A couple weeks ago, prior to my Simmons/Olbermann article, I promised my drummer friend Justin (via Facebook), "I'm gonna post your video on the blog as soon as I post anything else on the blog."  Well time passed.  I posted something else on the blog.  But no Justin video.  So I'm rectifying this problem by sharing with my loyal army of readers (or as I like to call them "An Army of One" - RIMSHOT) Justin Lack's rendition of The Nutcracker.  But first, I have to make a call to arms.  At this time Justin's video only has 874 views.  Also on YouTube is a 48 second, horribly recorded drum solo by the talentless Beatle, Ringo Starr.  View count? 25,550.  What a travesty.  I won't say it's the worst video on YouTube, but given my druthers, I'd rather be listening to a skipping version of the bass intro to Weezer's "Only in Dreams" at max volume and through a blown out subwoofer.  And I'd certainly rather be listening to Justin Lack's Nutcracker.  In a fair and just world, the view totals for these two videos would be reversed.  So I'm asking all of you kindly, please view this video.  Let's, at the very least, get the view count up to 4 figures.  Now enjoy.

The American People

I'm going to keep the words this week to a minimum, instead ceding my voice to those of more accomplished men.  But briefly, I just wanted to share why I'm broaching this subject.  On account of last night's passage of h.r. 3200, or "Obama-care", or whatever you care to call it, TV viewers like myself got to experience local news crews hitting the streets in search of the opinions of the everyman.  And I ask, is there anything more painful?  Can any of you, accurately and in detail, explain to me how this bill is going to change your life when it's enacted?  I sure can't.  I'm still trying to wrap my head around what exactly "individual mandate" implies or how much the poor can receive in subsidies and how much coverage that will equal.  Even the summaries that try to simplify this shit are mired in complicated language and vagueness.  So why oh why, local news, are you giving some asshole in a diner the soapbox to say remarkably stupid shit?  Just last night, FOX Chicago sticks a mic in the face of some dipshit who shouts, "What they SHOULD do is fix the ECONOMY...then people could afford their OWN HEALTH CARE."  Wonderful thesis, sir.  Just fix the economy.  That's brilliant.  Why didn't I think of that??  Ugh.  The news is the goddamn bill, not what Jim from Bridgeport thinks about it.  Furthermore, fuck Jim from Bridgeport.  And all the other ignorant, uninformed pieces of shit who don't have the good sense to shut the fuck up when they have nothing to say.

Amongst these ignorant and uninformed pieces of shit were a handful of passengers on the suburban Pace bus I was riding today.  With my headphones on and the volume of my podcast (Doug Benson's "I Love Movies") loud enough to hear over the engine noise, initially I was undistracted by the angry ramblings of my fellow passengers.  But eventually these folks would be heard and it was time for ole Jack to do some eavesdropping.  The topic?  You guessed it.  Health care.

Any time you come across these impromptu debates amongst common folk, there is very little variation.  Those involved, like preprogrammed drones, take on whichever talking points sound best to them.  With health care it's generally as follows.

• Everyone should have the right to health care.
• How are they gonna pay for it?
• I don't want socialized medicine.
• The government doesn't get anything right, what makes you think they'll do this right?
• All these pricks care about is money.

The list goes on.  And I'm not saying these are false premises or questions.  However, the point is that people, through repetition and conditioning, eventually pick up on these extremely basic talking points and little else.  And what results are these god awful shouting matches between angry people who seem to put more stock in being heard than being informed.  Today's bus ride was no different.  And for that matter, neither was Thanksgiving dinner.

What kills me most about this is the massive divide between this population of Americans and "the American people" as portrayed by politicians and pundits.  Sensible, intelligent, active.  It's the stuff of myth.  Politicians speak about this "American people" so frequently that it almost breezes past you.  We don't even consider what it's supposed to mean or what the intended effect of this language is. 

Watch this video of Barack Obama with Jay Leno. 

Without watching this critically, all there is to see is the typical, light-weight late night interview with a politician.  But critically, it's pure political expediency.  Can you imagine if Obama's words in this interview were literal?  Can you imagine if he actually wanted to open up the White House to the everyman?  To Jim from Bridgeport or the loud-mouth bus riders?  What a nightmare that would be.

Ideally, we'd live in a smarter country with a more invested and educated public.  But we don't.  We live in the country that Bill Maher describes in the following video.

And the one George Carlin describes in this one.

And the notion that any of this stuff is ever going to change seems far-fetched at best.  But what can you do?  If I had the answer I'd probably be doing more with my life.  But maybe if we were a bit more honest with ourselves it would be a good start.  We are NOT the greatest country in the world.  We have flaws, as everyone else has flaws.  We are largely fat.  We are largely uninformed.  And instead of doubling down on the hollow pride and on the noise, maybe we should all try to be a little bit better.

