While the buzz of the Eric Gagne & Kevin Garnett trades begins to wane, let’s take a closer look at what The Sox and Celtics gave up to acquire their season altering possessions. Because, as Lao Tzu says, everything is defined by its opposite. Or maybe that was Red Auerbach . . . or possibly Apu on The Simpsons.
Every trade (whether you’re swapping sandwiches or second basemen) must be probed, evaluated, and appraised to determine whether or not you’ve been screwed. Basically you’re sniffing around for the fetid nebulous ghost of Larry Anderson. It was nearly 17 years ago when The Red Sox, looking to bolster its bullpen for a stretch run, traded their best prospect for a set-up man. Mr. Anderson pitched 22 innings for The Sox while Jeff Bagwell, as the world knows, played 15 stellar seasons for The Astros.
Okay . . . so it’s clear that both deals will help the baseball & basketball teams from Boston win, and more importantly, win NOW. The Red Sox now have 3 of the best relievers in baseball to shut teams down. Although Jonathan Papelbon will get the majority of save opportunities, you feel as safe with either Hideki Okajima or Gagne taking the mound in the 9th inning. And in the last two months of the season, where starters begin to show signs of fatigue, having a strong bullpen is an asset that can’t be overestimated. And once the post season begins, those 3 will become even more vital.
As for The Celtics, acquiring Kevin Garnett truly means that have a legitimate shot to get to The NBA Finals . . . in the last 15 years that’s something you couldn’t say or type other than in a punchline. He joins all-stars Paul Pierce and Ray Allen to not only chase a 17th Championship, but also to bring the idea of basketball back to Boston. This is on the magnitude of The Patriots hiring Bill Parcells and then drafting Drew Bledsoe.
So back to the “what we gave up”.
RED SOX
Even though Gagne is a set-up man who will most likely only pitch for us this season, that is where the Larry Anderson comparison ends. Getting him is like cloning Papelbon, and when The Sox lead after the 6th or 7th inning you’ll be able to book that win. And while Kason Gabbard should be a solid fourth or fifth starter (good for 10-13 wins a year), he could also morph into a long relief guy/spot starter. Although David Murphy (hitting .280 with 9 homeruns and 47 RBI at Pawtucket) has the skills to be a great outfielder, Theo & The Gang believed he was expendable because of Jacoby Ellsbury. Murphy will be the guy to watch over the next couple of years. I’m sure he’ll get a September call up in Texas, and will probably win a starting job in 2008. It’s doubtful he’ll be another Bagwell, but sending a top prospect to the Lone Star State still makes me nervous. I will toast this trade, but only with a nice Napa Valley sparkling wine. Or maybe a few pints of Guinness.
CELTICS
Break out the Cristal Champagne . . . this is a trade that if the opportunity was presented, it had to be done. Before draft day I was praying for some sort of deal, something that wouldn’t make be embarrassed to wear my Celtics hat outside of Boston. This is what I wrote in an email to my friend Brian, who was hoping Al Horford would be there when The C’s picked (he went #3):
I'm not so sure Al Horford will be there at 5. If he is, fine, pick him, but otherwise I think they have to work some sort of miracle trade (conjuring up the ghost of Red and his cigar). Because looking at The Celtics as a former fan who has been so disgusted at the team and the NBA in general, another rebuilding year makes me want to toss up the clam chowder I had for lunch. Although it's physically impossible to watch less games than I did last year (zero), I don't think I'll even read an article about basketball or even allow myself to watch highlights on ESPN if they draft a "young guy with tremendous upside".
But the whole structure of the NBA (contracts, free agency, the cap, the lame ass lottery, ect, ect.) is so screwed up how do you make a trade? And who can you get? I don't have the answers to these questions, but it's not my job to know how to do it. All I can say is, for the love of God, just get it done. Make the team playoff ready. Do something to restore even one tenth of their former glory. Because I'm sick of strangers coming up to me when I'm wearing a Celtics hat and saying "I'm sorry".
In 2002 The Celtics came within 2 games of going to the NBA Finals. Pierce was at the top of his game, Walker was clutch, and Jimmy O'Brien had the rest of the team working perfectly into his system. Really, they were a big man away from The Finals . . . and actually having a shot to beat the Lakers. What in the hell happened in five years to make them so horrible and unwatchable? If I'm Danny Ainge, I fire Doc Rivers and bring back O'Brien. You need a coach that will light a fire under these young guy's asses. You need a coach that is going to get his team to play cohesively on offense and defense.
But Ainge, thus far, has proved to be no wiser than Rick "Larry Bird isn't coming out of that tunnel" Pitino. He's already tarnished his playing days by the overall shit sandwich of his GM moves, and if he doesn't put a good team on the floor for the '07-'08 I'm digitally editing him out of all my DVD footage from the Championship years and replacing him with Bob Cousy.
The DVD footage stays as is, and Ainge (with a lot of help from Kevin McHale) now looks like Bill Belichick. What did he part with to land Kevin Garnett? One potential all-star in Al Jefferson, 2 first round picks that won’t be in the lottery, and four guys that couldn’t be ID’d by anyone other than diehard NBA fans. Jefferson will be missed, but nobody can claim The Celtics are mortgaging their future because they didn’t have one. We’ve been looking for a 17th Championship banner for 21 years.
. . . . on July 31st everything looks good on paper (and monitor screen). Now lets keep these positive ions/vibrations flowing once the games begin. I wants wins, lots of wins that give us rings and banners and parades on Duck Boats.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
My Favorite Bars- Part One
There is something about a good bar (or café, tavern, saloon, or gin joint), that just feels right. It can be a place where you’re a regular or a spot you’ve only been to once in your life. Whatever the situation, you remember this bar. Upon mentioning its name you can conjure up what specific drinks you’ve had, the smells, conversations, the music, and how you were feeling on a particular day you were there.
Although I know I’m leaving many great ones off the list, here are some of my favorites as they come to me right now:
Tiki Ti- Los Angeles, CA: It’s like stepping back into the 60’s. Small room, Polynesian décor, shrunken heads behind the bar, and fruity cocktails that will knock you on your ass, the Tiki Ti is probably the best bar in LA. Go early to get a seat, enjoy the tasty snack mix, and savor a Ray’s Mistake poured by either the Dad or son that owns the place.
Captain Tony’s- Key West, FL: Hemingway used to drink there, Jimmy Buffett sang about the place, and I had several conversations with Captain Tony in the early 90’s when I lived in Key West. If I remember correctly, plastic cups of MGD were only two dollars.
