As far as real reality television goes, nothing even comes close to The First 48. Crime is grim and senseless, and the things brought to light during the course of any given episode are often too real. The next tier down is the "can you believe how effin' crazy my job is?!" sub-set of reality TV. As cool as it is to watch people drive trucks on ice roads, or fish for crabs, or dig through crazy people's piles of crazy person stuff (either American Pickers or Hoarders--your call), Pawn Stars is king of the shitheap. The ratings don't lie. #1 show on cable many times over. And if the measure of a shows worth is the strength of its spin-offs, American Restorations is the Colbert Report to Pawn Stars' Daily Show.
The show is highly consumable. Lots of great reality conventions--money, arguing, deal making, likable "regular guys"--but the beauty is these conventions are balanced with one foot in a passable reality. Pawn shops are actual things. It's an ingrained part of our society rich with cultural cache and connotation. What is the moment like when you look a loved one in the face and say "I pawned it"? We're post-Craigslist now, and selling stuff in a matter of days, or even hours, takes Internet-level effort. A pawn shop is for when you need money now. Not now, like thirty minutes ago. Then you take that model, add Vegas, and set-up cameras. I know, this should be the most despicable and sneering drama on television, but filtered through History Channel's production sieve, she shines like a goddamn dime.
The items featured are the pillar of the show. Both a platform for impromptu history lessons, and catalyst for steamy doses of old school haggling, the variety of items passed in front of the guys never ceases to absolutely stun me. For every "who ever even heard of such a thing?" moment, the Pawn Stars seem to have some anecdote or factoid to validate any bizarre item's existence. For those things even deeper still in the cut, the Pawn Stars have a brood of experts at their disposal. You name a specific type of nerdery, Rick and company will find you a nerd. When the gun expert, Clark county museum guy, or chin-bearded historical auctions guy rolls in, brace for an elite level knowledge drop.
Tangible history lives in each item placed on the counter. The Pawn Stars and their experts exorcise the context from a relic, weave a magic shroud of historical import, and then slap a figure on it worth half of what they'll sell it for. It's the best parts of Antiques Roadshow, but instead of some sepcualtive auction value, these people walk out with a handful of cash into skeezy ass Las Vegas. As far as a central idea to grip the viewer goes, it's air tight, but no matter the fake-real sheen used to coat each episode, the second, and more compelling story still teems beneath the surface.
I saw an episode with a polite minute or two on a solidly grey, khaki wearing, reform hippie out to sell his collection of concert posters. He had a stack of vintage psychedelic San Francisco prints with Summer of Love cliches beaming from each sheet. The bands and venues featured were pantheon and the condition was impressive. Bear in mind, this guy was out getting weird on the scene in 1967 San Fran. He still had the presence of mind to not only collect these posters, but get them home from what ever crash-pad/love-in he might stagger out of come daybreak. That alone is worth a thousand bucks.
Already knowing retail was $8000, he wanted $3500. He left with $2125. The twenty-five, a token of hollow victory. Knocked down to half of his asking price, resigned to concede, he pushed for a tiny amount more just to have the last word.
The deal done, they interviewed the aging Hippie outside. A thin smile found its way out from his mustache. Eyes tight behind his glasses, he said "I'm gonna be sad to leave 'em here...but I am moving on with my life." I am moving on with my life? Those are words rife with implication. Is he finally sober, the selling of the posters a symbolic funeral for his rock'n'roll life time and cocaine sweet tooth? Perhaps it's some shrewd third wife intent to break a man of something he loves just to assert her station. Maybe he's terminally ill, and the ephemeral nature of things we carry with us revealed, he's shoring up his resources to disappear into a beautiful, far-off place. Any which way, the potential for realness is hard to quantify.
The up against it guy, yelping outside the store, his antique pistol worth a fraction of what he paid. The woman selling her grandmother's jewelry, and stumbling head-long into a small fortune. The waitress given a turquoise and silver dancing Indian statue by an elderly regular. The guy who rubs his hands together and says "I already got plans for this $6500," like it's a ten spot he found in an old suit jacket. The scope of circumstance leading up to the sale, and the labyrinthine web of possibilities opened up after, is downright provocative. It's the sort of reality so pungent, the fake-real construct in this case is not to manufacture reality, but to dilute it.
Real Steel finally comes out this weekend. Even today, I feel tremors from the rush of zeal as the trailer bludgeoned me and I thought "this is a thing that actually exists." This will very quietly be my favorite movie of the summer not named Drive. The trailer promises not only some sort of high stakes robot fighting league, but both pieces of dialogue "You got nothin' left," and "You're a bad bet," delivered with the hyper sincerity that makes my crap sensor tingle. And Hugh Jackman is gonna make good with some kid? Forget about it.
So sure...I work a little material now and again, and I delivered the above diatribe to a film loving friend the other day. He leaned back for a moment, cocked his eyebrows and asked, "Are you being ironic?" Yeah, a little, but sometimes I like a movie that knows it's just a movie. Maybe it's low brow, and my ticket stub goes toward the ever reverberating pablum machine that makes Hollywood great, but...I love crap. I watch a Statham film with the reverence one invokes when they visit the Hagia Sophia. I would trade in a hectare of moody indie dramas for one more installment of Final Destination.
You can't make a B-movie on purpose. A B-movie has nothing to do with budget or cast or genre, it has something more to do with ingenuity, irrational confidence, pervasive good-badness, and a lack of execution. There are still bad movies--tons of em--and great films, but B-movies fill some slight space in between. Sometimes it's a great idea brought to life with meat hands. Sometimes it's one masterful sequence or unforgettable visual effect. In this case, it's the "He was in what...and it was about what?" moment forty years removed from an actors relevance. These movies serve as a quiet bedrock of modern cinema's identity. B-movies are the corpses harvested to make great films. Ask Quentin Tarantino and the mountain of money stuffed in old VHS cassette covers he sleeps on every night. I bet it's with chicks, too...hot ones. At least hot-ish.
Old B-movies enjoy the benefit of nostalgia's allure. The throw back poster art and over the top story lines excuse the shoddy craftsmanship and clumsy narratives. Badness becomes the new measuring stick of quality. The film becomes its flaws. Take the 1968 Otto Preminger crapsterpiece Skidoo. Skidoo is...oh man...it is not good, but Jackie Gleason--yes, that Jackie Gleason--takes LSD. Harry Nilsson does the soundtrack. Mobsters and Hippies intermingle. There's a rape joke. Oh, and the movie also happens to be Groucho Marx's last film...let that wash over you. She's a deuce all the way around, but aren't you curious? Aren't you glad Skidoo exists?
In the moment, in 1968, the movie is despicable. A tragic, unfunny film with a bunch of washed up Hollywood memories trying to pose as a hip counter culture drug romp. This is a year that boasts films like 2001: A Space Odyssey and Rosemary's Baby. India was in a cinematic golden age, and Europe and Japan were rippin' shit on the reg. In the winter of '68, I believe I would have deplored this movie. On principle. I can't prove it, but my gut--and my need to make my pointless argument--say otherwise.
40 years later, the first time I saw the film, things were different. As I said to my self, "Jackie Gleason was in what...and it's about what?" the film earned its pass. Skidoo was charming and some far away emblem of another era's misguided notions. Shades of Hollywood long gone in a film so absurd it takes on an endearing, almost naive, quality. What was once born from a bloated Studio flop, came out on the other side of nostalgia as must-see-movie-nerd-cool. Time's elixir can transform even the steamiest turd into campy, kitschy fun, but what of that freshly laid dook?
Well, this is my hope for Real Steel. I want to witness the pre-camp/future-camp flash point. The film could be just good enough to be forgettable. It could be just bad enough to be terrible (I'm looking crazy hard at you ROTPOTA...like I wanna punch you in your face). But, if the feel good hokum is strung taught, the cliches visible from the first five minutes, and the visual effects set to be the blue screen and stop motion laughable to a future era, it could be just bad enough to be great. A relic for tomorrow's cinefiles to gleefully accept for what it is, crap. It remains to be seen if this picture has stuff enough to rise into the cannon of B-movies, but I'll lay a ticket stub on that chance.
Green Bay Packers
Name the last champion who looked this poised to repeat. Since the Pats in 03-04, or what we all remember as the dark times, who has been this scary in the role of conquering hero?
In '05-'06 there was the Colts which...God forgive me, but we all knew that wasn't gonna happen. Then we had the Giants, who won the most important Super Bowl game since Super Bowl III. They forever saved the game of football in a quest my friends and I likened to Lord of the Rings. (Brady-Saruman, Belichick-Sauron, The Pat's D-The Nazgul, Peyton-Gandalf, Rivers-Frodo, and Eli-Samwise...a nickname used to this day. Oh...Goodell was Gollum) But everyone was rooting for the G-Men so hard, and their task so important, their stock was way overblown in the aftermath. Next, the Steelers, and then the first "r" incident happened with Big Ben, and it cast an eerie pallor over the Steelers season. The Saints won the next Super Bowl, and the celebration didn't stop until like week five of the 2010 season. They also managed to make every bad offseason personnel decision possible, so they came in to the season--errr--we'll call it "unfocused".