In the previous examples, without any knowledge of the arguments, I'd already have a horse in each race.  Rogan, Conan, MSNBC.  Easy.  Simmons vs. Olbermann is infinitely more difficult.  Simmons is clearly the more likable of the two.  He's an entertaining writer and is the host of the B.S. Report, one of the best podcasts around, sports or otherwise (Check out any of his conversations with writer Chuck Klosterman as a starting off point).  Olbermann, while not as likable, is arguably the most intelligent pundit, political or otherwise, on the air today.  And despite spending a rather excessive amount of time on his soapbox, delivering dramatic and impassioned diatribes, essentially molding a caricature, he is nevertheless always eloquent and articulate and more often than not I agree with him.  Given my fondness for both of them and without any significant bias towards either man, all that's left to do is to examine the beef.

February 26

In the casual context of a live chat on ESPN.com, Simmons was asked by one reader if he thinks Tiger Woods will ever be the same upon his return to golf.  Simmons replied with a harmless, albeit hyperbolic answer.

"To me, that's a much bigger question than 'Where is LeBron going?' Tiger's comeback is going to be the most fascinating running sports story of my lifetime. I really believe that. We only get a handful of truly transcendent athletes per lifetime, he's one of them, and yet, none of them have ever been tested this way."

Unfortunately, he follows the hyperbole with a Joe Biden foot-in-mouth type moment.

"The only thing that comes close: When Ali returned from 4 years of boxing exile for refusing to serve in Vietnam."

Many individuals participating in the chat were baffled by the comparison.  Some were offended.  After all, to respond to a rather innocuous question about Tiger Woods by comparing his return from sex rehab to Ali's return from a self-imposed, religiously motivated, anti-war exile is truly puzzling.  Why even introduce a symbol of such religious and racial significance into a conversation about an embattled fornicator?  Could any good possibly come from that?  The answer to that question proved to be a resounding, no.

February 27

The day following Simmons' contentious chat, popular sports blog Deadspin.com, along with writer and noted Simmons-basher Charles P. Pierce got a hold of the transcript.  After sharing some choice quotes from Simmons and his chatting fans, Deadspin writer Tommy Craggs humorously comes to the conclusion that no doubt was echoed by many of Simmons fans, other bloggers, and later, famous television pundits: What Bill Simmons said was moronic.

"Tiger's wayward humping is not Important History. It takes a singular set of blinkers for someone not to see any analogical daylight between Ali's comeback and Tiger's, which involves little more than coming back from the champagne room. And it takes a staggering lack of sense for someone to write that Ali "never came even 10% close to facing the scrutiny" that Tiger will — as if it were Ali's good fortune to be scrutinized only by the boys running COINTELPRO and never by Skip Bayless."

Pierce, in a blog entry entitled "History for Dummies" piles on.

"This isn't hard. This is not stuff you have to have lived through. This is stuff you can find out by, you know, reading, which is said to be fundamental. Let us be kind and suggest that young Bill perhaps is unread on the subject of The Sixties, possibly because The Karate Kid was not set in that era."

March 3

In the most damaging of his public relations blunders, Simmons goes forward with his Ali/Woods analogy, this time in the form of a sprawling, 3400+ word behemoth of an article on ESPN.com.  In his introduction Simmons backtracks somewhat from his chat room hyperbole, comparing the chat format to speed chess. 

“Under speed chess conditions, it becomes exceedingly possible that either (A) I might say something inappropriate, (B) I might infuriate my bosses in some way or (C) I might argue a point incorrectly without realizing it until later. On Friday, I made a mistake comparing the 2010 Tiger Woods to the 1970 Muhammad Ali, saying Tiger's comeback would be much tougher because "everyone under 35 was rooting for Ali." Total hyperbole that never would have happened had I spent more time thinking about it.”

A perfect PR response to a minor embarrassing moment.  A mistaken point doesn’t call for a BS apology, however a gracious acknowledgement of an intellectual misstep certainly should quell any unnecessary backlash.  And had Simmons switched gears and theses at this point and created a less loaded comparison, he would’ve done just that.  

Quick sidebar - A less offensive comparison that would've worked perfectly for the guy known for his pop culture references would've been to the band Weezer.  Think about it.  After the critical and commercial failure of 1996's Pinkerton, singer-songwriter Rivers Cuomo goes into isolation, literally painting his house black and covering his windows to keep the light out.  Then in the late 90's Pinkerton would gain momentum, eventually becoming a certified gold record.  Upon Weezer's return in 2000 they had developed a rabid fan base, setting the stages for a triumphant return.  Simmons could then accentuate the difficulty of Woods' comeback by contrasting the momentum free sideshow that is the Tiger comeback versus the mounting fan base that Weezer returned to.  Same contrast he unfortunately tries to paint with Ali.  No controversy.  I digress.

Instead of switching gears, Simmons follows with the exact same contentious and unnecessary thesis that would draw exponentially more ire in column form than it ever would have as a chat transcript.

