In an effort to get as little accomplished as is possible for a human of my mental prowess, I’m watching my eighth NBA game this weekend right now. And by this weekend, I don’t mean the vast undefined span of “weekend” which always includes Fridays, often includes Thursdays, and frankly can sometimes include any day other than Tuesday. No, I’m using the traditional definition of weekend, which is simply Saturday and Sunday. In two (2) days I have watched eight (8) NBA games. Admittedly not all of each one, but certainly more than 79% of all of them.
I guess the reason I’m explaining all of this is sort of to trick myself into finishing the weekend off with a bit of homework or pontificating or whatever else productive, but mostly because I wanted to share some ideas about redemption and masturbation.
As stated, I’m watching my eighth (8th) out of eight (8) possible NBA games this weekend. Currently, the Boston Celtics are playing the Atlanta Hawks. More than most teams in the NBA, these two teams embody the theme of redemption. The Celtics were awful last year, and after trading for Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett to join Paul Pierce this last offseason, have been rolling up wins like Del Taco workers roll up burritos, quickly, efficiently, and fairly easily. Vegas has them as the favorite to win the NBA title this year, which would almost certainly mean redemption for Allen and Garnett and Pierce, who are three (3) of the NBA’s best players yet have never had much postseason success.
The redemption theme with the Celtics doesn’t stop with the players either. Their coach, Doc Rivers, was considered a very poor coach last year, despite the fact that his nickname would suggest a rather high level of competency. It was painfully apparent that he wasn’t a real doctor. He’s done a markedly better job this year, surely garnering some votes for Coach of the Year. Danny Ainge, the Celtics’ general manager is cruising happily on the fresh asphalt of Redemption Road as well after having what can gently be called rather limited success as a GM, not to mention being fleeced by Kevin Pritchard to take Bassy Telfair for what became Brandon Roy.
The Hawks on the other hand, managed to end the NBA’s longest current playoff drought this year. Atlanta has not qualified for the playoffs since 1999, where they lost to the Knicks and promptly traded Steve Smith for Isaiah Rider, a man who once kicked the female manager of a sports bar. I can only speculate to what type of kick Rider prefers. A dragon kick? A two footed jump kick to the chest? A Ryu/Ken sweep kick straight out of Street Fighter II? I digress. As a rule of thumb in life I like to avoid kicking managers in general, much less managers who are women. I don’t think anybody would disagree with me classifying that trade as a mistake. Thus, even though the Hawks finished 8 games below .500, at 37-45, qualifying for the playoffs at all has to be considered redemption.
This raises the question though, with all these obvious redemption themes weaving like a drunk driver all over this playoff series, why did I just hear “Dancing With Myself” over the PA system during a timeout? Isn’t that just about the least logical song to play during a playoff series like this?
Dancing With Myself is a song by Billy Idol that is ostensibly about masturbation, possibly while looking at yourself in the mirror. I fully understand that playoff series’ don’t have official themes, and the PA DJ’s probably aren’t really concerned about that type of thing anyway, but let’s put that aside for the sake of this essay. Dancing With Myself doesn’t fit the theme of redemption at all, and might even be the worst choice possible.
Masturbation is what one resorts to when they do not have an actual other human available for sexual pleasure, redemption is all about redeeming yourself. Maybe if Dancing With Myself was played a lot during timeouts last year, and I have to assume it was because it’s far too random of a song to just casually throw on the playlist this season, an appropriate song this year might be “Cradle of Love” (if we are sticking with Billy Idol) which not only was as high as number two (#2) on the charts, but is also blatantly and boldly about hooking up with a hot chick. Thus redeeming yourself if you spent all of last night masturbating.
With a little bit of forethought, Boston’s PA DJ’s could have firmly entrenched themselves in the upper echelon of PA DJ’s, but they squandered the opportunity. They certainly deserve credit for involving Billy Idol at all, and not sticking to such drivel as the Baja Men, but I just can’t ignore the magnitude of the opportunity. This redemption theme, so obvious it might even embarrass that rat at the end of “The Departed, should have continued to have been built upon. It wasn’t, and we’re left with a two (2) story split level rather than a Pearl Tower, a tragedy indeed.