Now Green Bay. The NFL franchise larger than legend. The small market Hercules casting a shadow over even the largest NFL lore. A young quarterback, the kid chosen over a Packers icon, who looks to still be approaching the peak of his powers. It's a youth movement on both sides of the ball with just enough veteran leadership to keep the team hungry. Last year's team was good enough to bring the Lomabrdi back to Wisconsin. This year, the Pack get Jermichael Finley and Ryan Grant back from inujury, young and scary talent grown-up Green Bay style.
I hate to say it, but I'm intimidated. There appears to be a lot of fuel in the Aaron Rodgers greatness engine designed to erase the Brett Farve memory. If he can bring home back to back championships... Should his statue be at Lombardi's right hand like the Christ child? Can you retire the number of an active player? If he can do that, four might be a number in Green Bay history that just represents how many rings Aaron Rodgers wears.
Minnesota Vikings
The Vikings are now the half-way home for almost out of the league quarterbacks. After the grim end to the Brett Farve experiment--human drama on scale with a Greek tragedy--they've elected Donovan McNabb as signal caller.
This is a quarterback league, it's just a fact. I still believe a superior defense is what will win you the crown, but you have to have a QB that can make plays enough to hang up some Dub's in the regualr season. I've watched Donovan play for years. Donovan has dealt the death blow to the Cowboys more times than I care to count, one wound so deep, I swear to this day it killed my lady relations at the time. There is no question Donovan will be in the HOF conversation every year, and every year teeth will gnash when he doesn't get inducted. Donovan is a great quarterback, but 2005 was a long time ago, and at least an aging Farve came in to Minny with an "I got it done" moment on his resume.
Donovan has a unique advantage playing in Minnesota. 85% of his job is gonna be to hand the rock to Adrian Peterson, and the other 15% will be to dump the ball off to AD in the flat. It's a great gig, and where Donovan's athleticism is buried in an Eagles jersey somewhere under the Schuylkill Expressway, he's got veteran know-how for days. It would be foolish to write off the Vikings. I really like new head coach, and long time Viking assistant coach, Leslie Frazier. AD looks beastly. The Vikings D has somehow been overlooked, the most potent kind of fuel for a talented defense with something to prove. Then there is Donovan...
Last year, the emblem for the Vikings season was the crumbling stadium and the roof piled high with snow that finally gave way. This year, to look to Mall of America Field for inspiration, it's the story of the old patched up building with one last chance and no tomorrow. Donovan is not the quarterback of the future in Minny, and as with the Vikings expiring stadium, the end is nigh. No new stadium, perhaps no more Minnesota Vikings. No anointed franchise quarterback, perhaps not enough wins to garner a new stadium deal. So for now, the Vikings have to settle the matter between the hashes, and hope the old war bird still has a little magic left in her.
Chicago Bears
Do they have any real talent in Chicago? Is Jay "Fussy-Face" Cutler a good quarterback? Is Devin Hester really a multi-dimensional offensive threat? Are you sure you want the hamstring brothers, Matt Forte and Maionr Barber, even touching a football? Is Lovie Smith coach enough to anchor this band of dickish one trick ponies together? Does Mike Martz really really like Roy Williams that much?
Cutler has arm strength for days, and I don't begrudge him last year's NFC championship game, but he's a Grumpasaurus Rex. He may be a good leader, but he's still the emotional and mental equivalent of a twelve year old leading his BMX bicycle gang. You don't have to be charismatic to helm a football team, but you need to be a big boy. Devin Hester is an elite special teams player, and in turn an anti-elite wide receiver. My favorite moment of any fantasy draft is when someone hitches their wagon to that punt and kick return yards Hester star. Their roster spot should just read "future-waiver-wire-request". Lovie Smith has more wins than loses, but more signature losses than signature wins. Mike Martz and Roy Williams...actually, they're perfect for each other.
Every player in Chicago has a talent, and if those singular talents align like the corners of Jay Cutler's expressionless grimace, the Bears will win some football games. If this fast-learning league can turn these handful of individual talents against themselves, Detroit may finally earn that elusive honor of being the second-worst-last team in the black and blue division.
Detroit Lions
By now I'd imagine you've seen these new Chrysler commercials. The ones where a sleek black car slides through a hardened yet reignited Detroit looking to rebound from the scars of modern industries false promises. I really like them. The commercials feature Detroit's current and future stars and go a long way to defy the Detroit "shuttered storefront" image. It's an ad campaign focused around failure and rebirth. The story of a troubled city and her fate intertwined with a troubled industry. A tribute to the hope that even the deepest wounds can be overcome. As an added bonus, the new 300's look strong and reimagined and down right sexy. A gospel choir soars, the gritty hand held images of Detroit are intercut with vibrant citizens who refuse to succumb, and then they hit you with the tag "Imported from Detroit". The first time, I had to suppress an emotional response, but when those vague flashes of human feelings peel back, I mean...it's still a Chrysler.
There is a lot going for the Motown young talent jamboree. It's not quite Barry Gordy bringing David Ruffin into a little white house on Grand Blvd to record with the Temptations, but there is a lot to feel good about. The hellish Matt Millen era, a tyrannical reign that makes adjectives like Pol-Pot-esque seem kind, is finally over. A lot of young talent perished in the Millen-ing, but Marty Mayhew is here to set right what once went wrong. Ndamukong Suh is a defensive phenom. Calvin Johnson, or "Megatron," is grown man enough to shoulder one of the best nicknames in the NFL. I still don't think Stafford is the guy. He's talented, but his shoulder appears to be made out of baby kisses, and you've got to have more stank than that to make it in this league.
It's all high-fives and sunshine, right? Well...when you have to matchup with two of the NFL's top ten offensive talents four times a year, that doesn't help. The non-divisionals this year are the hyper-competitive NFC South and an improved AFC West. They still have to play the Cowboys every year who, no matter how bad the Boys are, they cant seem to beat. About the time Joe Buck, in his almost "I'm not at the game," delivery says "And here comes Shaun Hill," well...you Detroit fans know the rest of the story. I see six wins, and as long as the Detroit front office doesn't get all knee-jerky, there is a bright future in Detroit. Much improved, but...you know...it's still the Lions.
NFC bEast: Philadelphia Eagles
You see that right there? It's a token gesture. F*ck the Eagles...really. If this was an organization with stones enough to win a Super Bowl, they would have done it already. Sure, I'm clearly way too biased to provide any impartial insights into the Iggs, but I do no know a thing or two about a team with too much talent.
As a whole, Adult Swim delivers the most inspired block of original programming on television. Yeah...HBO's got stuff, and AMC is trying super hard, but Adult Swim is the city on the hill. Superjail, Delocated, and Metalocalypse are three off the six shows I follow, and when I follow, I do it like a dude with a restraining order. The crown jewel in the Adult Swim's repertoire, Venture Bros., is the most important my favorite show on television. That's a pretty heavy set of four original shows, but a few great programs isn't what sets Adult Swim apart. Good or bad--and there have beenunspeakablecrimes--they dare to take risks, and an unfettered creative effort reflects in the final product. There have been plenty of "weird for the sake of weird" arguments, with varying degrees of merit, but when the pure artistic endeavor shines through, it's brilliant. Brilliant in the way when that word used to mean something--a beacon.
So you have this amazing network, right? Then you hear that there is going to be a show with...Dudes from The State! And Rob Corrdry! And Henry Winkler! And Malin Akerman! And Megan Mullally! And shitloads of celebrity cameos! On paper, it's perfection. It's like a show that's been un-funny proofed. There could be no script, one hand held camera, and this cast, this collection of rouge comedy man-boy-god-children, could make comedy gold. Actual gold spun from hay like Rumpelstiltskin and Cartoon Network get's to charge by the minute. But instead, it's just...meh.
Meh is the only word for it. It's a deep and sorrowful meh, cut with potent ennui, but it's no better than a "meh". Oversold intention, too many wayward never-beens popping in for hollow cameos, unrealized ideas, a lack of direction, and most damning of all, it's not funny. The show is treacly and sigh inducing. It has nothing to do with the content--there may be no place funnier than a children's hospital--it's simply too much talent.
It's a strange, counter-intuitive phenomenon, but there is no cure. The '03-'04 Lakers, Ocean's 12, the '08 Cowboys, Beat the Devil, the '10-'11 Miami Heat. Go back and read the previous two paragraphs. Insert Jeff Lurie, Andy Reid, Battle Damage Vick, Nnamdi, Ronnie Brown, and Cullen Jenkins where appropriate, and ask yourself....is that it? Is this really going to be my boring prediction? As me and my roommate have come to oft quote, heads shaking, while Children's Hospital promos play, "Pssshhh...Just too much talent".
Dallas Cowboys
Hey Silver and Blue...it's me again.
Yeah, I know it's been awhile, but if you ask anyone I know, I talk about you all the time.