March 5

Keith Olbermann gets his hand on Simmons’ piece and issues a brief, but strong criticism towards the end of this day's blog entry.  He calls the Simmons article “the most poorly-informed conclusion I've come across in sports media this year” and follows with an intellectual and personal jab.

“If the writer can let me know when Woods is punitively drafted by the military even though he is about eight years older than almost all the other draftees, I'll begin to take him seriously. In the interim I am again left to marvel how somebody can rise to a fairly prominent media position with no discernible insight or talent, save for an apparent ability to mix up a vast bowl of word salad very quickly.”

Later in the day, Simmons (via Twitter) gets even more personal, advancing the attack from “you’re not good at your job” to “you’re not good at life.”

“KO, please know the feeling is mutual. You're my worst case scenario for my career in 12 yrs: a pious, unlikable blowhard who lives alone.”

17 minutes later he strikes again.

“I feel bad about saying Olbermann lives alone. I forgot about his cats.”

March 8

Olbermann dishes out his final attack.  In response to the claim that Olbermann lives alone with cats, Keith lightly replies, “Mr. Simmons apparently uses, for factual research, old parody sketches from "Saturday Night Live." I'm not surprised. That was Ben Affleck. Thanks for playing.”

As for the “worst case scenario for my career” comment, Olbermann’s response was much more cutting.

“This assumes that Mr. Simmons' career now is where mine was twelve years ago (anchoringSportsCenter, then my own MSNBC political show, anchoring NBC Weekend Nightly News, writing a best-selling sports book, etc). In fact, this assumes that this is Mr. Simmons' career, which is remarkable. Also, anybody who could write as many words without saying anything of consequence really should throw around the word "blowhard" as frequently as he would a street sewer cover.  Also, I don't think ‘pious’ necessarily means what he thinks it does.”

He then asserts that ESPN executives consider Simmons “the most uncontrollable, unmanageable talent in the history of ESPN” and were embarrassed by the Woods/Ali article.

Later that day, Simmons ends the feud, again on Twitter, saying, “I've said enough. This was not why I got into writing.”

Aaand we’re caught up…

Originally, I wanted to side with Simmons.  I was going to contend that Olbermann’s argument was about plight and had nothing to do with what Simmons was arguing.  This is actually true.  At no point did Simmons ever argue the plight of each man.  He argued that Ali was returning to greater fanfare than Woods is, that America was turning against Vietnam, and that Ali had become a hero to the vocal, anti-war left.  Though the jury is still out on exactly what kind of fanfare Tiger is returning to, it is true that Ali did have a sect of society firmly on his side.  But mysteriously lacking from Simmons' argument is that Ali was also an enemy to many (including his own government) in a 1970 America in which seething and outspoken racism was still commonplace.  Let’s not forget, this was a mere two years after Dr. King was assassinated.  Awkward as it may be for a celebrity athlete as mammoth in stature as Woods to return to his very public occupation after a very public marital rift during which a parade of women made public his most private moments, it just can’t come close to the cultural volatility in which Ali was a centerpiece.  It’s an argument of feeling awkward versus feeling in danger.  It’s no contest.

However, this doesn't fully settle the score in Olbermann v Simmons.  But before I go all Tom Papa on y’all and give my verdict, I’d like to share a story.  It’s going to seem like a wild and arguably distasteful tangent, but I promise it’ll all come back around.  So I’m at a relatively small gathering at my friend’s Chicago apartment.  It’s late and we’ve all consumed our fair share of liquor.  I forget how the topic came up, but at some point I express the opinion that anal sex, from the male perspective, requires an aggressive disrespect for one’s partner.  Now, as is the tendency of the heavily intoxicated, I hadn’t fully crafted this thesis.  I just thought to myself, “Isn’t the pleasure in that experience sapped by the potential pain your partner could experience?”  At any rate, the room did not respond favorably to my theory, mostly on account of the vast array of experiences people do and do not enjoy.  Given that I'm not religiously or morally opposed to just about any conceivable sex act between consenting adults, and had I given the topic more thought before spouting off half baked opinions, it’s more than likely I would’ve reached a stance within the realm of group consensus.  But when that delicious cocktail of dissent and whiskey took hold, there was absolutely no way I was going to humbly admit that my argument was lacking.  No sir.  I doubled down.  Of course, amongst friends it was just fun and harmless discourse, but I definitely think a part of me just didn’t want to feel like I had the capacity to make that dumb a point.  And harmless as the whole situation was, ego rather than logic was driving my end of the argument.