Barefoot Bob’s- Key West, FL: Always a friendly place to have drinks and listen to The Grateful Dead on the jukebox. One night I hooked up with a girl there who, in a contest of size, flashed her chestal region to the whole bar. She didn’t win, but that was irrelevant to me.
.jpg)
Although I know I’m leaving many great ones off the list, here are some of my favorites as they come to me right now:
Tiki Ti- Los Angeles, CA: It’s like stepping back into the 60’s. Small room, Polynesian décor, shrunken heads behind the bar, and fruity cocktails that will knock you on your ass, the Tiki Ti is probably the best bar in LA. Go early to get a seat, enjoy the tasty snack mix, and savor a Ray’s Mistake poured by either the Dad or son that owns the place.
Captain Tony’s- Key West, FL: Hemingway used to drink there, Jimmy Buffett sang about the place, and I had several conversations with Captain Tony in the early 90’s when I lived in Key West. If I remember correctly, plastic cups of MGD were only two dollars.
Barefoot Bob’s- Key West, FL: Always a friendly place to have drinks and listen to The Grateful Dead on the jukebox. One night I hooked up with a girl there who, in a contest of size, flashed her chestal region to the whole bar. She didn’t win, but that was irrelevant to me.
The Cactus Club- Boston, MA: It can get too crowded and there’s times it turns into a greasy meat market, but this place is a classic. It’s redbrick, the margaritas are always strong, and there’s a bull’s head over the bar. It was a great place to go after work for drinks and a Sox game. I went there for my last night in Boston before moving to LA, and also my 30th Birthday.
.jpg)
La Closerie des Lilas- Paris, France- This was Hemingway’s hangout when he was a struggling writer in Paris. A Moveable Feast is one of my favorite books, and I could never tire reading Hem’s account of writing short stores over café crèmes there. I’ve only been there once, but after hanging out at The Luxumborg Gardens and walking around the Left Bank all day it was a welcome place to rest.
The Black Rose- Boston, MA: Although in the touristy Faneuil Hall area, I always find myself returning to this bar. Eugene Byrne has been playing Irish standards here for years, and stomping on the wooden planks during the “no, nay, never” part of “Wild Rover” is a great tradition. It’s where I had my first pint of Guinness, and it’s where my friend Scott did a damn good gig on St. Paddy’s Day with 2 cute Irish girls dressed in full costume.
.jpg)
La Closerie des Lilas- Paris, France- This was Hemingway’s hangout when he was a struggling writer in Paris. A Moveable Feast is one of my favorite books, and I could never tire reading Hem’s account of writing short stores over café crèmes there. I’ve only been there once, but after hanging out at The Luxumborg Gardens and walking around the Left Bank all day it was a welcome place to rest.
The Black Rose- Boston, MA: Although in the touristy Faneuil Hall area, I always find myself returning to this bar. Eugene Byrne has been playing Irish standards here for years, and stomping on the wooden planks during the “no, nay, never” part of “Wild Rover” is a great tradition. It’s where I had my first pint of Guinness, and it’s where my friend Scott did a damn good gig on St. Paddy’s Day with 2 cute Irish girls dressed in full costume.
Vesuvio’s- San Francisco, CA: Like The Black Rose, Vesuvio’s sits right in the middle of where tourists congregate. But this is a place you cannot miss. Go upstairs and get a wooden table at the window. You can watch people stream up Columbus Avenue in search of great Italian food at one of the many restaurants or depravity at one of the many strip clubs. But you should first go to Citylights next store and pick up a Kerouac book (preferably Desolation Angels or volume 2 of his letters), and then go read a bit at Vesuvio’s with a beer and think of how the great writers of San Francisco used to sit in the very place you are now.
.jpg)
Red’s Java House- San Francisco, CA: A white shack on Pier 30, this is the place to go before a Giants game. Cheap & tasty burgers and dogs, you can sit in the back patio (which is just a collection of tables on asphalt) and drink beer from plastic cups and look up at The Bay Bridge looming right in front of you.
.jpg)
Red’s Java House- San Francisco, CA: A white shack on Pier 30, this is the place to go before a Giants game. Cheap & tasty burgers and dogs, you can sit in the back patio (which is just a collection of tables on asphalt) and drink beer from plastic cups and look up at The Bay Bridge looming right in front of you.
Sade’s- Carmel, CA: When you walk inside and see the three or four regulars hunched over the bar you might come to the wrong conclusion- that this is a place where outsiders are not wanted. But sit down, order a beer, relax, and smell that salt air wafting in from the ocean just down the hill. After your second the bartender might talk to you, and if you can stick around for rounds five or six the regulars will probably open up too. I was there in 2003 when Clemens was going for his 300th win against The Red Sox. Roger got shelled and all seemed happy.
Lafitte’s Blacksmith’s Shop- New Orleans, LA: It bills itself as the oldest bar in the USA (since 1772), and you could definitely imagine a pirate strolling off Bourbon Street and sitting down next to you with a bottle of rum.
The Formosa Café- Los Angeles, CA: With a Hong Kong/railroad diner Hipster vibe, I just always felt cool hanging at The Formosa. And not cool in a phony wanna be sense, but cool because it was A Scene where you could just enjoy your cocktails with friends and relax. Whether on the roof, in the dining car, or in the front or back bar, the place was warm and friendly. I remember having intense conversations about Fight Club over Manhattans.
The Dresden Room- Los Angeles, CA: I first went here (as well as thousands of others) because of “Swingers”. But it’s not just a novelty destination . . . it’s a classic LA lounge where all feel welcome to enjoy a dirty martini and the musical stylings of Marty & Elaine.
Nepenthe- Big Sur, CA: Perched on a rocky cliff overlooking a sweep of trees, road, and misty ocean, I cannot think of a better place to drink a freshly squeezed Margarita. The food here is outstanding, so make sure you stay for dinner. But if you’re just passing through on the PCH, pull over into the crowded parking lot and walk up the wooden stairs and sit at the precipice with The View.
Lafitte’s Blacksmith’s Shop- New Orleans, LA: It bills itself as the oldest bar in the USA (since 1772), and you could definitely imagine a pirate strolling off Bourbon Street and sitting down next to you with a bottle of rum.
The Formosa Café- Los Angeles, CA: With a Hong Kong/railroad diner Hipster vibe, I just always felt cool hanging at The Formosa. And not cool in a phony wanna be sense, but cool because it was A Scene where you could just enjoy your cocktails with friends and relax. Whether on the roof, in the dining car, or in the front or back bar, the place was warm and friendly. I remember having intense conversations about Fight Club over Manhattans.