I'm just gonna come out and say it. Last year was tough. After a summer visit to Canton to see Emmitt go into the HOF and knowing our home super bowl was on the horizon, I expected too much. I know, I ran out on you for two weeks and I wasn't there when you needed me most. Do you think I wanted to find out about Tony in some Internet Cafe in Pondicherry? Of course not. But to come home and find you in that state with the Packers, face-down-ass-up, I was humiliated. The dream was dead.
Wade was gone the next morning. His lasting impression in my life? I gave a friend money for his wedding and it in some way contributed to his new HDTV. His thank you card featured a hand made picture of a Smurf taking Wade Phillips from behind. Thanks for all the memories, StayPuft. I hadn't felt this bad about a season in my entire life. Even the back to back 5-11 seasons had some continuity and there were memories of Super Bowl glory clear in our minds. (Cause Cowboys fans do not live in the past) This team wasn't supposed to suck. This was our champion and the fall wasn't even heroic enough to be a tragedy. No focus, no discipline, not even a scintilla of grit. I need to say it. You hurt me. In a real way. But I want the healing to begin.
You know what I realized the other day? 20 years me and you. Yup...you've been in my life for two decades and we'll make this thing work. Cause that's what a you-and-me do. You've made some tough choices. Marion wore The Star with pride and well...I don't think we need to talk about this whole Roy Williams thing. It's in the past, and we're moving forward together. Order and discipline seem to be the call of the day at Valley Ranch. This year's draft was savvy if no sexy. Look, I know Jerry is...he's Jerry, but I believe you've changed. I really think things are gonna be different this time.
We've learned so much. There has been so much growth as we continue on our journey. As tough as times get, there is no obstacle that could ever drive us apart. I probably sound like a mixed up kid wearing his Dallas Cowboys 1992 Super Bowl Championship tee for the first time, but I couldn't think of my life without you. Because after all these years I've come to realize, I'm glad I just get to watch you play. Oh, and no pressure...but I've got my on #88 colored glasses and I'm looking to anoint a certain red-head head coach "future legend". Here's to twenty more years.
+always and forever
New York Giants
Somewhere between a shoulder shrug and a knee-jerk reaction, the Giants might destroy themselves this year. It's a strange era of "win now" football when a coach and a quarterback who won a Super Bowl together less than four years ago are perpetually on the hot seat. The G-Men have had some tough years since the big win, but the real problem when the Giants lose, is they lose ugly.
Ask a casual fan what Giant's game they remember from last year, and I'd wager Osi Umenyiora's non-existent contract that they'd mention the Eagle's 28 point come back with eight minutes left in the game. It was a like train wreck having a feverish nightmare. These moments alone are enough to tear a franchise's guts out. To compound the problem, NYG fans have to live through these moments, look on the sideline, and find Eli with his left hand hooked in his shoulder pads, mouth agape, doing his weird shoulder-shrug-tick thing.
It's maddening, I know. My quarterback wears a backwards baseball cap, but lest the Jints fans and front office forget...this is a quarterback and coach that won a Super Bowl together four years ago! Not just any Super Bowl mind you, but a Super Bowl they had no business winning. A game that will be regarded as a great American classic for all time. The story of Super Bowl XLIV will be a Disney movie someday. A victory like that doesn't buy a coach and QB a lifetime, but it would be an interesting comment on the state of the modern game if it only bought a coach four more years, a stint that includes another playoff run and a divisional title.
Revisionist history is this sort of magic salve that can gloss over even the closest memories. In the Giants run to SB XLIV, they were the most unimpressive ten win team I've ever seen, yet they got it done. I'm not sure how the Giants being just sucky enough to be great has been clouded by this notion they are a gridiron juggernaut being destroyed by Tom and Eli, but these are the slings and arrows of round the clock sports in a large media market.
This year is gonna be tough. The Giants' secondary is decimated and their offensive line is in transition, and it could possibly spell the end for Coughlin. Personally, I trust the Mara's slightly more than that, but if it all goes down, what an alarming precedent. It's not that I care. I'm not invested in the Giants doing well, but who would they rather have as head coach? It doesn't really matter, and it may not be this year, but what a strange and sad day in the NFL when winning cures everything but winning.
Washington Redskins
Oh...there's still a team in DC? Woof!
What else do you want me to say? When the headlines out of Washington are "Grossman to start over Beck," and "Santana Moss signed to a three year deal at 15 million," you expect me to take that seriously?
Ugh. Daniel Snyder you just keep on digging. God bless your stupid face.
NFC South: New Orleans Saints
For my money, or my friend who paid for NFL Sunday ticket's money, I think the NFC South is far and away the most compelling division in the NFL this year. The South is comprised of a recent Super Bowl champion, two teams helmed by young, and special, quarterback talent, and Carolina is home to the Cam Newton experiment or what we'll refer to as "Who wants Ron Rivera to be their defensive coordinator?"
Brees is like a rock, and I think he's poised for a good year. In a personal aside, he's an Austin kid made good and he owns a Jimmy Johns franchise. I also like how much he talks shit to the man. He did some grade 'A' jawing during the lockout. Solid Dude. Sean Payton is a dynamic leader and ranks among the best coaches in the NFL. Men of this caliber in those critical positions, I think New Orleans can overcome the lack of impact talent. I really don't like the depth at receiver. Between Moore's hammy, Meacham's ankle, and old glass tendons Colston there is like one functioning leg in that WR corps. Other than Jimmy Graham, a TE with breakout potential, it's hard to tell who is going to score points for Saints. New Orleans' secret salvation this year will have to be the run game.
Pierre Thomas might be the most underrated back in the NFL. The last three years, behind Reggie Bush and out with injury, he's gone for almost 2500 combined yards and 22 touchdowns. Wee-ow. With Bush out of the way, he could have a great year. He had some crazy ankle problems last year, but he's very quietly one of the most reliable backs around. Darren Sproles is a huge x-factor, as he's what Reggie Bush would be, if he were talented. Also, if this much ballyhooed Mark Ingram--whose convict father is pen pals with Suzy Kolber--can deliver the goods, the Saints could be deadly.
The games in this division could come down to a handful of possessions and for now I'm putting my money on #9. If these teams can rise to the occasion, the NFC South could hang in the balance until the end of the season. Brees has proven he can do more in these moments with even less talent. I think the Saints will win this division, but a play here and a breakout young star there, the race is wide open.
Hooray. Hooray for football.
Atlanta Falcons
Is this whole Matt Ryan thing starting to whiff of Peyton-esque? Since day one, he's been preened to be a number one draft pick, and he plays like one. Matt Ryan's first NFL possession was a touchdown pass. He took a shell shocked Falcons franchise and erased the ugly memories of the Michael Vick dogfighting scandal. Since taking over at quarterback, Matt Ryan has averaged 3354 passing yards per season, and each year he's thrown six more touchdowns than the year before. (16, 22, 28...crazy, right?) He has lead the Falcons to one division title, and two playoff appearances. Matty Ice has a bunch of neat merit badges on his sash, but much like Sheriff Manning before him, the big moment eludes him.
Lemme lay some real shit on you. Peyton made the playoffs two of his first three years in the league and lost in the first round both attempts. Matt Ryan, like some tiny carbon copy, has followed that exact path. They are both super white and toothy and dangerous football minds. I'm not saying Matt will do as well as Peyter. Manning's body of work is untouchable. Though I will say with confidence, this is the last year that Matt Ryan will escape the first round of you fantasy draft...or, if you've gotten you shit together, he'll be a 25% of your budget prospect. If he doesn't play all 16 games, pass for 4000+ yards, and make the playoffs, I'll hire Mike Smith...who is not the guy. He's the Mora to Peyton's Dungy. And to revisit this flimsy and protracted analogy, I don't think he'll win that playoff game.
Yes. Peyton got his. It was an Odyssean effort, and Super Bowl XLI is no great American classic. Look, my guy is the realness, but the Colts have lost seven of their first round playoff games under Peyter in eleven attempts. I'm not saying anything, but I'm just saying. Right now Ryan seems to be of that same make. They are football mortals. They represent the best of the game, but that are bound to their flaws. It's a beautiful dynamic. All those years I referred to Peyton Manning as the poor man's Y.A. Tittle, it wasn't a dig that he lacked a championship. It's that he was a hard worker and tough leader...without a championship. It's not your time yet Matthew Ryan. I need to see you throw away a couple of 13-3 seasons first. But someday, when you're all growns up, you can be as human as YA Tittle, too.
Tampa Bay Buccaneers
I've been trying to put together a rational idea for why I love this team so much, but that's what it is. It's irrational. They are the new badasses of NFL High School. The Steelers and Ravens are just scary and mean. The Pats are total snobs, and I'm not into that shit. The Colts are down, but I don't wanna spend all of my time in the FFA parking lot. The Raiders are like those weird skeevy dudes you score shit from, but that's not...that's not a true friend. The Cowboys are like the worst of the douche bag rich kids, but, uh....five Super Bowls, bitches. The Buccaneers? They're the lost boys from Hook, and I wish I could be their friend.