It seems to me that this is precisely what happened with Simmons.  As an avid follower of his podcast and of his column, it seems that Simmons has a strong desire to not only be thought of as the entertaining, pop-culture referencing “Sports Guy”, but also to be within the intellectual ballpark of his friends and peers.  He seems, more than other writers, to obsess about being a writer.  I think the acceptance and friendship of the Malcolm Gladwell's and Chuck Klosterman's of the world make Simmons feel a part of some kind of elite writer's society.  I suspect it was a massively important moment for Simmons when Gladwell agreed to write the forward for his "Book of Basketball".  Contrarily, when someone as intelligent as Olbermann or Charles P. Pierce confronts Simmons, I suspect that this deep-seated inferiority complex surfaces, and the ego takes the wheel.  It's the only way to explain moving forward with a thesis as flawed and rushed as the one that first appeared in that February chat.  And unfortunately for Simmons, he picked a fight that he just couldn't win.

That said, it wasn't exactly a sterling performance for Olbermann either.  While on the right side of the argument, he made the mistake of challenging a point that was never made.  His argument that Ali was coming back from harder circumstances than Woods was a no brainer.  Unfortunately the debate was about the respective situations the athletes were/are entering into.  Essentially Olbermann kicked off the scoring by banking in a three ball without calling glass.  When the attacks became personal, Olbermann retained slightly more dignity than Simmons, only attacking his work and never his lifestyle.  The real winner in all of this was the aforementioned Charles P. Pierce, whose point for point (or hole for hole) dismantling of Simmons' article was easily the most pointed and accurate criticism.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm left underwhelmed by all of this.  As I've churned through this post, my excitement for the topic has rightfully waned.  When I predicted the potential for divided camps, I did not expect Simmons to have written one of, if not the most flawed and painful articles of his career. When I heard that two people I like and respect were feuding, I did not expect sloppy arguments, and in the case of Simmons, misguided pot shots.  And the real travesty is that the guy who made the best arguments in all of this is a cantankerous old bastard who has a strange and creepy vendetta against Simmons, the guy who I like the most.  So yeah...fuck this feud, I'm done with it.  

Now excuse me while I work on my next thesis entitled, "When Charlie Pierce Wins, We all Lose".  Goodnight and good luck.

I began a new television mini-odyssey recently in "The Sopranos".  In an episode I watched today there was a wedding scene in which we see the traditional clanking of butter knives to wine glasses followed by a kiss between bride and groom.  As the scene took place I flashed back to various weddings I'd been to, the most "low key" of them still displaying a level of ceremony and grandeur hard to imagine for myself.  All that preparation.  Hiring a DJ or a band.  Then the caterers.  The color arrangements.  The photographer.  The ring.  The guests, many of whom you'd just as soon want to check the "no" box on their RSVP.  The invitations.  Working within a budget.  And you want to give her the best night of her life, but the pressure of it all is wearing on you.  You take a breather on an idle Sunday afternoon.  You're sipping a beer on your couch, watching a ballgame in your sweatpants.  Meanwhile, she's trying on her dress, doubting how it looks as she evaluates every inch of her body in the mirror.  And as she approaches you for your opinion, you know there's not a single answer you can give that won't make you seem like the laziest, most uninterested piece of crap on the planet.  And that's just the wedding preparation.  

Then comes the ceremony.  You have to remember and recite vows.  You have to smoothly place the snug fitting ring upon her finger.  You have to essentially perform the most intimate moment of your life on a stage in front of people who are just biding their time until they can get drunk.  Then comes the reception and everyone gets drunk.  And for the 17th time in an hour your drunken uncle Lou is banging on his wine glass with a butter knife.  As you and your wife bashfully smooch, Lou laughs in giddy amazement, like a child who's figured out a light switch for the first time.  Fucking Lou. 

But before all of this happens you have to meet someone who's worth a damn.  Where do you even do that?  You have to go through the horror and uncertainty of approaching her, knowing that ego crushing defeat might soon be approaching.  Hopefully she likes you enough to look past your obscene lack of confidence.  She does.  What a relief!  Having to walk away wounded with the knowledge that you weren't good enough would've been devastating.  But fuck.  Now you have to actually see her and impress her.  You think you're a fairly funny guy.  You can be entertaining and interesting.  But you don't have any social stats.  No steady job.  No dreams in action.  Is it really worth the agony of exposing yourself as a bum?  And suppose that you do and inexplicably she's cool with you and what you are, what if you go back to her place or yours?  You're making out on the sofa.  Soon you'll be headed to the bedroom.  It should be natural, but you're worried.  You're worried about condoms and fumbling around with them.  You're worried about getting one on efficiently, because God forbid you don't, that proud erection will soon wither into limp, pathetic impotence.  But suppose it goes well.  You're thrusting back and forth, your doughy body looking so pathetically average under the dim light.  She couldn't possibly be enjoying this, could she?  But you go through with it, unsure of how good it was for her.  And you let go of yourself briefly enough to cum.  Then you sleep.  A single exhausting date miraculously sees its fruition.  

And as I sit in my chair.  Alone.  Unemployed.  Nothing to win, nothing to lose.  I think to myself, this ain't so bad.  Sure, I get lonely sometimes.  Sure I get depressed.  But the prospect of entering that world.  Society.  Relationships.  Normalcy.  That prospect can seem so completely daunting that I sometimes wonder whether sitting in this chair with my music, my internet, my booze, and my left hand might just be the best way to go. 

