener – and subsequent championship flag hoisting – comes in the presence (and at the expense of) the Yankees. Thanks Commissioner Selig...you dick.

Wait...there's more. Be prepared for the taunting, the t-shirts, the "Year-Two-Thousand" chants (how clever), the gay slurs and the like. It’s all there and it is not negotiable. April couldn't get further away.

So, that's what we're up against. In addition to blowing a season in a way not even Willie from Real World: Philadelphia could possibly imagine, the Yankees continue to be the most reviled franchise in the American sports landscape. Nobody feels bad for us. People are actually happy to see us suffer…thrilled in fact.

Luckily, I have a plan. You may deem it controversial, curious, stupid or brilliant. I personally feel it's a little bit of all of those.

It goes as follows: Instead of cowering and feeling bad for ourselves in the face of such spiteful infidelities, the Yankees and their fans should take the opposite route. It is time we fully embrace our evil reputation. Our destiny, if you will. In other words, instead of simply being portrayed as evil, the Yankees and their fans should actually become evil. Like Earthquake crushing Damian-evil, Michaels putting Jannetty through the Barbershop plate-glass window-evil, Undertaker suffocating The Ultimate Warrior in a casket-evil.

I’m talking dastardly stuff here.

So without further ado, below you’ll find a selection of new guidelines that I have forwarded to the offices of the New York Yankees. Keep your fingers crossed.

- No more water in the visitor’s dugout: Okay, let's start from the top. What do humans need to function properly? Hell, what do humans need to survive? Water. So the New York Yankees should no longer offer any fluids in the visitor's dugout. Effective April 1, 2005, no water, or any fluids that contain water, would be acceptable. This rule would include, but not be limited to, all Gatorade, PowerAde, Snapple, Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola products. Additionally, the visitor’s clubhouse would not longer offer a shower or bath sector, they Yankees would instead advise visiting management to procure additional deodorant products for trips to New York.

-No acknowledgement of visitor presence in any way: Under this potential new policy, the visitor team would exist in theory only. The New York Yankees would no longer acknowledge visiting players when they come to bat or take the field. All fans would turn their backs and remain silent when a visiting player came to bat. Total indifference. Unless David Eckstein was involved...because he's funny to look at.

-New Promotions: Effective this season, each game versus the Boston Red Sox would feature a free give-away of Energizer “D” cell batteries. The New York Yankees would fully endorse the hurling of these products on the field of play and at members of the Boston team. There would be other special nights as well. Like "Kill Johnny Damon Night" for one, "Douse Kevin Millar In Jack Daniels In Whiskey And Set Him On Fire Night" for another.

-Stadium Improvements: Effective April 1, 2005, Yankee Stadium would be renamed Yankee Lair. Additionally, the bases would be painted red and all padded walls would be converted to black. No food would be served to paid customers not wearing Yankees merchandise. These fans would additionally be beaten and ejected.

-That's not The Bronx River, that's Denial: I like this one. The Yankees would head into the new season masquerading as if they did indeed win the Series in 2004. We would re-paint all references of 26 World Championships to have it say 27. We would have the championship ring presentation and flag-raising when the Sox come to town. The "1918" chant would continue on as always, and Red Sox fans in attendance...wait, we would take care of that problem as well.

So there you go Yankees fans. Hold your head up high and be proud. Help is on the way.

That's Life

2004-10-25T13:39:00.000-07:00

Shock. Horror. Repulsion. Betrayal.

I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section…wait a second…not done yet.

Disbelief. Disgust. Repugnance. A-Rod.

Okay, that's better.

I sat in my seat in The Bronx, Section 16, Row N, Seat 19, staring at the scoreboard in awe, almost trying to will it someplace else. It was the eighth inning of Game 7 now, and Boston (Boston! Boston?) was in the midst of doing something that I never thought possible. The Red Sox were standing over the Yankees following a knock-out punch.

They say there are only two things certain in life, death and taxes. I always thought there were more. The unabridged listing of certainties:

1) Death.
2) Taxes.
3) Emerald Nuts commercials.
4) The untouched interior design of my grandfather's house.
5) Yankees dominance over the Red Sox.

Hold that thought...

I should have seen the warning signs coming. A spontaneously combusting George Steinbrenner pulling the awkward Karma Card by dusting off Bucky Dent and Yogi Berra for the first pitch of Game 7. (Plans to publicly execute a Boston Duck Tour "Con-duck-tor" with Babe Ruth's childhood musket were apparently scratched). The incessant use of Rivera and especially Gordon -- pitching with the tank on empty before the playoffs ever began (thanks for the bullpen help, Cash). Torre (utterly lost in the series, a WTF subplot for the ages) regularly tapping the ever-terrified looking Sturtze in nearly every important late-inning spot. A part of me died typing that last one.

And there was so much more. I could go on forever bemoaning the utter gag job of the top four hitters of the Yankees lineup in the final four games. Can we at least get store credit on an A-Rod return? I heard the new Thrills CD was solid and I've been meaning to pick up that Klosterman book.

Joel Sherman of the New York Post put it best in his column Friday when he called this year's Yankees team a group of "souless mercenaries". Sherman is absolutely right -- even if his Post headshot reveals he most likely remains a virgin. Every Yankees fan knew deep down that this group would not breed a champion. Not even at 3-0. It had none of the pedigree of the Torre 90s teams that got by more on guts than gusto. These Yankees were hired guns, assembled to clean up George's mess. A mess he had been predicating since Luis Gonzalez' bloop single dropped from the Arizona sky in November of 2001.

My roommate Mark sat next to me in a sedated state for most of the last two hours of the game, intermittently looking as if he were going to cry or throw himself from the upper deck at any given moment. I tried to rationalize with my friend that this simply wasn't the team. That they had blown this series for a reason. I was trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

In truth, this was a case of two Yankees fans in their early 20s who were meeting their maker. Weaned on championships throughout our high school and college years, it was time to pay our dues to the Baseball Gods. Yankees fans experienced the same thing 30 years earlier when Mickey, Yogi and Whitey got old and the farm came up empty. Now it was our turn. Our time had passed.

"The impossible is possible tonight…" - Billy Corgan

Five sections over from us, a growing contingency of Sox fans were savoring the final outs. As a Northeastern grad and self-proclaimed Boston guy, I watched the group morph from a collective nervous wreck to euphoric swarm during the last three hours. They sang "Sweet Caroline", hugged and high-fived like childhood friends, chatted hysterically on their cellphones. I imagined them soaking in the moment with their fathers, sharing a moment they never thought was possible. A Red Sox Nation, indivisible.

As for Mark and I, the last out prompted a surreal subway and PATH ride back to Hoboken, the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. "That's Life", Ole Blue Eyes would probably say.

Boston 10, New York 3. The Yankees - and yours truly -- had finally gotten our comeuppance. "That's Life" is right.