Josh Freeman, total Rufio, is the leader of this rag-tag bunch of kids out to challenge the old guard. They're scoring touchdowns. They're winning games. They just don't give.a.fuck. The Buccs laid bets on an unsafe number of risky prospects, including 34 year old head coach Raheem Morris, and got paid out in platinum bricks of swag. The first year was brutal. Now, they have a badass tree fort filled with swashbucklers. Tampa went from a three win season to a ten win season and still missed the playoffs. Raheem Morris calls the condition "Yongry".
It took a couple of clicks to find, and I know it's like four minutes long, but this clip embodies everything I want to say about the Bucc's season this year. It's something about high expectations, invisible food, a little imagination, and becoming a better person...but to be honest, part of me just hopes this is what meal time is like in Tampa every night. Bangarang!
Carolina Panthers
Two high draft picks in as many years used on quarterbacks. A new coach who learned the 3-4 from Wade Phillips and came out Norv Turner's coaching tree. An owner, one of the most powerful in the NFL, who will do anything to help himself win and almost nothing to help his team win. It's starting to read like the voice over to this fall's madcap yet feel good sports movie, but I don't think a cardboard cut-out of a naked Jerry Richardson is enough to pull this shit sandwich together.
Cam Newton is not smart enough to figure out how to make his gifts work in the NFL. Being an athletic freak is simply not enough. In fact, Vince Young's zombified football corpse does a ten-part lecture series on the topic at Philly's community college. Ron Rivera is a hack. His most famous pupil was outed as a juicer whose talent disappeared in lock step with each future drug test. Jerry Richardson feasted for years on the chicken salad that John Fox and Matt Delhomme made from chicken shit. Now, he's scrambling to find a "get" and it makes me wonder if he's handed down the decision to start Cam Newton just to put asses in seats.
I'd be satisfied to wish for the worst in Carolina this year, but my heart breaks for Steve Smith. He's a wonderful talent and hard worker and the sort of hopeless head case that makes my heart whimper. I wish he could find a better day, or that the Panthers would end their ceaseless punishment for his hard work and release him, but that's not how this story goes. It'll be one more wasted year in Carolina, and somewhere, James Taylor plays a song that my beloved Steve Smith would cry himself to sleep to every night. And not in a good way, in that like ironic/suicide note way.
NFC West:
I'll do ten thoughts and no more because I hate this division with my whole heart.
1) The Rams shit the bed less than everyone else this season adn win the division. Congrats. Also, "shit the bed less than everyone else," should be the phrase on the NFC West's family crest.
2) I can't believe the Eagles got to pull the old bait-and-Cassel on the Cards. Sure, Kevin Kolb was one auspicious start away from his first auspicious start, but Michael Vick was a revelation, so surely he's a blue chip. That logic is air tight.
3) I think Sam Bradford is a hot house flower. You look in his past, and when the lights shine bright, this tulip is wiltin'.
4) Seattle and San Francisco know they both can't have Andrew Luck, right?
5) I mean...but Tavaris Jackson and Alex Smith. What the f*ck is that? It has to be against the rules to try and lose on purpose.
6) Danny Amendola! A division is only as good as it's shiftiest shifty white guy. Congrats NFC West, you've taken one step in the right direction.
7) $21 Million for a sixth year running back who has played one complete season in his entire career is like wifing a 20,000 scene pornstar and then insisting she decides the terms of the pre-nup. I swear, the 49ers are breaking there necks to be the worst team in the NFL. Don't over sell it, we want to try to not believe it's true.
8) You wanna know how much TV I watch? SJax has a Dick's Sporting Goods commercial that totally rips an idea from a local grocery store ad starring Tim Duncan. I won't link to it because I'm embarrassed that I know this, but you know....it's the NFC West the rest of the way out...I've gotta find something to talk about.
9) Or the number of wins the division champion might aspire to this year, a lofty aspiration it is indeed, but more realistically, the number of losses the division champ can have and still make the playoffs.
10) L Fitz got paid! Enjoy being the best player in the worst division for the next five years. And who says there are no moral victories?
All that being said, it's still football time and not even the NFC West can take that away from us. Grab your friends, ignore your families, drink before Noon. Life is worth living again, and I don't want Bart Scott's image management people to come after me, but I can't wait. Happy football everyone!
There are sixteen weeks a year when I don't have to fake it, and this is my love song to that wonderful, glorious time. It looks like we made it. It's football time. I ordered the teams by how I think they'll finish in their division. This is part one of two. Part two will be up Friday. Will the season have already started? I don't claim to be perfect...
AFC East
New England Patriots --
It's a curious thing when in the wake of the NFL Hungry-Hungry-Hippos style free agency grab, Bob Kraft, Chad Ochocinco, and 1950's French suspense film end up together in the same thought space like a hideous Venn diagram.
Undoubtedly, the Pats are the master artisans of transforming NFL garbage into a trash cathedral. New England boasts a sterling record of restoring long forgotten greatness to the NFL's most toxic damaged goods. Turn Chernobyl over to the Pats front office, and they'll have that thing Starbucks-ed and Condo-ed in three months...tops. It's a mystery how it works. I've always wondered if the Corey Dillon thing was an accident, and as a result every washed up NFL no-good-nik believes NE is a true clean slate. Maybe it's the food, a subject Randy Moss--basically an orphan who got too attached to his foster family only to realize they were there to help him, not love him. Wicked sad--is very passionate about. Maybe, and I know it's a stretch, but maybe the Pats just know what they are doing, which is why this recent turn gives me pause.
Lord knows I count the minutes to Ocho's annual melt-down-a-thon, and Albert Haynesworth is a terrible person, like...a vintage piece of shit, but even for New England, it seems like a reach. No two head cases define all that is despicable about NFL millionaire man children than this motley pair. Ocho is like a six year old who wants something so bad, when it's out of his grasp, his only emotional language is temper tantrum. I'm taking the under on week six for when the Pats have to start using a little kid leash just to keep Chad in check. Haynesworth...well I don't know if face stomper, waitress groper, road rager, and all around malingerer are the resume builders you're looking for in starting DT, but sounds like champion material to me.
These moves are eerie. They creep me out. It's as though some Pats clone wearing an evil twin beard made these acquisitions. It all makes sense, but the risk senseless. This go round, the
dangerous mix of ego and ambition, the unbecoming sense of an overplayed
hand, the analogy practically writes itself.
Wages of Fear
is a 1953 French thriller that did white knuckle before color film.
Equal parts suspense and satire, this Cluzot film tells of the
lengths risk takers will go to get a job done. A fools cargo, a pass too treacherous to pass, and a crew of men cast off from the societies they've left behind. The absurd, tragic, and sublime are held in volatile balance as the best of these men is
tested. The prize is worthy, but the journey is long, and a truck packed with nitroglycerin forgives few mistakes.
I won't spoil the end, but you're welcome Pats fans. Ask for the Criterion version for Christmas. It'll all make sense by then.
New York Jets --
There is no team that looks like a bona fide contender more shrouded in mystery. I mean...if the Sanchize hit the open market today and your team picked him up, how excited would you be? When your number one receiver is Santonio Holmes, and your other receiver is billed as "this year's Santonio," is that a warm fuzzy? Do you really know what was lost in the 15 million plus the Jets had to shed in salary cap? Was anyone happy when they picked up Shonn Greene in your league's fantasy draft? Are you one of Antonio Cromartie's nine kids? I think this is a ten to eleven win team, but I don't have answers to, or feel good about any of those questions. It's like a zen koan wrapped in a riddle bundled in uncertainty, and since I don't have any real predictions, I'm gonna be a dick about it and write haiku. Get it? Cause it's smart... (Oh, and on the peeps, my kigo and kireji are totally on point. Drop that shit on the boring girl you're trying to fingerblast who "loves poetry". No. Big. Deal.)
A football season in four haiku:
winters bone shattered
by bullets path cut anew
redemption revealed
the color of spring
frailest youth frocked in proud green
some roots take, many fail
unyielding, summer
immovable sun to shine
defense against dark
fall foliage bluster
heavy sounds on silent air
hide the shaking leaf
Buffalo Bills --
Chan
Gailey and I have a ...complicated relationship. He, fairly or
unfairly, is remembered as the man who destroyed the empire. When he was
hired in Buffalo, the Siberian gulag of the NFL, Memaw King described
him as "The man you hire when you're going out of business". But an Ivy
League quarterback and a WR that blames dropped passes on God
later, that was one watchable four win team. So yeah, the win-loss
column doesn't tell many lies, but there are some finite details lost in
the black and white.
Of the Bills 12 losses (oof), 6
were decided by one score or less. I don't know what it's like. I can't grasp the pain of not only waking up in Buffalo everyday, but having to
go to work for Ralph Wilson, and those kids were sold out every Sunday.
From the outset Gailey said he was gonna do it "his way". As much as
that seems like code talk for "take a three time Super Bowl
winning behemoth and destroy them," he's stayed away from toxic, over
the hill free agents, focused on hard work, and with the close aid of new GM Buddy
Nix to put together a provocative youth movement.
Will
they be the last place team in the AFC East again? It seems as sure as a
25 point loss to the Dallas Cowboys in Super Bowl XXVII, but winter is
coming, and there is talk of white walkers in the north. (#GoT) That and
Miami is going to be f*cking terrible.