But I know it's not.

In an introductory philosophy class I attended years ago, my youngish professor challenged my reclusive tendencies in terms I understood - booze.  He talked about life as an undergrad.  Kegs of cheap beer.  Shit shows in shitty, run down, college-town homes.  Hazy nights.  Promiscuity.  He said it was the time of his life.  Then he graduated and moved on to grad school where a handful of professors took a shine to him.  They brought him out to a favorite establishment of theirs where they were to converse and taste scotch.  At first he could not confidently discern nor appreciate the flavors of each drink.  But with time his palate and tastes became refined.  An ultimately fulfilling experience.  He closed the story by questioning whether he'd ever want to go back to the time in his life when the beer was cheap and the parties were crazy, acknowledging that his life was much simpler and relatively stress free in those days.  The answer was a resounding no.  The joy and enlightenment in the world he discovered easily usurped the ease and simplicity of experiences past.

I understand that people do things for the wrong reasons.  People seek occupations primarily for money, sacrificing contentment in the process. People get married because they're supposed to be married.  It's tradition.  These things are expected and encouraged.  But I also understand that avoiding the possibility of a more fulfilling life, in fear of the entailed pressures and road bumps, is equally misguided.  I know that hiring a DJ and appeasing your drunken uncle, confronting insecurities and failing - these things are minor prices to pay if in the long run you find your higher plane.  

As I close this post, I'm sipping on a 40 oz King Cobra in a room without decor.  Unfulfilled, yet unbroken.  And I know the world is filled with fine scotch and wonderful women.  Rewarding marriages and fulfilling existences.  I just hope that someday I can bridge the gap.

The Winter Olympics commenced on Friday with a flawed, yet still gaudy opening ceremony.  Since the Wayne Gretzky led lighting of the torch, I've watched exactly zero events, excepting today's cross country skiing event which I had on as background noise.  It's safe to conclude that I don't much care about these or any other Winter Games.  I did, however, happen upon some underreported news from Vancouver this afternoon -- news which sent me on a Wikipedia/Google two hour bender the likes of which have never been seen.  That's just the kind of guy I am.  Always willing to sacrifice my short term plans for even shorter term ones.  And I suspect the subject of this post is someone who is likely the exact same way.

I'm sure many of you remember the name Bode Miller.  You remember the hype leading up to the 2006 Winter Games in Torino.  You remember an extensive ad campaign, though maybe not the details of it.  And of course you remember Bode's high expectations slamming face first into epic olympic failure in all five of his events over the course of those two weeks in Italy.  Then Bode went away and was forgotten soon thereafter.

Well, my friends.  Bode Miller is back!  Bode Miller has won a bronze medal.  But Bode Miller is still relatively forgotten.  And having revisited the hype, the Nike ads, and the results of the 2006 Olympics, I wonder if an older and hopefully wiser Bode Miller is cool with that.  To the way back machine!  The year: 2002!

According to Wikipedia, Bode Miller was well known amongst ski enthusiasts as early as 1996.  Personally, I know more competitive eating enthusiasts than I do ski enthusiasts, but that's neither here nor there.  For the average non-ski enthusiast, though olympic viewing patriot, Bode Miller burst onto the scene in 2002 at the Salt Lake City games.  At age 24, Miller won two silver medals for the U S and A.  In another event after missing a gate, in an admittedly cool and symbolic move, Miller climbed back up the mountain to complete the gate and finish the race without a disqualification.  A fine showing and a fine effort.  I, however, cannot be described as even an olympic viewing patriot, as I have no recollection of these events whatsoever.  For me, and I suspect many others who don't take an especially deep interest in watching rich white folks glide down mountains in spaceman boots connected to waxed slabs of wood, Bode Miller arrived on the scene in the following 2006 Nike advertisement.

By golly, America had a free spirit on their hands.  Someone diametrically opposed to the system and the man and the machine.  Unwilling to succumb to the gloss and aggrandizement of your standard sports advertisement, Miller addresses the American public candidly, only using a scant few seconds of the allotted 30.  Listen guys, I've got some things to say.  Some out of the box thoughts.  Check out my website.  Or don't.  You know...free will and all, bro.  And with the help of the equally free spirited and independent shoe supplier Nike™, Bode was prepared to spawn a generation of free spirited, free thinking, and shoe buying young people.  I make fun of the tone, but truthfully, I don't have a problem with the idea in theory.  If someone on the pop culture landscape can use their prominence to inspire a thoughtful and creative generation of young people, why not go for it?  So I set out to find exactly what Bode Miller had on his mind in 2006.