The Dresden Room- Los Angeles, CA: I first went here (as well as thousands of others) because of “Swingers”. But it’s not just a novelty destination . . . it’s a classic LA lounge where all feel welcome to enjoy a dirty martini and the musical stylings of Marty & Elaine.
Nepenthe- Big Sur, CA: Perched on a rocky cliff overlooking a sweep of trees, road, and misty ocean, I cannot think of a better place to drink a freshly squeezed Margarita. The food here is outstanding, so make sure you stay for dinner. But if you’re just passing through on the PCH, pull over into the crowded parking lot and walk up the wooden stairs and sit at the precipice with The View.
Crossroads- Boston, MA: Although it was only minutes away from my apartment when I went to BU, I didn’t step into this pub until a few years later when I was a grad school bartender at Uno’s on Huntington Ave. On Sunday nights we would close down early and head over to Crossroads for pints and darts. We would have the upstairs mostly to ourselves, and I really miss those times with Mark, Scott, Dave, Jen, and the rest of the crew. One game of darts would take an hour because nobody could hit the bulls-eye.
The Hemingway Bar (Le Petit Bar) at The Ritz Carlton- Paris, France- When I figured out the exchange rate and realized I’d just spent $40 on a glass of wine and a cocktail, I just smiled. The wine was excellent, the cocktail was an original that the famous Colin has invented that day (with a flower petal garnish), and this tiny basement lounge was so cozy and elegant and while sitting there I could truly picture Hemingway standing behind the bar after the liberation of Paris in WW2 with a glass of champagne.
Boardners- Los Angles, CA: A true dive bar just steps away from Hollywood Boulevard, this place is dark and dingy and a great hideout to drown your sorrows when your screenplay is rejected (yet again) from another agent or producer. When we lived on June Street, Bradleigh and I could be found either at Boardners, Cat & Fiddle, Burgundy, or The Frolic Room at any night of the week.
The Hemingway Bar (Le Petit Bar) at The Ritz Carlton- Paris, France- When I figured out the exchange rate and realized I’d just spent $40 on a glass of wine and a cocktail, I just smiled. The wine was excellent, the cocktail was an original that the famous Colin has invented that day (with a flower petal garnish), and this tiny basement lounge was so cozy and elegant and while sitting there I could truly picture Hemingway standing behind the bar after the liberation of Paris in WW2 with a glass of champagne.
Boardners- Los Angles, CA: A true dive bar just steps away from Hollywood Boulevard, this place is dark and dingy and a great hideout to drown your sorrows when your screenplay is rejected (yet again) from another agent or producer. When we lived on June Street, Bradleigh and I could be found either at Boardners, Cat & Fiddle, Burgundy, or The Frolic Room at any night of the week.
.jpg)
The Boston Beer Works- Boston, MA: They make great beer, the food is tasty, and it’s right across from Fenway Park. I was a senior in college when they first opened their doors, challenging the now defunct Commonwealth Brewery as Boston’s best brew pub.
Margaritaville Café- Key West, FL: When I lived in Key West I was a regular here, and my patronage was rewarded by getting to meet Jimmy Buffett. Jamie & I had already eaten lunch and drank about four beers when I asked the bartender (can’t remember her name now) for my check. She said- “you can’t leave now”. I asked why. “I can’t tell you,” she said, “But trust me . . . you don’t want to leave”. Jimmy came in, I talked with him for about 10 minutes, he played six songs (including The Stones “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”) and I had one of those memorable nights of my life.
Margaritaville Café- Key West, FL: When I lived in Key West I was a regular here, and my patronage was rewarded by getting to meet Jimmy Buffett. Jamie & I had already eaten lunch and drank about four beers when I asked the bartender (can’t remember her name now) for my check. She said- “you can’t leave now”. I asked why. “I can’t tell you,” she said, “But trust me . . . you don’t want to leave”. Jimmy came in, I talked with him for about 10 minutes, he played six songs (including The Stones “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”) and I had one of those memorable nights of my life.
Place Pigalle- San Francisco, CA: Great selection of beer and you can sit in one of the couches close to the door and watch all the action on Hayes Street. There’s local art on the walls, a pool table, and the bartenders are always friendly. But if you can help it, stay out of the Jersey Turnpike-esque bathroom.
The Board Room- Curacao Island, Netherlands Antilles: With sand at your toes and the ocean not more than twenty feet away, you can enjoy an Amstel Bright (the Dutch Island version of Corona) and watch the sky light up into pink, purple, and orange while the sun sets. The bar is made up of surf boards (hence, the name), and there’s also swings as seats.
.jpg)
The Blackfriar- London, England: Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Trafugular Square, and all the other historical spots of London are amazing places to visit, but you need to rest inbetween all the siteseeing. There was always a great pub nearby to have a pint and digest all the sights, sounds, and information. The Blackfriar was close to St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Mark & I walked down to the river and had a few rounds in this strangely decorated pub. There is a lot of marble and bronze, and there are bas reliefs of Monks frolicking as well as demons and animals on the ceiling.
The Afterdeck at Louie’s Backyard- Key West, FL: Although it’s better known for being one of the top restaurants in Key West, there aren’t many places better to enjoy a cocktail. Far away from the craziness of Duval and tucked into a corner right on the ocean, the wood planked Afterdeck is worth finding. Although I only went here a few times while I lived in Key West, the memories are still strong. I can still taste the margaritas and chonch fritters and smell the salt in the air. This is also the only place where a complete stranger bought me (and Jodi & Brian) lunch.
Napolean House Bar & Café- New Orleans, LA: It’s like you’ve stepped into a Degas painting . . . I can still conjure up the dim lights, ceiling fans, weathered brick, wrought iron, and a patio/courtyard that you never want to leave.
The Red Lion- Los Angeles, CA: The closest you’ll ever come to Germany in LA, this was my neighborhood bar when I lived in Silverlake. Many nights were spent having Hefeweisens with Fozzie, Galvez, Jodi, Marcos, Tina (when she was working or not) and many other great friends.
The Hollywood Star Lanes- Los Angeles, CA- The place where they shot “The Big Lebowski” was also our favorite hangout for the two years that I lived in Hollywood. The wait for a lane was always long, but you could sit at the bar and have cheap beers or play some Ms. Pacman. Pauly D would always get a Caucasian. But the city of LA claimed the land under imminent domain (something sanctioned by The Supreme Court, but which I believe violates everything that America stands for), and there is now a school where The Dude, Donnie, Walter, and myself bowled and boozed.