Miami Dolphins --
Black coffee on an empty stomach and the Fins depth chart makes for a punishment unkind to even the lowest toilet.
Booing the already fragile 4th year QB in preseason practice. Longing for the days when Chad Pennington was working on his second
'Come Back Player of the Year' award (<---- which I cannot
articulate the sort of left handed compliment bukkake that sentence adds
up to). Channing Crowder retires. Jason Taylor unretires. Brandon
Marshall is seeking treatment for borderline personality disorder. Reggie Bush...
It's like the football version of Hurricane Andrew, just funnier...and more forgettable. Put on those #13 jerseys and dust off
your favorite brown paper bags...it's football time in South Florida!
AFC North Pittsburgh Steelers --
The fear clutched my chest as I flew awake. An icy sickness hung on my neck. As I pulled the sheets down from my mind, one thought persisted in my mind. On Madden 2012, when the Steelers are down, Troy Polamalu plays harder. A thoughtful and subtle touch that reinforces my worst fears. The Steelers are my nightmare. A black and gold phantasm impossible to kill and forever lurking in the shadows. It's not enough for them to be villains, I fear them because they are villains with a plan. For almost five uninterrupted decades, the Steelers have managed to take a band of human monsters, point them in the same direction, and win.
After garbage can, what's the second term you use to describe the Steelers? Big Ben? Even if the rape thing had never happened, I still wouldn't like that dude. I can see every kid he bullied in junior high etched into his sociopathic face. James Harrison? He is a dangerous person. All snark removed, I have grave concerns he'll take a human life someday, and it won't be on the football field. Hines Ward? Not just a cheap shot artist, but making the cheap shot an art form since 1998. Oh, and hey...Hines, Brett Keisel. One fedora per crew. And Ryan Clark? That guys Twitter feed cloggery is crime enough. These clowns are lucky they have peace warrior Polamalu there to answer the door when the cops show up.
But as much as I hate, and that belies the sentiment, the Steelers organization is like a rock. The seamless transition from one Super Bowl winning coach to another to yet another is outside the realm of possibility. The Rooney family seems cool as hell. I really like head coach Mike Tomlin. Last year at Canton, I felt honored to get to see Dick "I have the entire 'Night Before Christmas' memorized" LeBeau inducted into the Hall of Fame. The Steelers are assholes, but they are assholes with a voice, an identity, and desire. It's redundant to speak of the Steelers as a contender, but that combination will always make for daunting opposition.
Baltimore Ravens --
I'm a defense first guy. It's one thing to make an argument, but I admire the refutation of an argument so much more. Over the past decade, few organizations represent the power of that refutation more than the Baltimore Ravens. Not only is BMore (that's what we call it on the streets) the hardest city in the States, name another city thuggish-ruggish-bone enough to make their team name a literary reference? I was a huge fan of the New England 'To The Lighthouses', but we all knew it wouldn't stick.
The only downside of a decade of greatness is it's ten years long. Men who slugged out those ten years on the gridiron wear those battle scars. The Ravens know these consequences. The pieces of an offensive revolution appear to be in place for the sad, sad day when "All about tha U" legends Ed Reed and Ray Lewis hang up their cleats, but that makes for a critical nexus. This year is the the second of maybe four - five tops - "this year is the year" years the Ravens have left.
Joe Flacco and Ray Rice are on a team that wins. They help win games, but it's hard to say if they are good ball players. It's a vast improvement over the ghouls on Baltimore's offensive side of the ball in years past, but the D still carries the purple and black banner. It's time for the leap. I want Joe Flacco to get made fun of as much as Eli Manning when he calls himself an elite quarterback. I want Ray Rice to seem worth 25% of a fantasy team budget. If the offense can match their climb with the defense's gradual decline, this year will be magic in Baltimore. Because after that defense is gone, the only peer to the Steelers juggernaut, rebuilding a squad like that could take another decade. To find another #52 could take a franchise lifetime. I'm not even hack enough to piece it together, but some sort of terrible "Nevermore" allusion should be here. Do your own, I'll leave a space.
Cleveland Browns --
January 7th, 2010 is a sports memory which holds a place so unhappy and bizarre in my recollection, it almost breaches into the surreal. Colt McCoy was the winningest QB in all of NCAA history. He held the NCAA record for highest single season completion percentage, a galling 76.7%. The guy clutched it out in big game after big game and helmed the greatest Red River Shootout victory of my lifetime. #12 was total class. Then the big night, with the world looking in, life happened all over that kid's shoulder, and four years of impeccable work was incinerated.
Colt McCoy went to the Browns in the 3rd round with the 85th pick of the 2010 NFL draft. At the end of training camp, there was a lot of strong chatter out of Cleveland that the McCoy wasn't gonna make it in the NFL. To pile it on, there was word he might even get cut before the regular season. He made the roster as the third quarterback and when the two men before him went down to injury, Colt got out there and did what he'd always done, win football games. Two to be exact. He lost five others, and got injured in week 11 and missed three games, but as with all good 85th pick legends, there's gonna be a trial here and a tribulation there.
Like a typical University of Texas fan, I lack a little perspective, but that kid is a winner. Cleveland isn't there yet. The Browns will be the third best team in a savage division but...Peyton "White Thunder" Hillis and the small blonde kid from Texas with the football name...then I tell you they got the NFC West draw?! Shiiiiiiit. You just need the 'fidence.
Cincinnati Bengals --
There is a Japanese novel from 1962 called Woman in the Dunes. The book had a second, and far more relevant life as a Japanese art house film, but the internet cut me break. Wikipedia says it was a book first, so I don't have to lay two art house cinema references on you in one NFL blog post, and still look my self in the mirror. Everyone wins....except, of course, the Bengals.
As the story goes, there is a young entomologist sent to the dunes in search of a rare beetle. His work complete and snared in one of those missed-the-last-bus setups, he's invited by the villagers to stay the night. When bedtime arrives, they send him down a rope ladder (uhhhhh) into a pit (...wait) where a young widow (how young?) lives alone (grep).
Come morning, to your utter shock, the ladder is gone. He is sentenced to a life forever digging the hole deeper into the sand. After that, he and the widow run a pretty typical relationship model. He tries to escape. He takes her hostage. The usual stuff. On the eve he does escape, unfamiliar with the hidden dangers of the desert, he becomes trapped in quicksand. The villagers find him, and return him to the widow. At last, resigned to his fate, he accepts his life forgotten in the sand.
Thanks, Carson Palmer, it's been neat. Oh, and hey, Andy Dalton. No...you're totally good. Just go down the ladder...
AFC South
Indianapolis Colts --
Of all of the football privileges I've enjoyed over the years, there are few that I treasure more than Brady vs. Manning. When the dust settles, I believe this will be one of the signature story lines in all of NFL history. I've always been firmly in the Manning camp. Among the many reasons I love old Peyter, he's unattractive and square jawed and drawls in long southern tinged quips. A future 1st round pick, he grew up enjoying the charmed life of NFL royalty. Peyton was put on this earth to not to simply play football, but be a quarterback. Since then, 4000+ passing yards in ten of twelve NFL seasons. 4 NFL MVP's, 1 Super Bowl MVP, and the big fat ring that goes with it. The T-1800 is some sort of football robot we may never see the likes of again. That, and he's like my 4th favorite actor. (Someday I will make a version of King Lear with Archie and the three Manning boys.)
The Tom Brady story should appeal to my underdog bias. 6th round pick, all hard work and hustle. A modicum of humility coupled with gridiron excellence. His pregnant, and super hot, actress wife he dumped for his future supermodel wife. It's perfect, it's all there, but I couldn't forgive "the tuck". I know he didn't make the call, but the better team got robbed that night. Tom became my scapegoat. For years, the vitriol was pungent, but as with all betrayals of the competitive spirit, there must penance. A perfect season erased from memory by the most improbable play in one of the greatest Super Bowls of all time reduced him to fallen God. A knee injury in the first game of the next season made him just a man. After that, I learned to love old Tommy B. The scope of his greatness finally occurred to me. My view unclouded, I was ready to appreciate one of the most elegant quarterbacks I've ever seen win the game -- and win he has indeed.
Those paragraphs might ring with a sense of finality--and I'm sure Bryn ColtsFan is filled with murderous rage as to why I've cluttered #18's turf with such unseemly Brady love--but I sense an era slipping through our fingers. An era typified by two players whose stories can't exist without the other. Peyton and Tom are going to play this year and hang up numbers and make the playoffs, but the peak is behind us. I don't worry about Tom, he'll know when to walk away. As Peyton was put on this earth to play football, he'll hang on far too long. I think the NFL should create a rule that Tom and Peyton have to retire the same year so we can go to the best HOF weekend since Rice and Smith went in, but alas, somethings are too beautiful for this world...
Oh, my analysis? The Colts will win the AFC South if Peyton starts 9 games....which he'll start 16 errr...15 games. He'll start 15, right? You owe me a nickel.
