There’s something oddly compelling about that hat. Not only would it make Abe Lincoln proud, but it also seems to have an ill-advised level of transparency for a hat that tall. Leyland becomes a monolith while wearing it, a veritable reach to the Gods. It makes a statement, but not an overt one, nor one that I can comprehend. What is the deeper meaning and how can I discover it?
(Also bonus points for perfectly melding into the ATW color scheme.)
My high school makes me proud. Every time we get in the national news it is for something absurd like this, when I was there it was for the “sleep in” in protest of us having the shortest school year in the developed world. How that is determined, I have no idea. Lincoln High School students exist on a different plane. Here’s the Death Star of senior pranks, in a good way…
APRIL 24–Oregon educators want law enforcement officials to probe who was responsible for mailing parents a letter on school letterhead suggesting that they supply students with alcohol at post-prom parties. The letter, a copy of which you’ll find below, was sent this week to families of students at Portland’s Lincoln High School. Recipients of the missive were urged to consider opening their homes this Saturday for parties as “a safe, secure place for students to have fun,” adding if adults “provide the alcohol, you can have peace of mind knowing that they did not acquire it illegally. Condoms were included with the letters–which were written on Portland Public Schools stationery–since “STD epidemics have spread through other high school communities and we want to prevent such an outbreak as best we can.” The letter was purportedly written by “The Lincoln High School Faculty and Administration.” Officials do not know how the letter’s creator(s) got access to school mailing lists. And while rather well written, the letter did include obvious clues that it was a hoax, including a supposed recommendation from the Oregon Liquor Control Commission. The state agency, the letter claimed, “stated that a fifth of alcohol, like Hennessy Cognac, is sufficient supply for at least 8 adults. One can assume that for 17 to 18 year old individuals, one fifth can probably be spread out to 4 students. Considering our reputation (Drinkin’ Lincoln), in some cases one fifth is only enough for a single person.”
Click through to see the letter. It’s even well written.
As I type this, the Phoenix Suns are losing by 19 points to the San Antonio Spurs. It looks like they are going to go down 0-3 in this first round best of 7 playoff series, and in all likelihood, they’re season is, in the immortal words of some unspecified girl on either Laguna Beach, or the Hills; “Dunzo”. A Greg Norman syndrome of sorts.
It’s inherently sad for me to see these Suns struggle. They represent all that is good and noble in the NBA. They embody fun, seemingly effortless basketball. They try and score as much and as fast as possible, and they deal with the consequences later, a veritable college student drinking heavily on Cinco de Mayo. They’ve had all kinds of regular season success, and even moderate to strong postseason success, but can’t seem to grab that championship.
Their qualities alone are enough to make my heart frown when the Suns struggle, but even moreso, the rise and fall of the Suns parallels my college career, and to witness their last stand brings to the forefront the fact that I’m graduating in about 3 weeks. Appropriately, my college years will die with these Suns.
Let’s hope in our DeLoreans and drive* back to July 14th, 2004. An 18 year old version of myself had just graduated high school and was enjoying the rest of the summer before falling down the coast to college. The Phoenix Suns, coming off a 29-53 season, signed Steve Nash when the Mavericks weren’t all that interested in trying to bring him back. Both of our futures were bright.
The next four years saw the Suns win 62, 54, 61, and 55 games, arguably the most successful run in their history. The same could be said for me, I learned a lot, had a few drinks and laughs with friends, enjoyed the company of probably a few more beautiful women than I deserved, traveled around the world, and even fell in love once. The Suns and I both inhabited a charmed, higher level of existence.
This season, faced with their inability to get to the NBA Finals, the Suns made a bold, borderline reckless, trade. They traded Shawn Marion, a swiss army knife of a basketball player, and backup point guard Marcus Banks, to the Miami Heat for Shaquille O’Neal. It was unclear at the time whether or not Shaq was still alive. (Like I said, it was a bold trade.) The trade meant the end of the Suns as we knew them. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required. There were some half court sets, and definitely more throwing the ball into the post than anybody was comfortable with. The Suns were growing up.
So was I. I knew this was my last year. I did stuff solely for the sake of my resume. I added the extra internship and classed up the wardrobe. I had one foot on the next step and one foot still on the ground floor. I still would run and play, but always washed my hands afterwards. Suddenly decision making was needed, sobriety was required.