The Elliot Lounge- Boston, MA: If I had to pick a favorite in Boston, this would be it. Dark, on a bustling street corner, with friendly nooks to relax in, and bartenders who didn’t give a shit about last call, you always felt welcome at The Elliot. It was also the only Runners Bar I’ve been to, with so many great pictures and memorabilia from The Boston Marathon. When I was a bartender this was our weekday retreat, the place we went after closing up on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I remember I lost my church-key, which is The Tool for somebody who slings drinks for a living, and one of the bartenders there gave me her extra one. But, like The Hollywood Star Lanes, it’s now just a memory. Once The Elliot Lounge’s lease ran out the hotel gave the bar the boot and installed a fancy restaurant. I refuse to ever stay or eat that property.
The Board Room- Curacao Island, Netherlands Antilles: With sand at your toes and the ocean not more than twenty feet away, you can enjoy an Amstel Bright (the Dutch Island version of Corona) and watch the sky light up into pink, purple, and orange while the sun sets. The bar is made up of surf boards (hence, the name), and there’s also swings as seats.
.jpg)
The Blackfriar- London, England: Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Trafugular Square, and all the other historical spots of London are amazing places to visit, but you need to rest inbetween all the siteseeing. There was always a great pub nearby to have a pint and digest all the sights, sounds, and information. The Blackfriar was close to St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Mark & I walked down to the river and had a few rounds in this strangely decorated pub. There is a lot of marble and bronze, and there are bas reliefs of Monks frolicking as well as demons and animals on the ceiling.The Afterdeck at Louie’s Backyard- Key West, FL: Although it’s better known for being one of the top restaurants in Key West, there aren’t many places better to enjoy a cocktail. Far away from the craziness of Duval and tucked into a corner right on the ocean, the wood planked Afterdeck is worth finding. Although I only went here a few times while I lived in Key West, the memories are still strong. I can still taste the margaritas and chonch fritters and smell the salt in the air. This is also the only place where a complete stranger bought me (and Jodi & Brian) lunch.
Napolean House Bar & Café- New Orleans, LA: It’s like you’ve stepped into a Degas painting . . . I can still conjure up the dim lights, ceiling fans, weathered brick, wrought iron, and a patio/courtyard that you never want to leave.
The Red Lion- Los Angeles, CA: The closest you’ll ever come to Germany in LA, this was my neighborhood bar when I lived in Silverlake. Many nights were spent having Hefeweisens with Fozzie, Galvez, Jodi, Marcos, Tina (when she was working or not) and many other great friends.
The Hollywood Star Lanes- Los Angeles, CA- The place where they shot “The Big Lebowski” was also our favorite hangout for the two years that I lived in Hollywood. The wait for a lane was always long, but you could sit at the bar and have cheap beers or play some Ms. Pacman. Pauly D would always get a Caucasian. But the city of LA claimed the land under imminent domain (something sanctioned by The Supreme Court, but which I believe violates everything that America stands for), and there is now a school where The Dude, Donnie, Walter, and myself bowled and boozed.
The Elliot Lounge- Boston, MA: If I had to pick a favorite in Boston, this would be it. Dark, on a bustling street corner, with friendly nooks to relax in, and bartenders who didn’t give a shit about last call, you always felt welcome at The Elliot. It was also the only Runners Bar I’ve been to, with so many great pictures and memorabilia from The Boston Marathon. When I was a bartender this was our weekday retreat, the place we went after closing up on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I remember I lost my church-key, which is The Tool for somebody who slings drinks for a living, and one of the bartenders there gave me her extra one. But, like The Hollywood Star Lanes, it’s now just a memory. Once The Elliot Lounge’s lease ran out the hotel gave the bar the boot and installed a fancy restaurant. I refuse to ever stay or eat that property.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Hemingway, Bullfights, and Spring Break- Time Traveling Back To 1992
.jpg)
Spring Break . . . the place where college students yearn to get drunk, get a tan, and get laid (not necessarily in that order). Those thoughts were on my mind during my senior year, but I also wanted to see a bullfight. Hemingway was and is one of favorite writers, and when I read in the Cancun guide book that there were bullfights a few miles from my hotel I had to go.
Returning from my trip I decided to write about the experience for my magazine journalism class at Boston University. What follows is the original manuscript I wrote many years ago. My professor suggested I try to get it published, and I submitted it to several periodicals with no success. But I think it’s still a good read after all these years, and a nice little bit of time traveling:
APRIL 1992
“Out in the center of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword of from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero’s left hand dropped the muleta over the bull’s muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and just for an instant he and the bull were one.”
-Ernest Hemingway, from
“The Sun Also Rises”.
Ever since I read “The Sun Also Rises” I have wanted to attend a bullfight. Being a big fan of Hemingway, I wanted the opportunity to experience this sport that was such an inspiration to him. Sure, there’s always the bull’s side, but what about every steer that is slaughtered in the U.S. At least before the bull got to the butcher’s table he would be taking part in a ritual that has been around since the Seventh Century. But my opinions were formed from reading, and that is why I wanted so desperately to see a bullfight in person. I had to get the same feeling Hemingway did when he witnessed man bull becoming one.
My trip to Cancun was my first to a Spanish speaking country, and thus far my only opportunity to see a bullfight. I was not going to pass it up. Jamie, my traveling partner, was also interested. So when Wednesday rolled around, we pried ourselves off the sand and made our way downtown.
Coming from the hotel zone, the bullring is located to the left at the end of the strip. We were a little early so we stayed to the right and ambled down Tulum Avenue. Neither of us could focus on the people or buildings we passed. We just wanted to see the El Toro. So after grabbing a quick bite to eat and some cervezas, we bought our tickets from a street vendor and headed toward our destination.
As Jamie and I turned the corner and started down Bonampak Avenue, I could see the pale maroon, stucco bullring looming up over the trees and bushes that flanked either side of the structure at the end of the road. Many people streamed toward the bullring. There was a crowd at the entrance.
“It kind of reminds me of walking down Brookline Avenue to Fenway,” I remarked to my friend.
Looking puzzled, the only response Jamie could muster was “Huh?”
But it did feel that way to me. Walking with a large group, in the kind of heat and humidity you’d find on a typical July day in Boston, to watch an event steeped in history and tradition. Except, instead of a homerun sailing over the Green Monster, you’d watch a bull killed. Obviously the two events were different, but being outside the ring created the same type of atmosphere- one of anticipation and excitement.
After traversing through the line the guy took my ticket, or boleto, and I began to get a taste of what it might have been attending a bullfight during Hemingway’s time. The clay walls, the dirt floor, the pungent odor of . . .
“This place reeks of shit,” my friend said with a wide grin.