For those on the market for a child-rape den, look no further than Neverland Ranch. That’s right, Michael Jackson’s home may soon be up for auction. Who buys this? It would seem to be an ill advised choice. The man was undeniably a musical genius, but equally undeniable is the level of discomfort you’d feel living in that house. If you have that kind of money, buy a normal mansion that comes with no twisted history.
I’ve been going through some old mini DV’s from senior year of high school and I have unearthed some rare and valuable gems. Sam, Bryce, Paul, and I made a rap video for our Film/Lit class about the book/movie the Beach. (I’ll upload the entire video when I find it.) None of us are good at rapping by any means, but Bryce really took us to new lows. And I mean that in the best way possible. Awesome lows!
That’s right: writer’s block circumnavigated, at least for now. As Jay-Z would say: I’m back like Jordan wearing the 45. (That’s right, two colons in two sentences just to show off. I’m feeling good.) Now without further ado, I give you a new essay.
I can hit home runs out of the park, or bowl a perfect game in Wii Sports. I can rock a stadium better than Human Clay era Scott Stapp in full self-importance mode via Rock Band or Guitar Hero. I can even live out all of my Michael Jackson fantasies in Dance Dance Revolution. (I realize that talking about “my Michael Jackson fantasies” may be completely ill advised, but I assure you that all involve dance moves and none involve children or changing my skin color.) If nothing else, this recent trend of video games that replicate activities sure makes me feel like I am extremely skilled.
Critical acclaim has met the Wii’s included sports game and it’s kin for getting kids up off the couch, at least moving around a bit, and getting the blood flowing while playing video games. While I would certainly never discourage physical activity and I absolutely won’t deny that I have a really good time with Wii Sports and Rock Band, I think these games, while interesting, are not good, but rather, are in fact a negative thing.
First of all, rather than playing Wii Tennis, go play real tennis. As stated, Wii Tennis is fun and I’m much better at it than real tennis, but for the love of Jehovah, wouldn’t you rather be playing real tennis? I know I would. My desire to play real sports outweighs my desire to play Wii Sports by about 80,000fold. (Which is like tenfold but much more serious.)
Granted, the learning curve for real tennis is a bit steeper than the learning curve for Wii Tennis, but if I played tennis outside on the court the same amount of time I played Wii Tennis I would be, while not quite Bjorn Borg-ian, certainly serviceable. As it is now, when Drew and I play, I get thrown up and down the court more than the Tower of Terror ride at Disneyland. Kelly probably would have beaten me too had she not been stricken down by an unfortunately timed asthma attack.
If I spent all the time I’ve spent playing Guitar Hero actually playing the guitar I would be, well, better than I am now. I’m fairly certain, had I actually put those precious hours to practicing real guitar, I could make my way through Either/Or, and I put the least amount of hours in out of all my roommates. My 995 group might have the second coming of something Beatlesesque if those Rock Band hours were spent melding ourselves into a real rock band. I like to think we would call ourselves the Chronicles of Gnarnia.
Second of all, while these games are being lionized for forcing the player to be active, in a way they are actually counterproductive. They have created this odd and unforeseen situation where you are getting good at fake guitar playing skills or fake bowling skills. What is the point? It’s easy to argue that, well, this is what happens in every single video game. There is a large difference though. In traditional video games you may still be developing fake skills, but had they been real, 99% of the time they are skills that you would never develop in the non-video game world.
I’m sorry but you won’t ever be a human sized earthworm who inexplicably not only has arms and legs, but can also grab his body with one of said limbs and use the entire thing to whip enemies. Or for a less extreme (and non-Earthworm Jim inspired) example, you most likely (and hopefully) will never be doling out headshots as thoughtlessly as if were US dollars in England. And be honest, you won’t ever be able to play football against Asante Samuel or basketball against Brandon Roy either. Rather than developing fictitious skills for things you won’t ever do anyway, you are developing fictitious skills for tasks you could normally do in your mundane everyday life. It is seriously counterproductive.
Where does this trend of replicating attainable activities in video games end? Next year will we be playing video games where we virtually cook, or sew, or dress ourselves? How unremarkable and focused will these get?* Has our society really come to the point where we would rather simulate the things we do than actually do them?