Now the Suns are crashing and burning, and if Game 1 was any indication, quite spectacularly. Steve Nash is getting old, Grant Hill is held together by scotch tape and Elmer’s glue at this point, we now know that Shaq is alive, but he’s certainly staring his own mortality right in the eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised to see some big changes for them this summer. The prevailing sentiment seems to be to make some trades and build around Amare Stoudemire and Leandro Barbosa. I like to think I’m not crashing and burning, but my college years certainly are. They’re just about over, it’s sad solely for that reason, but also because, like I said, their story played out a lot like the Suns did. Plenty of success, but ultimately their potential was never reached.
I don’t regret anything, but I know I could have stood out a bit more, really made my mark. Sometimes I was too content to do well enough, the equivalent of lots of regular season success and less post season success. I didn’t fail by any means, but I didn’t necessarily come through in the clutch. I imagine the Suns feel the same way, in no way do they regret anything, but they’ve got to feel a bit whistful about what could have been.
Both the Suns and I face uncertain times this summer and on. We’ll both be ending a really great chapter and hoping to write an even better one. I imagine J.K. Rowling felt like this after she wrote Half Blood Prince and felt Deathly Hallows looming. The pressure is formidable, and I hope I am too.
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.
I watched Teen Wolf the other day for the first time since I was probably about eleven (11). I had forgotten both how awesome this movie is, but also how almost nothing in it makes any sense as far as werewolf, or more correctly, lycanthrope, lore goes. I’m absolutely willing to concede that I need to suspend my disbelief on some level in order to make most movies work, and I’m going to go ahead and concede the existence of werewolves. Problem is, this movie cuts down all standards we have established for werewolves. Teen Wolf knocks down all expectations we have of how a werewolf should be. As I said, it’s a deliciously awesome movie, but I want some effort on the believability scale. I know I should embrace pioneers, or we would have no George Washingtons, no Amelia Earharts, No Ansel Adams, not even any Krangs in our world, but for whatever reason, this perturbs me.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #1: Werewolves can’t control when they change from human into human-wolf.
Other than the first time it happens to him, Michael J. Fox’s character, Scott Howard can change into the wolf whenever he pleases. Everybody knows that werewolves can’t control when they change into wolves, the moon controls it. Unless they are in Harry Potter, and that’s only because of a potion. Presumably, Howard didn’t have access to potions because there doesn’t seem to be any magic in his world. Except werewolves, which makes this weird quandary. How is this possible that werewolfery is the only magic in Howard’s world? I have no explanations, and to be frank I can’t think about this for too long because it’s far too confusing.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #2: When werewolves are not in their human form, they are totally out of control.
When Howard turns into a werewolf he doesn’t go on any killing or maiming rampages. He doesn’t really hurt anybody at all, except for arguably Boof, but that has nothing to do with his wolfery, but rather his penchant for hot blondes. In fact, Howard’s only discernible difference, personality wise, when he becomes a werewolf is that he is far more confident than when he is a human. This really makes no sense to me either because if I were to become covered in hair and sharp teeth and claws it would not boost my confidence. It would most likely lower it. I doubt I would be comfortable in my own skin, as it were, anymore.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #3: Werewolves dress poorly.
In almost every case of werewolves throughout history, they either wear no clothes, or just throw on some tattered rags and call it a day. The werewolves in Underworld sometimes have ripped pants (the Incredible Hulk look), but usually have nothing. Professor Lupin skips clothes all together. Animals generally skip clothes, lest they be considered whimsical. Disney is the gold standard for animals wearing clothes, and I highly doubt most animals want to be pigeonholed into the Disney stereotype, thus, they don’t wear clothes.
When Howard is a wolf he either wears his regular clothes, his basketball jersey, or an awesome Vanilla Ice Cream pimp suit. The suit needs no further explanation, as it is plainly and obviously awesome.* But even when wolf Howard rocks his basketball jersey, he does it in style with a headband, presumably as a tribute to one of my top ten (10) favorite NBA players of all time: Clifford “Uncle Cliffy” Robinson.
WEREWOLF STANDARD BROKEN #4: Werewolves can’t play basketball.
I’m not sure if this is a standard or not, but it should be. Werewolves basically just maul stuff and bite people, which is not conducive to holding a basketball, much less dribbling like Zeke, dunking like ‘Nique, and shooting like Thunder Dan Majerle.** It’s inconceivable that Howard turning into a werewolf would actually make him better at basketball. I could see if it would make him faster and able to jump higher, and maybe he’d even have quicker reactions. I just can’t see a werewolf putting it all together to become the best prospect since Harold Miner. And we all know how well that turned out.