Although a shoddy attempt at a joke, Jamie was correct- both literally and figuratively. One certainly smelled bull droppings, but not only that, we would soon discover that we had just plummeted into the black hole that engulfs many travelers . . . the tourist trap.
To reach the seats you had to walk through the actual ring where the bull would be killed, and there was only reason why- they wanted you to buy things. Souvenir stands hawking anything from tacky matador hats to the kind of plastic bulls you might find in Epcot’s Spain at Disney World. My vision of Hemingway’s sacred country vanished, replacing it was the reality of American commercialism.
Cancun was a town built solely for the tourist industry, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. The mystique of the corridas del toros and its roots in Spanish culture were enough for me to think it couldn’t be spoiled . . . that it was sacred and not to be corrupted. My naiveté had sucked me into this vortex, along with the thirty-three American dollars I paid for the ticket. I yearned for the Hemingway adventure, and now I would do my best to achieve it. So I made a conscious decision to ignore the tourist atmosphere and concentrate on the actual bullfight.
It wasn’t easy.
Soon after the souvenir stands were dismantled inside the ring, vendors swarmed into the stands, peddling the same hokey merchandise. To make matters worse we had taken a seat on the first row on the balcony; this was a mistake because the hawkers continuously disturbed our sightline to make their rounds. I still tried to block out the rampant commercialism. The bulls would be coming soon, and I could focus on what mattered in the ring. And besides, the crowd was more that fifty percent Mexican, and if they could tolerate the marketing so could I.
When the opening ceremonies commenced I began to relax. A group of dancers emerged from the tunnels and launched into a routine accompanied by the frantic beating of drums. Clad in elaborate silver and gold costumes, they did a series of flips and spins that the crowd, through their yelling and applause, found entertaining. After their finale a portly man, dressed in cowboy garb and wearing an enormous sombrero, did rope tricks. Big loops to small loops, he repeated the show as he glided around the bullring. From the polite claps the audience obviously preferred the dancers. Or maybe they had become restless, anxiously awaiting the bull’s entrance. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The English translation of corrida de torros is bullfight, but aficionados will tell you that is a misnomer. They feel uncomfortable calling it a fight because it isn’t a pugilistic affair at all. The program I bought outside the ring described it this way: “The bullfight is actually moving art. A man using his courage, risks life to create art.” That account went along with Hemingway, a description I had presumed, and now I would get to witness this artistic expression of courage.
I felt a rush down my spine when the bull bolted out of box without remorse and darted into the center of the ring. He had it all- long horns, expansive hump, and from the haughtiness he displayed by stopping directly in the middle of the spectacle, determination. The audience was pleased. Shouts of “Toro, Toro, Toro” rang down in appreciation. It was almost as if the bull was playing with us when he refused to charge, opting instead for the dramatic pause. We waited anxiously for the beast who would not leave this ring alive.
If you blinked, you would have missed it. With breathless agility, the bull shot at one of the banderlillos- who are the matador’s assistants and play an important part in the latter part of the ceremony. The young man had been yelling at the animal, and wanting to see his next paycheck he quickly hopped over the partition to safety. Never breaking stride, the bull turned as if on skates and charged at another banderillo . . . who followed in his partner’s path.
The crowd loved every minute of this, and I have to admit, I was completely enthralled. The bull had enticed me into his world, and everything else- spring break, girls in bikinis, margaritas on the beach- had receded. The cheap souvenirs had been buried inside my mind, somewhere under the geometry I learned in the eight grade. That is why I was so disturbed by the voice. It came across the speakers and radiated, in English, throughout the ring. It told us the next stage of the event was ready, and then proceeded to explain what would happen next.
I was annoyed, not surprised, that they’d have an announcer to hold the tourist’s hand. For someone who had no clue, it was probably a good thing. But for the person who had done their homework, someone who came to witness “moving art”, the voice was an intrusion. I could only imagine what the Mexicans thought. Maybe they found the announcer amusing. Maybe they didn’t understand him. At this point I didn’t care what other people thought. Blocking out the distractions was effort enough.
So there was the announcer, telling the crowd what was coming next. Because of Hemingway, I already knew. After showcasing the bull, it was now time for the picadors to work on the bull. Riding horseback, the picador’s job is to weaken the bull by jabbing it in the back with a long spear. Their task is vital, for if a bull isn’t slowed down the matador cannot make his exciting passes. In addition to their practical function, the picadors also serve as a test for the bull: one that determines if he has courage.
“If the bull runs from the picador’s stab, he has demonstrated his gentleness,” the program said. “But if he charges the horse and doesn’t retreat, he demonstrates his breeding and courage.”
This bull had courage. The instant the two picadors emerged (one on a white horse and the other on a black one), the bull shot at the light colored stallion. Along with everybody else, I gasped when the bull rammed the unsuspecting into the wall. Reading “The Sun Also Rises” had somewhat prepared me, but deep inside it still hurt.
“Don’t look at the horses after the bull hits them,” was what Jake told Brett in the novel. “Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off.”
I heeded this advice and inspected the picador’s futile attempt to keep the bull away. But El Toro was intent on knocking the man off the horse, and succeeded in five seconds. This was the only time I was glad it wasn’t like Pamplona in the 1920’s. Because if it was, the horse would be dead. Here, the animals were padded and the horns could not penetrate. Regardless, it was the hardest thing to watch.
When a horse is felled it is the matador’s job to make the bull come at him. In Hemingway’s book, to achieve this the man only had to flick his cape. With this bull it took more. The matador had to maneuver a lot closer and yell. Eventually El Toro, hungry for more damage, rushed at him. Executing a nice veronica pass, the matador lead the bull into the other picador . . . where he could be jabbed properly, But this bull not only had courage, he was also intelligent, and the beast maneuvered himself away the man on the horse. It took several more passes for the bull to tire, and the picador riding the black stallion finally speared him with force. But even though el toro had blood oozing from his hump, he was not broken. He could not capitulate the first round.
The second stage was about to start, and once again Mr. announcer explained it in English. But it was easy to forget about the intrusion here. This was the part I would find the most exciting- the banderillos. The men who participate- who made their debut briefly in the onset- have the task of jabbing two barbed sticks into the bull’s hump. These guys have no weapon of defense, nobody to cover their backs. And the banderillos don’t wait for their enemy to charge- they’re always on the attack. I thought of them as the rodeo clowns of bullfighting, because they entertained and assisted the star, all the while risking their very existence. I admired their reckless, thrill-seeking attitude.
So there was the bull, gigantic and fierce and determined, and the banderillos felt it upon themselves to trump the animal. From the minute it charged, the crowd was behind the bull. The banderillos wanted a reason to root for the matador.