Video games should be about escapism and living the life you’ll never live otherwise, not doing things you could just walk outside and do, for real. Now if you’ll excuse me, as excellent and illuminating as this essay has been and is, I need to get back to traveling through time as a sarcastic adolescent turtle to fight an alligator in a vest and a cowboy hat.
*Which makes me come to the conclusion that word processing is to writing as Wii Boxing is to boxing. Is word processing some sort of hyper advanced video game that came about well before it’s time?
I woke up this morning hung over, although admittedly less hung over than I had anticipated due to Gwen’s Miracle Elixir, and for some inexplicable reason I had “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond running through my mind like a ‘roided up Marion Jones. I couldn’t stop thinking about how the good times never seemed so good as I microwaved some instant oatmeal.
Point being I guess that Neil Diamond is awesome. Look at this picture of him. Just look at that mug, if you can’t feel the passion I don’t know what to tell you. The man is obvious passionate. (Not only that but his shirt is bedazzled.) I think there needs to be a law that airplanes and ships are required to play “Coming to America” when they come to America. It only makes sense. Neil Diamond’s undeniable awesomeness barely gives “Coming to America” the nod over Bruce’s “Born in the USA”, which involves more fist pumping than any other song ever.
As excellent as Neil Diamond is though, instead of endlessly looping songs about immigrants, I wish my brain was coming up with ideas of things to write about. This is fucking ridiculous. I can’t think of a single thing to write about and there seems to be no end in sight. Clearly I have a problem
The other day I came to an abrupt realization. I haven’t had a girlfriend in an entire year. That hasn’t happened since I started having girlfriends (which would be puberty, not some random date I decided to become heterosexual). I bring up this story not for an outcry of sympathy or in the hopes that swaths of attractive women show up on my doorstep tomorrow. (Or tonight ladies, it’s still early!) No, I bring this up because this realization led to another realization: it may be safe to revisit Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.
When my ex-girlfriend and I called it quits last year I listened to the excellent Wilco record “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” approximately 80,000 times. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot became a veritable crutch for me, had I gotten my foot broken instead of my heart. Jeff Tweedy seemed to know what I was going through, he matched me mopey afternoon for mopey afternoon. Since then, I gradually picked myself back up and set coordinates for the righter direction. The Ex and I became friends once again, all was well, and my love life, while rather non-existent, is at least now no longer focused around a girl who didn’t return the favor.
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot however, didn’t fare as well. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t listen to it. Which was tough, as Heavy Metal Drummer might be one of my top 10 favorite songs ever, and the entire album as a whole is in the top 25. Every time I tried to re-listen I went through the painful process of being transported right back to the mental state of last January. It was like Apparating without being properly taught how to at Hogwarts.
Once I arrived at school and the annual mark had been hit, I decided I would give Yankee Hotel Foxtrot another try. Rather than listen on the epic drive from my beloved Portland, to my (less beloved) Orange County, I decided to try the next day during my grocery shopping.* This seemed the obvious choice, as road trips tend to leave too much room for thinking and we don’t want those thoughts to dip a toe in the Lake of Mope.**
So I tried it… and failed miserably. Sure enough, while I loved the music, it put me in a sad mood that lingered all day. Even 27 samples of Philly Cheesesteak*** sandwiches at Costco couldn’t cheer me up. And it should have, I’m fairly certain I love sandwiches more so than I could ever love a girl. Now, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t drink a fifth of Costco brand Kirkland Signature Vodka and drunkenly call up the Ex and beg her to come back. It was nothing like that, it’s been a year, I feel I deserve a bit more credit. No, rather than put me in a mood of lamenting, it more was just that this music got me through a sad time in my life and reminds me of that. And a YEAR later is still does. I effectively ruined one of the best albums of all time by using it as my breakup soundtrack.
I got to thinking, and I should have seen this coming. I did the exact same thing with the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s “Californication” some years back. That has regained some of it’s listenability, but nowhere near where it was before I used it as heartbreak fodder.
The conclusion I’ve come to is that I need to stop listening to good music any time I get my heart hurt. I’m worthless during those times anyway, I should listen to something worthless. I needn’t ruin good albums anymore!