Since the olympic debacle of that year, Nike has removed the JoinBode.com website.  Fortunately and inexplicably, one gentlemen saw fit to keep an archived version of the site alive and well.  Do yourselves a favor and check out some of the videos if you have the chance.  They're absolutely rich.  Unfortunately for Nike, their new star turned out to be less Socrates and more...well...me.  In short order, it became known to the the world that, like myself, Bode was a bit of a lush.  With time and exposure, he revealed himself to be a barroom philosopher.  A thoughtful drunk who didn't necessarily care to commit himself fully to his ideas.  Opinionated, but without the desire to refine his opinions, prove his truths, or comb out his inconsistencies.  Bode Miller wanted a soap box, but didn't know what he wanted to do with it.  Goddamn can I relate to that.

But Nike wasn't in hot pursuit of the paltry self deprecating, wanna-be writer demographic.  They wanted a bad boy that young people would rally around and a new market to exploit in the process.  What they got was arguably the most ironic and epic marketing failure ever.  On the JoinBode.com website (which was sponsored by Nike) is a video of Miller lamenting the rigid nature of athletics.  He claims that we live in a society in which we're accepting of all kinds (specifically of people's sexuality and occupation), but in athletics it's all about winning and not participation.  And he laments that the athlete cannot define who they want to be as an athlete.  That ultimately they're defined by winning and losing.  And, by God, he aims to change the landscape.  Now first, and maybe it's just me, but perhaps passively claiming that the plight of the athlete is worse than that of the modern homosexual is a bit ill advised.  I'm certain he doesn't actually believe that, but again, he didn't much care to refine his opinions.  Second, if the guy wasn't a winner in the first place, Nike wouldn't be paying him money to make his dumbass advertisements about the unimportance of winning.  Furthermore, had Bode actually won in 2006, he might've actually retained his soap box to tell us how unimportant winning is.  Interestingly, he misused the word irony in that same video.

Then this happened.

Then he told "60 Minutes" he sometimes skis drunk.  Then he went away for four years.

But today, Bode Miller is back and he's decorated in bronze.  I do not know if time away has changed the man and frankly, I don't really care.  I don't know if he ever looks back at his videos and cringes, as I do with past things I've written.  What I do know is that Bode Miller is a guy who's said remarkably stupid things.  Though on the very same website he's also made points that I think are valid and interesting.  In a way, I've always appreciated people like him.  People who just put it all out there, without any real ability or desire to edit themselves.  Guys with promise, but also with an uncanny knack for getting in their own way.  Guys who drink entirely too much and have a tendency to embarrass themselves on occasion.  It's the same reason I like Charles Bukowski and Conor Oberst and Tim Kasher.  These aren't people one should emulate.  Quite the opposite.  But when guys like this succeed it makes me vicariously happy. 

So congratulations, Bode.  You got one for the team.  You got one for the fuck ups.  Now excuse me while I try to be nothing like you.

I won't waste your time singing the praises of the HBO series, "The Wire".  A simple google search should provide enough "best show EVER" reviews to convince you to check it out.  I've already finished the series and my buddy has Netflix'd the DVD's and is currently on season 2.  And conveniently, for the purposes of this post, we watched a chilling episode entitled "All Prologue".  In the episode, introspective and incarcerated drug dealer D'Angelo Barksdale participates in a prison book club discussion of F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby".  When asked about Fitzgerald's quote, "There are no second acts in American lives", D responded with the following:

"He's saying that the past is always with us.  And where we come from, what we go through, how we go through it; all this shit matters. Like at the end of the book, ya’ know, boats and tides and all. It’s like you can change up, right, you can say you’re somebody new, you can give yourself a whole new story. But, what came first is who you really are and what happened before is what really happened. And it don’t matter that some fool say he different ‘cause the only thing that makes you different is what you really do, or what you really go through. Like, ya’ know, all them books in his library. He frontin’ with all them books, but if you pull one down off the shelf, ain't none of the pages ever been opened. He got all them books, and he ain't read nary one of them. Gatsby, he was who he was, and he did what he did. And ‘cause he wasn’t ready to get real with the story, that shit caught up to him."

I have to confess, I knew I wanted to use that monologue in whatever I decided to write about tonight.  You were going to get those words whether they related to the succeeding post or not.  It's something I should consider avoiding if I ever want to seriously write.  But I can't help myself.  My excessive desire to spread the greatness of others often usurps my own desire to be great.  That, and it's also easier.  But I digress.  Another confession: vodka + coffee leads to asides.