They succeeded.
The first bandillero was the youngest. Lithe in build, with short cropped black hair and a child’s smile, he barreled at El Toro like a special team captain about to tackle a punt returner. The bull seemed to enjoy this, and galloped quickly. It was a classic game of chicken, about as fair as a Toyota versus an eighteen wheeler. Somehow I didn’t shield my eyes. And just as the bull was about to maul his prey, the young man sidestepped and thrust his instruments toward the bull’s hump.
Somewhere in the blur I saw the sticks graze the animal and tumble on the dirt. Looking dejected the bandillero shook his head, jogged to the edge of the ring, and leapt over the wall. Although he failed, the audience clapped for the effort. And the young man seemed to inspire his peers. The next two bandilleros were older and heftier, but each challenged the bull and connected with good placements of the sticks. The momentum had now swung back to the matador.
The third act of this tragedy was set to commence. Any high I got from the banderillos evaporated when I inspected the bull. The black beast, once so full of energy and life, was now weary and listless. His expansive hump was stained red. His mere sight made you desire euthanasia. A wish that would be soon granted.
Except this was what I had been waiting for . . . the matador’s cape work. I so deeply wanted to see if the guy moved in the terrain of the bull, or faked danger by staying in his own. I gazed intently as the matador positioned himself and then proceeded to conduct his passes. I studied carefully, enjoying the fluttering of the red material, but couldn’t feel any emotion for the bull or the matador.
It was kill time, and it felt anti-climatic. I did not feel that the matador was risking his life for artistic expression. As for the bull, I didn’t feel bad because I had accepted his demise from the beginning. The two participants were simply finishing what they started in the kind of manner my high school basketball coach deemed “going though the motions”.
By the time the bugles sounded and the announcer told us it was now “the moment of truth”, I had lost interest. I still yearned to see the matador and bull become one, but I knew it wouldn’t happen here. If bullfighting is indeed an art, then it loses all aesthetics conducted in these surroundings.
When the person in the tight costume drove his sword into the creature it all seemed so contrived. His movement wasn’t smooth, it was over emphasized. The bull staggered for a few seconds, his tongue draped over his mouth, and then collapsed to the cheer of the crowd. Two more bulls would be killed, and not for one second did I see animal and man become one.
Returning from my trip I decided to write about the experience for my magazine journalism class at Boston University. What follows is the original manuscript I wrote many years ago. My professor suggested I try to get it published, and I submitted it to several periodicals with no success. But I think it’s still a good read after all these years, and a nice little bit of time traveling:
APRIL 1992
“Out in the center of the ring Romero profiled in front of the bull, drew the sword of from the folds of the muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero’s left hand dropped the muleta over the bull’s muzzle to blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the horns as the sword went in, and just for an instant he and the bull were one.”
-Ernest Hemingway, from
“The Sun Also Rises”.
Ever since I read “The Sun Also Rises” I have wanted to attend a bullfight. Being a big fan of Hemingway, I wanted the opportunity to experience this sport that was such an inspiration to him. Sure, there’s always the bull’s side, but what about every steer that is slaughtered in the U.S. At least before the bull got to the butcher’s table he would be taking part in a ritual that has been around since the Seventh Century. But my opinions were formed from reading, and that is why I wanted so desperately to see a bullfight in person. I had to get the same feeling Hemingway did when he witnessed man bull becoming one.
My trip to Cancun was my first to a Spanish speaking country, and thus far my only opportunity to see a bullfight. I was not going to pass it up. Jamie, my traveling partner, was also interested. So when Wednesday rolled around, we pried ourselves off the sand and made our way downtown.
Coming from the hotel zone, the bullring is located to the left at the end of the strip. We were a little early so we stayed to the right and ambled down Tulum Avenue. Neither of us could focus on the people or buildings we passed. We just wanted to see the El Toro. So after grabbing a quick bite to eat and some cervezas, we bought our tickets from a street vendor and headed toward our destination.
As Jamie and I turned the corner and started down Bonampak Avenue, I could see the pale maroon, stucco bullring looming up over the trees and bushes that flanked either side of the structure at the end of the road. Many people streamed toward the bullring. There was a crowd at the entrance.
“It kind of reminds me of walking down Brookline Avenue to Fenway,” I remarked to my friend.
Looking puzzled, the only response Jamie could muster was “Huh?”
But it did feel that way to me. Walking with a large group, in the kind of heat and humidity you’d find on a typical July day in Boston, to watch an event steeped in history and tradition. Except, instead of a homerun sailing over the Green Monster, you’d watch a bull killed. Obviously the two events were different, but being outside the ring created the same type of atmosphere- one of anticipation and excitement.
After traversing through the line the guy took my ticket, or boleto, and I began to get a taste of what it might have been attending a bullfight during Hemingway’s time. The clay walls, the dirt floor, the pungent odor of . . .
“This place reeks of shit,” my friend said with a wide grin.
Although a shoddy attempt at a joke, Jamie was correct- both literally and figuratively. One certainly smelled bull droppings, but not only that, we would soon discover that we had just plummeted into the black hole that engulfs many travelers . . . the tourist trap.
To reach the seats you had to walk through the actual ring where the bull would be killed, and there was only reason why- they wanted you to buy things. Souvenir stands hawking anything from tacky matador hats to the kind of plastic bulls you might find in Epcot’s Spain at Disney World. My vision of Hemingway’s sacred country vanished, replacing it was the reality of American commercialism.
Cancun was a town built solely for the tourist industry, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I was. The mystique of the corridas del toros and its roots in Spanish culture were enough for me to think it couldn’t be spoiled . . . that it was sacred and not to be corrupted. My naiveté had sucked me into this vortex, along with the thirty-three American dollars I paid for the ticket. I yearned for the Hemingway adventure, and now I would do my best to achieve it. So I made a conscious decision to ignore the tourist atmosphere and concentrate on the actual bullfight.
It wasn’t easy.
Soon after the souvenir stands were dismantled inside the ring, vendors swarmed into the stands, peddling the same hokey merchandise. To make matters worse we had taken a seat on the first row on the balcony; this was a mistake because the hawkers continuously disturbed our sightline to make their rounds. I still tried to block out the rampant commercialism. The bulls would be coming soon, and I could focus on what mattered in the ring. And besides, the crowd was more that fifty percent Mexican, and if they could tolerate the marketing so could I.