So here is my grand plan for the next time I get involved with a girl and we part ways. I think it is pretty smart if I do say so myself, in fact I’m writing a self help book with this central concept as I type right now.**** Next breakup, I plan on listening to Kevin Federline’s “Playing With Fire”. It’ll work like gangbusters, I won’t ruin a good album, and K-Fed’s music will be so bad that I will snap out of my mope stupor as quickly as humanly possible just so I can listen to good music again.
Kevin Federline knows all about breaking up. He left his baby’s mother for Britney because she had all the money and then left Britney because she got too crazy. Federline knows about ex-girlfriends, one might even venture to call him Fed-Ex. The man just knows. More importantly though, now you know how not to ruin good music when you are sad.
*Grocery shopping shouldn’t take a day, but for me it takes a solid chunk of time. I went to the Dollar Tree, Food4Less, and Costco, in that order. It afforded plenty of in car time for listening.
**This, of course, being a figurative lake.
***Which I would estimate amounts to 3 entire Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches. And I no longer question Costco’s decision to charge an annual membership fee.
****I’m not really doing this, but wouldn’t it be cool if A. I actually wrote a self help book, and B. I could type two things at once?
This video makes me uncomfortable on so many different levels. From Rod Stewart’s white leather outfits, to Sting’s XXXL t-shirt, to the palpable sexual tension. As well, I continue to doubt that Sting is the same guy that was in the Police, in fact I flat out refuse to believe it.
As you embark on your journey through life, there are some things you’ll always remember, somethings you will never remember, and somethings you mustn’t ever forget. Now, I am probably the most useless person of all time when it comes to useful things to remember. In reality, I probably don’t have a single one. As far as useless information goes however, my brain is full of it. My brain capacity is literally 100% used up by useless information. I fear that that does not bode well for my future, as I have no further room for anything that may or may not occur in the years to come. (There’s something to be said about living in the present right?) Which all just goes to show you that in life, you must always play the hand you are dealt. You cannot fold, even if you just have a pair of twos. You ride that pair of twos and bluff the shit out of it, until everybody is convinced you have a straight flush. Then you win the pot and never have to reveal you were just packing a pair of twos. The moral of that story seems to be that lying is good, which it is in some cases, but I fear it may not be a good lesson to be preaching to the youth of our nation, that being you.
Another thing to keep in mind as you embark on your journey of living and learning and taking in life is irony. Now, I’m not talking about real irony, like if a human sized banana with legs and arms was walking down the street and it slipped on an actual banana peel. Brought down by his own kind. That would certainly be comical, no? And certainly it would be ironic. In the traditional definition of irony that is. I however never use that definition, I use Alanis Morisette’s definition of irony, which is “if it rains on your wedding day that is ironic.” We’ll ignore the fact that in no way is that ironic, it is just shit luck (probably combined with poor planning). The fact of the matter is that rain falls at an average of 7 miles per hour. Yes, you read that correctly, you would be able to outrun the average rain drop as it fell on your wedding day. By most estimations I would imagine everybody at your wedding could outrun that rain. Even if you had a really decrepit old great grandma there, she could probably outrun the rain. And even if she couldn’t, you know what they say, a little moisture never hurt a senior citizen. (And even if she is the rare kind of senior citizen that is allergic to moisture, she’s old, she’s had a good life. Let her go.) This may not make sense now, but some day in the future you will look deep into your heart and it will come clear that Alanis Morissette is slowly redefining the tool we use to define our most basic communication: the dictionary. For that, she is purely demonic and simultaneously purely genius.
The last piece of golden advice I will let flow from the eternal fountain that is my mind is one of the utmost importance. Every year in New York there is a 1 in 4 chance that there will be a white Christmas. When a white Christmas does indeed happen, it is a joyous occasion. Small children play in the snow. Creepy adults kidnap small children playing in the snow. Chestnuts are roasted on an open fire. Stockings are hung by the chimney with care. People with red noses are celebrated, not rounded up and forced into internment camps. Bing Crosby is sung with gusto and glee. Now all that sounds well and good, but not so much when you consider that for every 1 white Christmas, there are 3 black Christmases. For all you racists out there who may be reading this, don’t jump to conclusions, a black christmas has nothing to do with black people. A black Christmas, as you may not know since I’m the one doling out advice here, is when the Dark Lord Sauron is particularly unhappy with Middle Earth and uses the power of Mount Doom to cover the land with ash and soot. In the chaos of this “black rain”, as it has come to be known in certain circles, the Dark armies are sent out. Orcs and Urukai terrorize the land, led by mighty Ringwraiths on their Nazgul steeds. As you may guess, that really leads to a less than perfect Christmas, plus lots of casualties.