Houston 8-8's --
There is nothing that makes me happier than the Texans year long march toward mediocrity. I still remember when they won 9 games in 2009, totally missed the playoffs, and then actually popped actual champagne bottles in the locker room. The head coach and the owner shared a tearful embrace like they were about to hoist the Lombardi Trophy. The next year they offset that excellence with six wins which brings their W/L average after five seasons under Gary Kubiak to an august 7.4 wins and 8.6 losses. Let's just split the difference and call it 8-8, because I'm kind in that way. Though there is something to be said for consistency.
So how will they do it this year? Will it be a week one pantload setting the table for a meaningless year-end three game win streak into 8-8? Perhaps a week one win over the Colts sending the hype machine into a "this year is the year" fueled frenzy? How many times will the phrase "Garsh!" be uttered by dough boy/retread D-coordinator Wade Phillips as he looks on befuddled? When will Schaub's most tragic, game destroying INT be? When the despair and frustration set in, will we get Andre Johnson vs. Cortland Finnegan II, "The Redeathening"?
I'm so effing excited I can almost taste the pedestrian performances as real as Chinese buffet food. Find a Texans fan and have them tell you about the coming season. It's like watching a six year old tell a joke. Precious. You'll hear a jumbled mass of 3-4, Arian Foster, and Brian Cushing, followed with a heavy dose of Andre Johnson. All roads lead to Andre, and as with any irony worth its salt, it's appropriate. Down in Houston the combination that makes the money go is Schaub to Andre. Or as fate would have it, #08 to #80.
Tennessee Titans --
Bud Adams: What school's he from, again?
Tennessee GM: (measured) he's from...the University of Washington, Bud.
His eyes widen pushing his white cowboy hat to the crest of his bald head.
Bud Adams: That's where Warren went to school, right?
He whips around the room looking for a response. Faces both sullen and afraid meet his glance.
Tennessee GM: (defeated) Yeah Bud, that's where Warren went to school.
Bud Adams: Well shit, that's who I want. They both went to Washington, get me? Makes perfect damn sense.
And with the 8th pick of the 2010 draft the Tennessee Titans select Jake Locker! And hey, I'm not knocking on the kid, I just think it's stupid.
Jacksonville Jaguars --
If a football game is played, and no one is there to watch it...has the game been played at all? We'll find out at least six times this year. And please, for the sake of aesthetic value, change the logo and color scheme when you move the team.
AFC West LA San Diego Chargers --
The longer the lockout went on, the longer I had to stay away from football, and important details fell from my memory. I didn't forget that San Diego had a team, per se, but you can imagine my shock when I found out/re-remembered that Norv Turner was their coach. I know, even reading it there it seems totally implausible, but I promise it's true.
It's the "she's still with that guy?" phenomenon. Norv seems like a solid dude: top-rated offense and defense last year, four consecutive AFC West championships, a neck that looks like a scrot, but his jib is cut all sorts of crazy wrong. He's got those weird James Woods pock marks that I perhaps unfairly characterize him by, but there is a hole in the Chargers resolve. Year after year, the same results eventually have to be traced back to the vision's engineer.
You totally see it...
So the Chargers are about to undergo one of my favorite break-up chrysalises of all. The season will fall just short again. Phillip Rivers and VJax can only be expected to do so much, and the rest of the team might as well be dubbed ? and The Mysterians. If you wanna take that riff to it's illogical conclusion--You San Diego fans are gonna need a lot more than 96 tears. Boom. Anyway, after a prolonged breakup, fraught with what might have beens, the Chargers will do what so many who couldn't escape a bad boyfriend have done before them--dump his ass and move to LA.
Oakland Raiders --
"For 20 years, I've asked dozens of insiders, including commissioners, owners, and those I felt had accurate inside information: 'What is the Raiders succession plan? Who will own and run the team when (or maybe, if) Al Davis dies?' No one has the answer. Even people who like to brag that they're wired on the inside can't give me an answer."
Kansas City Chiefs --
I hope Todd Haley drives a Ford F-250 with a minimum of six tires. In my dreams, it has glasspacks. A lifted frame holds the body up like some god swaddled in a Kansas City Chiefs truck wrap. One mudflap reads, "Go Chiefs." The other reads, "Don't let me f*cking break you!!" I know it's a far off wish, but if the NFL's great compensator drives a Prius to work, I can't live in that world.
Todd Haley is the infamous tough guy who couldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight. I've stepped over tougher guys than Todd Haley running away from said fight. He yells and growls and stalks the sidelines like el commandante, but it's all so paper tiger. He's a cartoon of a football coach that exists in some naive Bill Parcells fantasy. It's okay to be tough, but his demeanor is not that of a leader. Lest we revisit the handshake debacle of November 2010, his freak-outs on the sideline don't reflect the behaviors of a guy worthy of leadership. Where's the poise? Why do I need to be convinced you care? What are you overcompensating for?
I'll take a stab. Todd never played college ball or in the NFL, so maybe it's the only way he can prove he's tough enough. It's a little one-dimensional, but it works. It could be a little Scott Pioli inferiority, as Pioli brought all this talent to KC yet Haley seems the buffoon who can't put it together. And KC does have talent. Cassel isn't the guy, sorry Chiefs fans, but the number of exciting young prospects on this team should buoy even the faintest hope. So where does that leave Todd Haley? I think he's compensating for the fact that he's not a good coach, and his team mirrors those frailties. Last year, come big boy football time, the Chiefs crumbled like an insecure, irrational, half-man built on phony gusto. Where'd they learn that stuff? To quote the immortalized words of the greatest PSA ever made: "You, alright! I learned it by watching you!"
Denver Broncos --
Let shoddy "the last hot shot QB from Stanford the Broncos landed was a guy named John Elwayne" comparisons begin. And by begin, I mean destroy Andrew Luck.
A tragedy occurred in a small corner of the Internet today. The ripple will recede unnoticed, lost in the perpetual motion of webspace expanse. There will be a viral video hack remake. A "you're" will be used instead of "your". Someone, somewhere won't be internetting hard enough...and no one will care. Today, the one internet visage pure enough to swallow and digest all of that badness took off his cape and cowl.
Was this man a hero? No. He was a dick. He was not "An," but THE Internet Snob. To be certain, this is no plea for #TIS. I think he can be a real dong. Instead, this is a lamentation for the point of no return. The nadir where actual life and supposed Internet life intertwine, and an idea dies forever.
In a vacuum, The Internet Snob was one of those perfect Internet entities. It's as though the Internet itself manifested this creature, because in so many ways, it did. An avatar plucked from Google images. A Twitter critique of Twitter and a Tumblr dedicated to the feed. At the helm, a generation of internet autodidacts who keep cyberspace in flux. This particular version is a guy I know personally, and that might be where there story has to go. Because much like the Internet, none of this matters, but it really...matters.
"You know what's funny? Some people are snobby about the music they like or the films they see or the books they read - you're snobby about the Internet." The genesis, a cute, throw away comment from a girlfriend about an at times nasty habit. There have been smaller kernels that produced bigger trees, so off we went.
Internet etiquette--one of the most upsetting and hilarious Google searches of all--belittles what The Internet Snob was really about. His discourse was that of Internet manners, nay....Internet sophistication. A parlor room, laden with plush leather and dark wood, where a man smokes his pipe and ruminates on his well bred Internet standing. My middle class Internetting ethic is diametrically opposed to painful Mac Lion references, but as an absurd slice of social media, it suited me. Then The Internet Snob, like Icarus before him, flew too close to the sun.
In this case, the sun was his actual life. Names were used. Friends called out. Hell, I even got mine.
(But am I right? Nobody is gonna use that f*cking thing. I almost posted "Oh...this is still here?" the other day, but I'm not even using my Internet 'B' material on that wasteland. And for serious, he was posting like every 30 minutes.)
The Internet Snob insisted on being real. He was the supervillain masked vigilante who would leave you a full name and contact phone. There was so much meta-cross-tweeting (ugh) that Charlie Kaufman would have lost the thread. As it all drew closer and closer to actual life--a real life, fake life tragedy was inevitable.
(A bar. Actual life. Dusk.)
TIS: Did you block me from posting on your Facebook wall?
Actual Person: I did.
TIS: What for?
AP: Because you Internet snobbed that comment.
TIS: No! I just complemented someone else's Internet snobbery!
There is some evidence that it was my Internet snobbery being applauded, but this is really no time to point fingers. After that, the details are sketchy, but a FB de-friending occurred within the next twelve hours. Then it happened...
This is where the story should end, but there's no lesson here. Actual friends don't de-friend over a de-friending because of a fake person. We could buy into some vague hope The Internet Snob's heart grew three times that day, but his is not a morality tale. He was a symbol, and now he bleeds. An unmovable, dickish emblem of the petty elitism that the internet holds, collapsed in on itself.
It was never the content, it was the ceaseless commitment to the ideal. A symbol's burden is incorruptibility, but once the curtain is peeled back, there is no punchline. What's revealed instead, is the anti-symbol, a flaw. In this case, a mortal made to feel. A man, too human to be a symbol, elegantly crafted from the common threads of imperfection. And, you know...what am I supposed to do with snobbery from some commoner?
Thinking Beyond our Guns...