I promised in the introduction to this blog that I would try to be both topical and offbeat simultaneously.  That because of who I am and how I was raised, I'm more prone to having unique opinions about anything.  Truth be told, that's probably a heaping pile of crap.  Realistically, because of who I am and how I was raised, I'm really just noncommittal and excitable (and drunk).  And the most recent defense of this is my pro/con/pro Obama wavering in the week of the State of the Union and his televised Q&A with Republican leaders.  I'm such a simpleton disguised as half an intellectual.  From election day to now, my opinion of our president has literally gone from "ooh, exciting, new, and smart" to "ehhh, let down...more establishment than I thought" to "ooooh, strong speech and taking on freakishly tanned John Boener.  I like!"  These are my politics and I don't think I'm alone.  I like performance.  I like strong debate.  I demand nothing.  I do not protect my vote with action or activism.  I'm excitable and sterile and I get behind the most convincing actor.  I thought Obama was great in "The Campaign".  I thought he was going a bit Nic Cage for awhile there when he did "The War President" and "Soft on Wall Street".  But I really thought his most recent work in "The Populist" was his best since 2004's "The Speech".

Politics have always been more about performance than substantive action.  Votes need to be backed up with activism and a public that serves as watchdog.  And it would take a massive majority to accomplish this.  The likelihood of this happening is just so miniscule.  When the masses are largely unmotivated and self-serving, we will treat thoughtful activists like begging bums.  As assholes who are inconveniencing us.  Can you imagine if every time you walked into a McDonalds someone was standing outside with a video monitor showing the conditions of factory farms coupled with stats about their horrible effects on the environment.  The guy would be a fucking pariah.  Like seriously man, what the fuck.  I just want my damn Big Mac.  The problem is he's right.  The same goes for a protest that slows down traffic.  Goddamn annoying wing nuts.  Goddamn politically active, accountability seeking wing nuts.  People like me, we like having a horse in the race but want to go home when it's done.  We don't want to head down to the stable every week to make sure it's being fed, groomed, and trained.

After all, it's a lot more fun to be here.

Than here.

My friend Bodi snapped this photo of anti-war protesters in Logan Square surrounded by LOTS of empty space.

But my political apathy is a mere microcosm of a greater problem.  I find that it's much much easier to regret your failures than it is to improve on them.  To hate a hole rather than climb out of it.  To enjoy the theater of politics rather than participate in it.  It's like D'Angelo says, "the only thing that makes you different is what you really do."  My goal in putting shit out every Monday was to force myself to produce.  To gain some order, responsibility, and accountability in my life.  But any change is merely cosmetic.  This self imposed deadline has really only brought light to the fact that I'm the same lazy, apathetic dude that I was in school.  Pumping shit out the night before a deadline, if at all.  Sacrificing quality for unrewarding procrastination.  Much like Gatsby, I am who I am and I do what I do.  Never ready to get real with the story.

At least I think that's like Gatsby.  I never bothered reading the book.

It's on Sundays when I tend to look at human beings as chemists and our brains as test tubes.  We're these vessels with an array of chemicals smashing against one another inside of our heads, altering our moods, perceptions, outlooks, and dispositions.  Why else would I be sitting awake as Sunday turns into Monday with the knowledge that life will be just fine, yet still feel somber regardless?  Why are selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors passed out like candy?  Why do droves of people require a Xanax to soften the weight of their days?  We're all just chemists in an ongoing struggle to create the perfect compound.  It's in everything we do.  Every action triggers the release of a chemical that alters how we feel.  From psychedelic drugs, booze, and prescription meds to sex to exercise to diet to trying out a new hair style -- it's one big chemistry experiment, and some of us are better chemists than others.

When you look at life this way, there are two conclusions: 1) We're here and 2) As long as we're here we should try to feel good as frequently as possible.  Seems simple enough.  Unfortunately, arriving at this perspective can land you in a difficult and compromising existential quandary.  When you whittle human existence down to billions of individual chemical interactions of the brain, you're sort of inherently diminishing the value of your own life.  You're acknowledging that any sense of purpose is at best superficial.  We're just not that important.  However, when you lose that sense of importance and that sense of purpose, you're surrendering motivation and accomplishment.  Why work hard for anything when our existence is temporary and our accomplishments are superficial?  But it's the people who believe (within reason) that their lives matter and that their accomplishments are important and substantial who are feeling good most frequently.  And ironically, as I sit here pondering the path to contentment, there are people living it and not considering for a second what it is or where it came from.  Oh, that elusive simplicity.  

In three paragraphs I've devolved from hating Sundays, to contemplating why that is, to hypothesizing that it's because I don't manage my brain well, to a borderline existential crisis.  A lesson for everyone on how NOT to live.  The interesting thing about this post is that it only exists because I waited until Sunday to write it.  One more day and this craziness would have dissipated and gone undocumented.  The doom and gloom of Sunday would have given way to the averageness of another Monday.  I probably would have written about Haiti or the shakeup in late night tv.  The chemical compound would be different.  Perspective would have changed.  Tomorrow this post will be dumb fleeting emotion gone haywire.  But this is today and this is my post.

Have a simple week, ya'll. 