Now before you dismiss these nuggets of advice as the nonsensical ramblings of a half drunk, fully unemployed college student, let them marinate for awhile. I predict that one day in the near future, you’ll be minding your own business, perhaps paying for a nice pastry at your local bistro when suddenly the logic of my advice will hit you. If I may, I will warn you in advance that it will hit you hard, and it may possibly be painful and may possibly knock you off your feet. This is why I don’t recommend buying coffee or any other hot drinks while at said bistro. You could burn yourself during that shining moment when everything comes clear. And burns last for life. You can take that to the bank.
This is an Australian Beatles cover band, the Beatnix, putting their own unique spin on Stairway to Heaven. It might be the most excellent thing I have ever seen. So excellent in fact, that I broke my own leg. (Effectively ruining any hopes I had of becoming an NFL punter.)
Unfortunately, as well as being addicted to words, I have now become addicted to wolves. I say unfortunately because although wolves are undeniably awesome, addictions are never good. (Not even being addicted to words, blogging isn’t exactly what most people would consider “productive”. Or what women would consider “attractive”.) Nevertheless, in honor of Ali, Nicole, and Wolf Addicts everywhere, here is my All-Wolf Reference Playlist, Vol. 1*:
Raised by Wolves - Voxtrot
Wolf Party - The Blood Brothers
Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran
You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son - Wolf Parade
The Wolf - Jedi Mind Tricks
Deer Wolf - Atmosphere
Wolfnotes - The Fiery Furnaces
Wolves - Dead Prez
A Wolf at the Door - Radiohead
Sugar Wolf - From Autumn To Ashes
My Teacher is a Werewolf - Harry and the Potters
Andy Wolff - Minus the Bear
Someone’s in the Wolf - Queens of the Stone Age
Colossal - Wolfmother
Wolf Like Me - TV on the Radio
Timberwolves at New Jersey - Taking Back Sunday
Werewolf - Cat Power
Listen to it with a properly somber mood, knowing that I fight this addiction every day. It’s worse than when I unknowingly got addicted to heroin by injecting myself with what I thought was a Tetanus shot. It wasn’t.**
I’m sorry but you won’t ever be a human sized earthworm who inexplicably not only has arms and legs, but can also grab his body with one of said limbs and use the entire thing to whip enemies. Or for a less extreme (and non-Earthworm Jim inspired) example, you most likely (and hopefully) will never be doling out headshots as thoughtlessly as if were US dollars in England. And be honest, you won’t ever be able to play football against Asante Samuel or basketball against Brandon Roy either. Rather than developing fictitious skills for things you won’t ever do anyway, you are developing fictitious skills for tasks you could normally do in your mundane everyday life. It is seriously counterproductive.
Just look at that mug, if you can’t feel the passion I don’t know what to tell you. The man is obvious passionate. (Not only that but his shirt is bedazzled.) I think there needs to be a law that airplanes and ships are required to play “Coming to America” when they come to America. It only makes sense. Neil Diamond’s undeniable awesomeness barely gives “Coming to America” the nod over Bruce’s “Born in the USA”, which involves more fist pumping than any other song ever.
Once I arrived at school and the annual mark had been hit, I decided I would give Yankee Hotel Foxtrot another try. Rather than listen on the epic drive from my beloved Portland, to my (less beloved) Orange County, I decided to try the next day during my grocery shopping.* This seemed the obvious choice, as road trips tend to leave too much room for thinking and we don’t want those thoughts to dip a toe in the Lake of Mope.**
Hot Chili Pepper’s “Californication” some years back. That has regained some of it’s listenability, but nowhere near where it was before I used it as heartbreak fodder.