When the opening ceremonies commenced I began to relax. A group of dancers emerged from the tunnels and launched into a routine accompanied by the frantic beating of drums. Clad in elaborate silver and gold costumes, they did a series of flips and spins that the crowd, through their yelling and applause, found entertaining. After their finale a portly man, dressed in cowboy garb and wearing an enormous sombrero, did rope tricks. Big loops to small loops, he repeated the show as he glided around the bullring. From the polite claps the audience obviously preferred the dancers. Or maybe they had become restless, anxiously awaiting the bull’s entrance. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.
The English translation of corrida de torros is bullfight, but aficionados will tell you that is a misnomer. They feel uncomfortable calling it a fight because it isn’t a pugilistic affair at all. The program I bought outside the ring described it this way: “The bullfight is actually moving art. A man using his courage, risks life to create art.” That account went along with Hemingway, a description I had presumed, and now I would get to witness this artistic expression of courage.
I felt a rush down my spine when the bull bolted out of box without remorse and darted into the center of the ring. He had it all- long horns, expansive hump, and from the haughtiness he displayed by stopping directly in the middle of the spectacle, determination. The audience was pleased. Shouts of “Toro, Toro, Toro” rang down in appreciation. It was almost as if the bull was playing with us when he refused to charge, opting instead for the dramatic pause. We waited anxiously for the beast who would not leave this ring alive.
If you blinked, you would have missed it. With breathless agility, the bull shot at one of the banderlillos- who are the matador’s assistants and play an important part in the latter part of the ceremony. The young man had been yelling at the animal, and wanting to see his next paycheck he quickly hopped over the partition to safety. Never breaking stride, the bull turned as if on skates and charged at another banderillo . . . who followed in his partner’s path.
The crowd loved every minute of this, and I have to admit, I was completely enthralled. The bull had enticed me into his world, and everything else- spring break, girls in bikinis, margaritas on the beach- had receded. The cheap souvenirs had been buried inside my mind, somewhere under the geometry I learned in the eight grade. That is why I was so disturbed by the voice. It came across the speakers and radiated, in English, throughout the ring. It told us the next stage of the event was ready, and then proceeded to explain what would happen next.
I was annoyed, not surprised, that they’d have an announcer to hold the tourist’s hand. For someone who had no clue, it was probably a good thing. But for the person who had done their homework, someone who came to witness “moving art”, the voice was an intrusion. I could only imagine what the Mexicans thought. Maybe they found the announcer amusing. Maybe they didn’t understand him. At this point I didn’t care what other people thought. Blocking out the distractions was effort enough.
So there was the announcer, telling the crowd what was coming next. Because of Hemingway, I already knew. After showcasing the bull, it was now time for the picadors to work on the bull. Riding horseback, the picador’s job is to weaken the bull by jabbing it in the back with a long spear. Their task is vital, for if a bull isn’t slowed down the matador cannot make his exciting passes. In addition to their practical function, the picadors also serve as a test for the bull: one that determines if he has courage.
“If the bull runs from the picador’s stab, he has demonstrated his gentleness,” the program said. “But if he charges the horse and doesn’t retreat, he demonstrates his breeding and courage.”
This bull had courage. The instant the two picadors emerged (one on a white horse and the other on a black one), the bull shot at the light colored stallion. Along with everybody else, I gasped when the bull rammed the unsuspecting into the wall. Reading “The Sun Also Rises” had somewhat prepared me, but deep inside it still hurt.
“Don’t look at the horses after the bull hits them,” was what Jake told Brett in the novel. “Watch the charge and see the picador try and keep the bull off.”
I heeded this advice and inspected the picador’s futile attempt to keep the bull away. But El Toro was intent on knocking the man off the horse, and succeeded in five seconds. This was the only time I was glad it wasn’t like Pamplona in the 1920’s. Because if it was, the horse would be dead. Here, the animals were padded and the horns could not penetrate. Regardless, it was the hardest thing to watch.
When a horse is felled it is the matador’s job to make the bull come at him. In Hemingway’s book, to achieve this the man only had to flick his cape. With this bull it took more. The matador had to maneuver a lot closer and yell. Eventually El Toro, hungry for more damage, rushed at him. Executing a nice veronica pass, the matador lead the bull into the other picador . . . where he could be jabbed properly, But this bull not only had courage, he was also intelligent, and the beast maneuvered himself away the man on the horse. It took several more passes for the bull to tire, and the picador riding the black stallion finally speared him with force. But even though el toro had blood oozing from his hump, he was not broken. He could not capitulate the first round.
The second stage was about to start, and once again Mr. announcer explained it in English. But it was easy to forget about the intrusion here. This was the part I would find the most exciting- the banderillos. The men who participate- who made their debut briefly in the onset- have the task of jabbing two barbed sticks into the bull’s hump. These guys have no weapon of defense, nobody to cover their backs. And the banderillos don’t wait for their enemy to charge- they’re always on the attack. I thought of them as the rodeo clowns of bullfighting, because they entertained and assisted the star, all the while risking their very existence. I admired their reckless, thrill-seeking attitude.
So there was the bull, gigantic and fierce and determined, and the banderillos felt it upon themselves to trump the animal. From the minute it charged, the crowd was behind the bull. The banderillos wanted a reason to root for the matador.
They succeeded.
The first bandillero was the youngest. Lithe in build, with short cropped black hair and a child’s smile, he barreled at El Toro like a special team captain about to tackle a punt returner. The bull seemed to enjoy this, and galloped quickly. It was a classic game of chicken, about as fair as a Toyota versus an eighteen wheeler. Somehow I didn’t shield my eyes. And just as the bull was about to maul his prey, the young man sidestepped and thrust his instruments toward the bull’s hump.
Somewhere in the blur I saw the sticks graze the animal and tumble on the dirt. Looking dejected the bandillero shook his head, jogged to the edge of the ring, and leapt over the wall. Although he failed, the audience clapped for the effort. And the young man seemed to inspire his peers. The next two bandilleros were older and heftier, but each challenged the bull and connected with good placements of the sticks. The momentum had now swung back to the matador.
The third act of this tragedy was set to commence. Any high I got from the banderillos evaporated when I inspected the bull. The black beast, once so full of energy and life, was now weary and listless. His expansive hump was stained red. His mere sight made you desire euthanasia. A wish that would be soon granted.
Except this was what I had been waiting for . . . the matador’s cape work. I so deeply wanted to see if the guy moved in the terrain of the bull, or faked danger by staying in his own. I gazed intently as the matador positioned himself and then proceeded to conduct his passes. I studied carefully, enjoying the fluttering of the red material, but couldn’t feel any emotion for the bull or the matador.
It was kill time, and it felt anti-climatic. I did not feel that the matador was risking his life for artistic expression. As for the bull, I didn’t feel bad because I had accepted his demise from the beginning. The two participants were simply finishing what they started in the kind of manner my high school basketball coach deemed “going though the motions”.