I guess what I’m saying is that we really need some sort of standard set of rules when it comes to magical creatures. A veritable Montreal Protocol of the fantastical. Especially if we want them to ever have a chance of being accepted as something that sort of seems real, but ultimately isn’t. Like the abominable snowman, or of course, the chupacabra. Werewolves just want a chance, which takes us full circle, as that is sort of the underlying message of Teen Wolf. Give werewolves a chance, even though they are different. Give Boof a chance. She isn’t like a werewolf, yet she is still different. It’s the theme, it’s ok to compare girls to wolves. Just this once.
*Maybe it does need a bit more explanation, he is not a pimp when he wears the suit. I apologize if I portrayed that Teen Wolf somehow involves prostitution and pimping.
**Sorry for not continuing that rhyme, but I couldn’t resist the chance to drop a Dan Majerle reference. I had a folder with him on it in 3rd grade.
Just as a heads up, you are entering rant territory. Turn back now.
Yesterday, I strongly contemplated slapping my professor in the face. I came up with slapping over punching because that seems less assault-ish. I decided against it, which is probably for the best. This is a class, that I might add is costing me (or more appropriately, my parents) a significant amount of money. I haven’t loved every single class I’ve taken here, but I haven yet to experience anything like this. It is shocking how bad this teacher is. If he were a movie, he would be Norbit, he has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He’s not even so bad that he is unintentionally good, like any Fast and the Furious movie. We can’t even upgrade him in the pantheon of awful Eddie Murphy movies, the next step up would be Haunted Mansion, and at least that is rooted in Disneyland lore. This professor has no redeeming qualities whatsoever, at least as far as professing goes.
(And no, I won’t say who the teacher is, or what he teaches, lest my faithful readers get involved in any arson or other illegal activities.)
I would like to say that I despise this man because I got in an argument with him. There’s another professor I had a few times that I don’t really like because we didn’t see eye to eye on many things and I called him out on it. THe thing is, he was a decent teacher and undeniably knew what he was doing. This teacher (and I use the term in the loosest sense possible, he hasn’t caused a single chemical reaction in my brain) seems like a decent human being.
It’s beyond me how he got hired at my University, or how he has stayed hired. Just to name a few of his better qualities:
1. He purposely obfuscates directions, like he gets some sinister pleasure out of confusing us. He won’t answer specific questions about directions on assignments, choosing instead to make us guess or use Ouija boards. He talks about his assignments like he is on the other end of a 24 hour psychic hotline, giving the most vague answers possible. And charging obscene amounts of money for it.
2. He acts like a child any time somebody questions the validity of anything. First of all, he takes it like a personal attack, and I’m not making this up, tosses insults back at you, even though you weren’t necessarily insulting him in the first place. I’m not shy about questioning whatever inane detail he has in every single assignment and I never get anywhere or get any of my questions answered. I’m more than happy to have a discussion about something but he doesn’t seem capable of it, or at least won’t let one commence. Calling him an overly self conscious Idi Amen would be fair.*
3. He is incompetent concerning his subject. I’ve kept it to myself, but there have been at least three times where he has said things that are completely and utterly false. And they weren’t throwaway details, they were rather important concepts.
4. I may be getting petty and mean here, but he has poor grammar. This man is paying what I’m sure is a decent salary to do what basically amounts to highway robbery, so I feel that I (my parents) have payed for the right to fling some shit at him. It will undeniably stick. Also, I guess I can take solace in the fact that, due to his poor grammar, this guy would bother my grandmother just as much as he bothers me.
Oddly enough, having this teacher makes me somewhat hopeful. Yes, on a class by class basis he makes me irrationally frustrated and angry, like a pre-2004 Red Sox fan but without all the hats and East Coast violence. But it gives me hope to know that, armed with this college degree I will earn next month, I can fake my way through most anything.I don’t plan on living my life like that. I’m still hoping I do something halfway cool, but it’s comforting to know that, if nothing else, I too can play tutorial videos to a class. And you know I would at least be more convincing in the stuff I make up.
Bad policy: Writing shit that doesn’t really make sense. (See Chupacabra-Ryan Atwood essay, as well as about 20 things I’ve written in the past month that were so utterly painful I just never posted them here. This is not a soapbox for trash!) I’m not sure if my new moniker has gotten to me or what, but I’ve been having a serious identity crisis/lack of motivation/quarter life crisis on here. Naturally, I feel that my writing has suffered, even though I have been able to bang out something half decent here and there. I need to stop trying to make this something that it isn’t. ATW needs to become comfortable with itself again. Naturally, I’m overflowing with confidence as usual. Good Policy: Get back to writing about my irreverent theories and musings on life. Start linking to cool stuff again. Write more news stories about things that never really happened. I do like the adventure of finding the most obscure possible references for post titles though, and weirdly relating images. Figure out a better way to categorize things.