I'd spent the first half of that year blown apart. I gnashed my teeth and ambled about and tore at the already frayed ends of my threadbare existence. The girl with the one piece of my heart had something to do with it, but the truth was I had hate-dumped myself, not her. Sure, she totally dumped me, but that's more of a detail...
After an epic mope, a long time friend had one fix, and one alone. He bullied my Netflix queue into a position change (which is like blaspheme), and within 2-3 business days we sat down -- plus one whole pollo asados al carbon, corn tortillas, and lukewarm beer -- for what might have been the most important 145 minutes of therapy I've had in my adult life.
The Wild Bunch is an 800 ton western genre leveling bastard. In an appropriate eulogy, The Duke himself went public and criticized the film for killing the old west myth. It's the front runner of the modern, ugly western, and cornerstone of "F*cking Badass" as a cinematic movement. The lore around this 1969 film matches the final product. Phrases like 'disappeared into the desert', '300,000 plus feet of footage', 'probably real prostitutes', and 'no actual script', are thrown around with hot, sticky breath. In spite of terrible (just awful) fake blood, and the weird, saturated patina of Technicolor, this picture is grim for even a post-Unforgiven world. There was a 1994 re-release to commemorate the film's 25th anniversary, and it still got an NC-17 rating. And The Wild Bunch isn't NC-17 because of some Showgirls tits'n'ass softball bullshit, it's because life is mean...and way hard. That and it's crazy violent.
The movie washed over me like a blood stained riptide. A story about men, and being a man, and the uncertain crossroads at the end of your usefulness. My wounded sentiments found a symbol. The Wild Bunch came to me in the throws of a tectonic shift and took me in as it's own. Since that day I've invoked the movie as both an object lesson and a hangover cure. The film fits into my life. And not just in that "I own the DVD," sort of way. It's a meditation. A guidepost for my inner outlaw still looking to find harmony on the eve of his 29th birthday.
We're not gonna git rid of anybody!
"We're not gonna git rid of anybody! We're gonna stick together, just like it used to be! When you side with a man, you stay with him! And if you can't do that, you're like some animal, you're finished. We're finished! All of us!"
The art school kids would call that a philosophical centerpiece. This film, of course, is above such petty airs, but the moment does count for something. The outlaws have been cast out into the desert, nothing to show for the carnage left in their wake. Tempers are short and the tenuous alliances between thieves shows like puppet strings. A misstep by the old man sends the bunch tumbling into the dunes. Guns are pulled, threats barked, and the flash of dissension wedges the men apart. Pike steps in, delivers his speech with square jawed sincerity, and cracks show in the tension. He crosses to his horse and as he goes to mount, his stirrup gives way. Crumpled on the ground, the value of the old men, the fading outlaws, is again called into question. Pike fights to his feet, hoists his leg over his horse, and pulls himself upright in the saddle. Without a word, he rides into heat smeared horizon a stoic black figure. The men follow.
I wish this was going to be a sweeping passage about the unfailing bonds of friendship, or some fierce defense of togetherness, but this ain't Hollywood. Being my friend can be really terrible. I wish I was Pike Bishop giving that speech to rally lifelong companions around our weakest ally, but instead, I think I'm the man on the ground. I worry I've allowed myself to be come the one peered at over-shoulder as my friends recite Pike's speech like a prayer before they decide to keep me one more time.
I mean, I'm trying to make this thing dance, so the self flagellation accentuated for dramatic effect. I can be very polite company and I'm not the first person to flake on a Facebook message, but there is a sense of closeness that's diminished in my life. What begins as a seed of my selfishness festers into some misguided sense of obligation. A foolish notion that something will be required of me outside the communion of friendship. An unknown burden I can't shoulder. These feelings protract into aversion and guilt and an entire laundry list of frailties. So it's not say that I'm missing closeness in my life, instead it's what I've done to expel it.
I've left men behind over small and ugly pride. I've allowed pieces of my life to go lost in the landfill of unreturned calls and texts. I've forsaken the bond between a man that sides with another man. But as good fortunes go, I have friends who can utter Pike's words with more conviction than me. Though, as all tough talking platitudes go, the more you have to repeat them to yourself, they harder they are to believe.
Guns for Mapache
I will work for my entire life. I'll die in my boots.
The truth fell in me like a knife. I was too smart and beautiful for a life so...common. The coming days were wet with tears, saturated from immersion in my little tar-pit of despair. It was work's fault I didn't have a trust fund. It's was corporate Americas crime I hadn't done the work to live out my rock'n'roll fantasies captured in my non-existent boyhood journals. Work was my enemy. Work was the opponent of my artistic endeavor, and the only salve for that wound was to wage war against the beast. I spread dissension. I worked 20 hours and just sat at home the other 20 hours somehow in defiance of my work-a-day life. My only objective was misery and I could radiate like a coal furnace. I scowled and raged and collected write-ups like badges of honor, but the battle always ended in stalemate. We didn't need each other. Instead, we were make believe enemies with a shared goal: a bottom line. All we had on each other was what we wanted from each other.
Terrible, right? It's like the sell out's manifesto. I was willing to trade in my high minded ambitions, for what? A lifestyle?
Yup.
Because the unhappy necessary truth is that work is work is work is work. I make it as a writer and then there's unknown hands, with a commercial interest no less, that get to tear my work apart. I become a rock star and some A&R man kills my masterpiece because, "The studio doesn't hear a single". I manifest my cinematic vision and there are no asses in seats. And in all of these scenarios, it would actually count. There will always be someone else's bottom line, so I figured it was best to know my own.
For now, I get to write I want. A few times I've been able to position my actual life with the life I want. Work has financed screenplays, global adventures, and concerts that future generations will ask about with bated breath. I've been able to prop up my indulgences in a quiet way that suits me. Yeah, it's all possible without a job, but debts and benefactors are a hellish master much harder to walk away from than a 40 hour work week.
Depressed yet? Don't be. Just think about General Mapache. Cause like Deke Thornton says, "What I want and what I need are two different things."
The Wild Bunch we're in a bad spot. A robbery back in the states had gone real bad. Mexico -- as per the tacit agreement between America and Mexico -- was the only refuge. The Bunch stole away to Agua Verde, a sinister town held tight in the debauched fist of General Mapache. Out of money, out of options, and having gunned down one of Mapache's favorite whores, the boys are short on bargaining chips. Mapache wants guns, a shipment of guns guarded by the US Army set to cross the countryside. The Wild Bunch has two real options: Don't steal the guns and die broke and alone in Mexico. Steal the guns for a hefty take, but suffer the whims of the cruel Mapache. So they did what a man with a grasp on the life he's made for himself does...
Am I saying that I go out and steal to keep the power broker's pockets engorged and bellies fat? *ahem*...of course not. I'm saying that hard work is a noble deed that exists above the task. Work is indifferent, neither creativity's enemy or ally. Endeavors both menial and profound are built from the same stuff. It's an act, a ritual that carries weight above financial gain. Get yours, make it hurt, and drink deep from the real life that exists above work-a-day tedium. Take up your arms, and join the anonymous brotherhood of so many who came before us. The brotherhood of those grown ass man enough to go out and get their guns for Mapache.
The Walk
With no explanation, and one scarcely required, the film draws to it's dramatic conclusion. A gutty and wordless sequence, the finale registers one of the most iconic moments captured on film. The scene could be pinned down with words like fatalism or nihilistic, but that belies the dignity. The story was in it's final pages, and these outlaws were going to ink the final words.
Pike, the boys, they knew it was over. There was no lamentation, or room for remorse. This was the final charge, head long into the end. They could have limped away and let their inevitable end smoke them out of what ever far off crevice they disappeared into, but that's not the measure of an outlaw. A life spent wrenching the far edges of society of all it's victories and defeats doesn't go quietly into the night. Instead, this wild bunch grabs their guns and makes the long walk to an end that a word like death is too small to describe.
When that day comes, I won't weep for my inner outlaw. I'll lay that furious young man down to an honorable sleep. I'll kiss his swollen eyes and sweep aside his strings of long black hair. I'll lovingly brush out his ironic mustache, and press his old man slacks (worn in defiance of these asshats and their unimaginative denim). I'll cross his arms over the SAT practice test that was so far beneath him, and send him on that long walk to his inevitable end. Not because I resent or hate him, but because to keep him alive would be a disservice to all he's done for me.
An intrinsic, and at times tempestuous, part of my reflection, he's the keeper of the cone of fire. The part of me where adventure and risk and explosive passion blossom, imbuing my life with it's deepest hues. Maturation and growth have been the key to his survival instilling quiet dignity where piss and vinegar once boiled.
The end, that day is a long way off. There is still work for me and the boys to do, it's not like it used to be, but it'll do. But as life has a way of happening all of the time, if that day comes where my inner outlaw has outgrown the world around him, as long as I have an iota of irrational youthful vigor left, I'll make that walk. I'll strap my bandoleer across my chest, perch my black hat on top of my head, and as La Golondrina plays somewhere in the distance, I'll get behind that machine gun. And after the dust settles through the dying light, when they find me, my finger will still be on the trigger.