Like most of you, I am the child of divorced parents.  My father is surface-level simple and learning disabled, though functional and responsible.  He'll tell a bad joke and bore you with a hard-to-understand story.  He'll attend his job (a mechanic for various employers over the years) and he'll come home.  He sees his role exclusively as a provider.  He perceives the emotional level of parenting as difficult and awkward.  Like many an old fashioned man, all love and proof that he gives a shit is to be derived from his general involvement and generosity.  I am NOT complaining about this whatsoever.  As a 26 year old adult, I've come to respect my father a great deal.  That said, the man was cursed with the vicious Italian temperament of his father.  And though he's treading lighter as he enters his senior years (I don't want to understate this...it's been years and years since his last outburst), the years of thunderous rage and occasional violence have left a deep and indelible boot print cemented into my brain.

My mother is an aloof drunk.  As she approaches her senior years she's devolved into a bitter and unruly drunk as well.  And for reasons greater than bitterness and drunkenness, I have not spoken to the woman since Christmas.  However, it wasn't always like this.  Quite the opposite of my father, she was sober, coherent, and I'd assume a decent parent in my early years.  Sadly, her time came a bit too early.  You know those years of a child's life when not much memory is retained and you can perform any number of vulgar acts in front of him without consequence?  My mother was at her best during those years.  If only home video was more prevalent in the early 80's, perhaps I'd have a fonder recollection of my youth.  Alas, it wasn't and I don't.  What I do remember is a woman who spent much of her life either drunk or in bed or both.  Her household was one without rules.  Effectively, no one was around to implement law or oversee the day to day life of a child during the most essential years of development.   During those years in which our brains are developing and we're to be learning about organization and responsibility, my young mind was informed by chaos and a complete lack of responsibility and accountability.  To this day, no matter how effectively I pull my shit together -- exercise, order, ambition, drinking in moderation, etc -- that disorder and capacity to let shit fall apart is constantly breathing down my neck.  It'd be difficult to NOT connect the dots.  Unfortunately, during those precious formative years it's not so easy to make decisions as powerful and effective as estrangement.

This combination of lawless chaos with random and excessive punishment has, in part, made me the person that I am today.  I'm an irrationally fearful person.  I shake and become nauseous from everyday stress.  From talking to new people and entering new situations.  From getting a big hand in a card game to pushing flirtation to the places it's suppose to lead.  I shake and become nauseous at the prospect of shaking and becoming nauseous.  (NEVER -- if you can help it -- anticipate being afraid.  That fear compounds the natural situational fear and turns you into a social vegetable, rendering booze an absolute necessity.  It's no way to live.)  Picture a beaten dog quivering under furniture at the site of a broom or vacuum.  That's me.  Frankly, it's what makes writing such an appealing outlet.  I can hide behind a monitor yet still, in some way, be seen.  But more importantly, the way I was raised has molded my brain into something of a free agent.  I am lacking the maxims and hard lined ideologies that I may have obtained through a more structured upbringing.  I'm the direct antithesis of the FOX News's and MSNBC's of the world.  You don't need to tune into Glenn Beck or Rachel Maddow to know exactly how they're going to address the issue du jour.  Me?  Not so much.  I don't have party or religious lines to inform my opinions.  I don't have counselors or mentors.  All I have are the fallible opinions deducted from my own meandering thoughts.  

And that brings us to the purpose of this blog.  There are few things I like more than a good debate.  Not the formulaic brand, but the kind that arouses the passionate sides of its participants.  I want to use this blog to write hopefully eloquent opinion pieces on any number of stories that I think are worth a damn.  More importantly, I'd like to focus on the ones in which my opinion is likely of the minority or ones that present a unique angle.  I'm not trying to incite or shock the readers of this blog (though that may happen naturally) nor am I trying to be a strict contrarian (I just see no reason to wax on about something that's safe and agreeable.  Would anyone have given a shit if Lou Dobbs came out against rape rather than immigration?  Of course not.  We don't need to be told that rape is bad).  My only goal is to advantageously utilize an inherently unhinged mind to explore the unpopular and obtuse, to ruffle a few feathers, and maybe inspire a modicum of doubt through debate -- in myself, in yourself, and potentially in the ideas we've come to accept as "normal" in our current climate.  And that's not to say this is going to always be heavy handed and lacking in fun.  I'm sure that's hard to imagine after this sob story, woah-is-me, dirge of an introduction.  But it's true!  I know for a fact there'll be at least 2 "Jersey Shore" entries in the VERY near future.  Nothing spells fun like the SHAWH! (Pardon my attempt at a text-form guido accent.  And yes, I realize I just followed up a sentence championing the unpopular and obtuse with a promise to write about TV's most talked about sensation.  Apologies for this and any future contradictions and inconsistencies.)

In closing, I'm very much looking forward to seeing where this blog will go.  You have my word that this entry will prove to be an anomaly.  I have little interest in writing about myself other than to give you some idea of who you're fervently agreeing with, who is pissing you off, and to also give you some concept as to where this shit is coming from.  It's going to be a lot of fun from my end and I hope that in time it will evolve into an enjoyable  community as well.

So once again, welcome.  And I will see you all next Monday.