I’m not promising a turnaround in a matter of days, but know I’m working on it. I’m like the Prince of Persia, I never die, I just have a time limit. I need some of those potions for more time. I think they were green.
Your loyalty will be rewarded when I crank the awesome meter back up to high soon.
Addicted to Words has found salvation for the time being. Not religion, but a means to an end. Turns out a little consoling was all your Prime Leader needed. The solution was staring me right in the eye, albeit, it was my glass eye and my field of vision was limited. I was focusing on the peripherals, even though they say the straight and narrow is the place to be.
While the means is now there and I can assure you ATW will be around for the near future with some certainty, it doesn’t mean I’m any less busy or more creative. Graduation looms, and it promises to keep me overly busy, which means my mind might be elsewhere. I’ll try and regale you with as many essays as I can, but expect them to be precious gems for the time being.
So as to add a point to this post, here’s one of the better music videos I’ve ever seen. The artist ain’t bad either.
I got an email today from my web host telling me that their prices are going the way of gas prices. Due to my current status of joblessness these new prices are prohibitive. Which means, if ATW is to survive, it has to move, to evolve. It needs to take advice from Kanye West via Daft Punk. And in less than two weeks, natch.
I’ve already attempted to move it to a free wordpress.com account, and that works ok, but it occurred to me that all of my images that I have hosted on my site would be gone too. Due to this coinciding with my graduation, I have neither the time nor the energy to do this. So the archives would be become ruins, a sad torn down reminder of the past.
As well, the ATW aesthetic is absolutely killed, as I can only choose between the generic design themes on wordpress.com. I can’t use the one I designed, which as petty as it seems, I like to think is important to the whole ATW experience. I’m not sure if this is because I don’t feel like my writing can stand on it’s own, or if it’s some sort of home court advantage situation.
Bottom line, ATW didn’t look right on somebody else’s design. I plan on experimenting with Blogger and seeing what I can procure from that, but for whatever reason I have a feeling of dread in my head.
I’ve been toying with the idea of becoming more focused in my writing. As in, picking a single topic and using my writing style to pontificate about that. As of now, I have a few saplings of ideas, but nothing has become a multi-celled organism yet. I realize it’s not wise to just up and disappear for awhile while I search my soul and find my topic, but I’m wondering if I should take this as a sign that I should do that.
Basically, I’m very frustrated and don’t know where to go from here. Input would be appreciated.
And I haven’t even begun to wrap my head around my photo site.
UPDATE: Just to clarify, I still own the domain Addictedtowords.com for some time, so that’s not the issue, I can point that anywhere. I’m talking about where the actual files and thoughts reside.
UPDATE 2: As far as I can tell, Blogger doesn’t let you import stuff from another blog, so that’s out the window.
My nostalgia for the OC seems to be becoming Biblical, and Hollywood isn’t helping by churning up fond memories and parading beloved actors.
It may be my mind playing cruel tricks on me, but I could have sworn I had a Benjamin McKenzie sighting during an 88 Minutes trailer. I realize a quick trip to IMDB would answer my questions, but I choose not to go there. Benjamin McKenzie has become such an enigma in my mind that it seems like it couldn’t possibly be him exchanging glances with Al Pacino. What if this is true? I won’t pretend to care about 88 Minutes at all, I only care about the return of Kid Chino and his Fists of Fury.
Ryan Atwood has emerged, and in full health, done biding his time in the poolhouse. I can’t handle that kind of disappointment, were it to be false. I discovered the Chupacabra, and I’m just waiting for people to tell me that I’m wrong and it turns out that it was simply a rare, but regular, reptile-kangaroo-coyote-dog-dinosaur animal that was drinking my goat blood stores. I’m living on stolen time. I’m a festival, a parade, a fugitive in plain sight.
If all this is true, the real question at hand here becomes: can McKenzie make up for the terribleness that Al Pacino lugs around with him? The Ocean crew fell from grace and a higher plane due solely to the fact that Al Pacino stood up to them and managed to work in something about a gold phone. I fear I’ll never find out the deeper meaning of the gold phone, but a part of me wants to believe McKenzie could. He’ll puncture Pacino’s chest and drain his blood completely.
Ryan Atwood brought out the raw emotion in people. He was both a fighter and a lover. His powers could solve the mystery of Al Pacino. The Bigfoot of Latino Culture has all the answers we need.