There is a short list of American icons whose stature looms so large, it somehow swallows their catalog: John Wayne, Elvis, and Louis Armstrong. It's an awkward place to hold in the pantheon. Even after decades, these men haven't disappeared from the public consciousness like so many before them, but the other, and perhaps more tragic part of this phenomenon is that this sustained awareness is built around some flesh and blood caricature of that person versus the tangible work left behind. These men have been reduced to shaking hips, a funny singing voice, and the apocryphal line "Well hello there, pilgrim." (Sure, they riff the shit out of the 'pilgrim' bit in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, but...yeah...no...)
In so many ways, these guys allowed it to happen. John Wayne never dared to evolve into a character outside of himself. Louis was perhaps a little too eager to puff out his cheeks and bulge his eyes for every photo-op. Elvis basically did an Elvis impersonation for the last five years of his career, but if you can peel back the self-parody, there is the core of the core truth. These men are bigger than legends, they are fixtures. And I use fixture in the most commonplace way possible. Like, these men are the sinks and electrical outlets and toilets of the "America as a house" analogy. They are so ever present, we've forgotten what a marvel they are. The shockwave generated by these men ripples beneath the American identity, and still, the at times invisible body of work is the reason why any of these men matter. It's the power when John Wayne first shows on screen in Stagecoach. It's the moment in that sweaty summer of 1954 when stylus hit the groove and "That's Alright (Mama)," came out of the speakers. It's that day in February of 1928 when Louis Armstrong walked into O'keh studios to record side #8597 and forever change the direction of American music.
And that's what this is really about. America. If you can defog the lens through which you view Louis Armstrong -- take away the mugging, the white handkerchief, the recording of "What a Wonderful World" -- you find that there was once no Louis Armstrong at all, but instead a young man who grew from the craggy passes of Storyville, the red-light district of New Orleans so brutal it was called "the battlefield", and through his genius and ethic and magnetic charm came to represent the best of the American ideal.
Louis Armstrong spent an entire lifetime telling people his birthday was July 4th, 1900. Although later baptismal records indicate that the real date is August 4th, 1901, the choice of July 4th has a more important symbolic value. Louis Armstrong perceived himself as America's native son. He was born at the turn of the American century and was the transformational catalyst of the American art form. Louis, the grandson of slaves, was abandoned by his father (the same baptismal record bore the phrase "niger, illigitimus"), and spent his childhood floating between a young mother, a grandmother, and the streets and alleys of black Storyville.
These were formative years populated with pimps, gamblers, prostitutes, and musicians living the blues and jazz in the port city. Louis saw the whole of this spectrum. His mother turned her company out for money. The depths of hunger and poverty were a familiar. There were nicks with the law and dangerous friends, but instead of letting these circumstances unravel his humanity, Louie packed all of that into his horn and blew it back out with every irrepressible thread of his being. The grisly truths he saw moan in his blues and the carnal exuberance that filled the air swings in his tone. And, like all good twists of fate, it was on these streets that shaped the young Louis that he eventually met his own.
On New Year's Eve 1913, Louis shot a pistol into the air and was sentenced to a year in the New Orleans Colored Waif's Home for boys. The home featured a marching brass band, and through this fortunate coincidence, the incorrigible young coronet player unlocked his preternatural talent. Quickly, the twelve year old boy came to lead the entire ensemble. As the story goes, little Louis one day led his band through the old neighborhood, and the playing was so marvelous, the denizens of Storyville so proud, that the boy's collected enough change in their coffers to buy new instruments and uniforms for the whole band. Louis was just that good. From there he grew to cutting contests in the streets to jazz orchestra member to feature man to international superstar to Louie, but the margins between those storybook touchstones are filled with a uniquely american experience.
As a boy Louis worked for a Jewish immigrant family, the Karnofskys, delivering coal to the prostitutes of Storyville. He would walk down the street blowing into a tin horn to let customers know he was on the round, and after business was done, he would hang around the whorehouses as long as he could to hear his favorite jazz musicians. Louis would later recall that the Karnofskys fed him an honest dinner every night and even advanced him five dollars to buy his first battered coronet. He was cared for as a child by a white family, and in contrast, saw the discrimination leveled at the Karnofskys by people who appeared to be made of the same color. Through this relationship Louis learned an early lesson about the human being that exists above race, a moral that is hard to believe could escape the oppression of 1900's Jim Crow New Orleans. Louis carried a Star of David pendant until the day he died, and it's from the Karnofskys that Armstrong said he learned an invaluable lesson, "real life: hard work and determination".
Louis always seemed to be where America happened. After a youth spent in New Orleans growing up along side jazz, he moved to Chicago in the 20's to rule the heights of the speakeasy-prohibition-roaring 20's age. He moved to Los Angeles in the 30's, and played the LA Cotton Club with the likes of Jack Teagarden and Bing Crosby as the first emerging class of Hollywood's golden age danced the depression away. In the 40's he settled in New York City, and was the elder statesman of jazz as bebop (a style he disliked as much as he influenced) gurgled up from the ground beneath his feet. Through the 50's and 60's, he performed across the globe as Ambassador Satch, progenitor of jazz, and the joyful embodiment America's promise.
Louis began his ascent into adoration boundless of color 40 years before civil rights was even in the public conversation. These were at times ugly steps taken more on the terms of his white audience than his own. Louis was branded by some as an Uncle Tom, and during the civil rights movement he was vilified by members of the jazz community for not using his standing to doing more. It's often overlooked, but when he did speak out, it mattered. Louie's resolve, beautiful or naive, was to entertain with the music that gave his life meaning.
Like his music, the man was brilliant and uncomplicated. By the end of his life, it was a happy existence with few requirements. There was a comfortable home in Queens, the good plate of food, his wife of 30 years, Swiss Kriss laxatives, a handful of joints (total head), and a few moments in a day where he could do what he was put on this earth to do, play his horn.
Louie played God's language; the wordless narrative of that faceless and formless entity, the sum total of all good and all evil, distilled down into pure essence and then belted from a trumpet. As time has recast 20's jazz music as vaudeville silent film score and white guys in skimmer hats, it's hard to convey the impact of what he did for music. It went beyond the already massive accomplishment of raising jazz from negro novelty music to high art. This music was the soundtrack of an age that was the carefree response to the horrors of WWI. The hot dance rhythms of aviation and bootlegger whiskey and short skirts and that first firm twist on the lid of loosened morals. Louie's first recordings were a dangerous symbol of the new America, a confluence of disparate cultures balanced in syncopated style where even the lowest man could have a voice.
Pops scored a hit in the 20's, 30's, 40's, 50's and 60's, and had his biggest single ever in 1964 with "Hello Dolly", the only man big enough to knock the Beatles from the top of the pop charts after a 14 week reign. He influenced the men who reinvented music and then outlived them. Louis Armstrong didn't play blues or jazz or pop or big band, he was, and still remains, all of American music.
Every 4th of July Columbia University's radio station plays Louis Armstrong's music for 24 hours to commemorate his birthday. On one of these occasions I was alone in my north Jersey apartment, radio dial set and my eyes fixed out the window. The place was lean on charm, even for a shitbox, but as it was against the palisade, we stole a view of Manhattan that was worth twice what we paid. I spent the afternoon listening to Louie's music cut with anecdotes and life history, and as the sun quieted behind the city's hard lines and the sky drank in night's inky presence, a lone firework bubbled above midtown. An arc of fire smeared against the sky, then an arrhythmic burst of sparks called the response. The night churned with a froth of light and color. Fervid blossoms showered a kaleidoscopic blush across Manhattan. Smoke curled about the building spires, shone like a technicolor mantle draped on the city's elegant shape. Louie's soulful croon flooded the apartment and spilled out the window as neighbors crowded on the roof to murmur at the luminous display. And for a moment, overwhelmed, it was like Louis was playing his horn right into my open chest. Through my hard fought disenchantment and cynicism rose in me a deep sensation: I love America.
As miraculous a thing as our country has happened on to, there is undoubtedly a chasm of disparity between the vision we've set for ourselves and the reality of what we've achieved. Yeah, we'll never live up to those lofty expectations...and it's okay. As human history continues to move out in concentric circles, and all of that shit whittles away, when we're a twelve page chapter, complete with beginning and end, in some far, far away textbook, all that's left will be an idea. It's an idea that will be parts perfection and flaw, moments both transcendent and despicable, but so is the mixed blessing of a human society that dares to live up to an ideal. And that, is Louis Armstrong. The man who saw the worst of the false promise, in defiance cleaved to his joy and optimism like an impenetrable armor, and through self-determination, the crux of the American ethos, did more to make that lie a truth than few other Americans from the past century. A century where this ambitious young nation offered the world the blues, Hollywood, self-made men, rock'n'roll, Michael Jordan, and aviator sunglasses. If these things are the sliver of good that can survive this mad experiment, that's a country that once I'm unearthed and reanimated by some future culture 1000's of years from now, and they ask me to tell them about where I'm from, I can proudly put on "Potato Head Blues," find a picture of Louie and say "That is the United States of America."