By the time the bugles sounded and the announcer told us it was now “the moment of truth”, I had lost interest. I still yearned to see the matador and bull become one, but I knew it wouldn’t happen here. If bullfighting is indeed an art, then it loses all aesthetics conducted in these surroundings.
When the person in the tight costume drove his sword into the creature it all seemed so contrived. His movement wasn’t smooth, it was over emphasized. The bull staggered for a few seconds, his tongue draped over his mouth, and then collapsed to the cheer of the crowd. Two more bulls would be killed, and not for one second did I see animal and man become one.
.jpg)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Hangin' With Pac Man & Vick
NFL training camps open tomorrow, and I’m really looking forward to all the shootings, DUI’s, strippers, and dog fights. Or does that just happen in the off-season? I’m sure fantasy football owners will be drafting players on talent, health, and their ability to stay out of jail.
Ahh . . . but that is just the rational (and cynical) human being in me speaking. Once the players suit up and get on the field, I’m once again an NFL Fan. And besides, Michael Vick and Pac Man Jones will be far from any professional football stadium. My bet is they’ll be on the set of their new Spike-TV reality show- Hanging with Pac Man & Vick. Or maybe it will be called Pac & Mike . . . they’ll have some tough choices to make at the network. As long as they wrap all 22 episodes before sentencing they’ll be fine.
But not as fine as The New England Patriots look on Training Camp Eve (9 hrs , 25 mins, 40 secs. away, according to The Boston Globe).
With a frenzy of off-season moves to improve a team that went 12-4 and was one 1st down from a Superbowl appearance, there is no denying The Pats are strong. They addressed their biggest weaknesses- wide receiver (Randy Moss, Donte’ Stallworth, Kelley Washington, and Wes Welker), linebacker (Adalius Thomas), and d-back (Brandon Meriweather). Adding the new to the already core team of players & coaches and you can’t help but get excited over the start of the season.
But . . .
As Bill Bilichick has said many times, they don’t hand out trophies in August. You play a full season and then have to win at least 3 more games in the playoffs. So even with the best coach in the NFL, the best QB in Tom Brady, a great defense, and a new influx of talent eager to get their first Superbowl Championship, you still must keep your excitement in check.
Especially in The NFL.
It is the only of our professional sports leagues where every team has a legitimate chance of winning it all. Maybe not this year, but soon . . . if they have a good owner, great coaching, solid drafts, and are willing to work as a team. Since 2001 The Patriots have been the best at combining all those elements, as their five playoff appearances, twelve post season wins, and 3 Superbowl Trophies prove.
But there are 31 other teams this year that think they will stand victorious come February. During the 2007 regular season The Patriots will play 13 of them (getting the dangerous Dolphins, Jets, and Bills 2 times each). Wins & losses just might come down to one play, one move, one moment . . . the kind of thing that you might practice only once during training camp.
Ahh . . . but that is just the rational (and cynical) human being in me speaking. Once the players suit up and get on the field, I’m once again an NFL Fan. And besides, Michael Vick and Pac Man Jones will be far from any professional football stadium. My bet is they’ll be on the set of their new Spike-TV reality show- Hanging with Pac Man & Vick. Or maybe it will be called Pac & Mike . . . they’ll have some tough choices to make at the network. As long as they wrap all 22 episodes before sentencing they’ll be fine.
But not as fine as The New England Patriots look on Training Camp Eve (9 hrs , 25 mins, 40 secs. away, according to The Boston Globe).
With a frenzy of off-season moves to improve a team that went 12-4 and was one 1st down from a Superbowl appearance, there is no denying The Pats are strong. They addressed their biggest weaknesses- wide receiver (Randy Moss, Donte’ Stallworth, Kelley Washington, and Wes Welker), linebacker (Adalius Thomas), and d-back (Brandon Meriweather). Adding the new to the already core team of players & coaches and you can’t help but get excited over the start of the season.
But . . .
As Bill Bilichick has said many times, they don’t hand out trophies in August. You play a full season and then have to win at least 3 more games in the playoffs. So even with the best coach in the NFL, the best QB in Tom Brady, a great defense, and a new influx of talent eager to get their first Superbowl Championship, you still must keep your excitement in check.
Especially in The NFL.
It is the only of our professional sports leagues where every team has a legitimate chance of winning it all. Maybe not this year, but soon . . . if they have a good owner, great coaching, solid drafts, and are willing to work as a team. Since 2001 The Patriots have been the best at combining all those elements, as their five playoff appearances, twelve post season wins, and 3 Superbowl Trophies prove.
But there are 31 other teams this year that think they will stand victorious come February. During the 2007 regular season The Patriots will play 13 of them (getting the dangerous Dolphins, Jets, and Bills 2 times each). Wins & losses just might come down to one play, one move, one moment . . . the kind of thing that you might practice only once during training camp.
Monday, July 23, 2007
99 Luft Balloons
After 99 games, the 2006 edition of The Boston Red Sox were 61-38 . . . one game better than this year’s club.
Why mutter such a gloomy sentence? Why reference such an irrelevant statistic? 2007 is a new year with a much improved team.
I sure hope so.
With a dreadful bullpen, injuries to Matt Clement, Jason Varitek, Big Papi, & Jonathan Papelbon, and the incomprehensible announcement that Jon Lester had cancer, The 2006 Boston Red Sox imploded over the last two months of the season. The nadir occurred when they were swept in a 5 game series at home against The Yankees. During their 9-21 August, excitement melted to despair and congealed into misery that lasted until April 2007.
Such gruesome memories do not need to be conjured up in full detail, but neither should they be forgotten. There are 63 games left in this season and anything can happen. As Red Sox fans we know this in our bones, but after the magic of 2004 we sometimes think that we’re immune to getting jinxed.
I believe in science, statistics, and having a great bullpen. But baseball is a game where luck is embedded in its core. An inch here, a bounce there, and a game is won or lost. Clichéd maybe, but as they say in Bull Durham, “you can look it up”. While quality and depth are the antibiotics of the bad luck infection, sometimes there’s just no cure.
And make no mistake, ill fortune is always lurking. So how do we ward off these evil spirits who seek to ruin our season? For the players they just have to simply perform to their capabilities with a Zen-like mentality of hard work and relaxation. For us fans we cannot become arrogant or complacent with this 7 ½ game lead. But neither can we become to dour and stressed over a loss and a Yankee win. Curses and jinxes sneak through the door with overconfident s-o-b’s and depressed morons.
Jon Lester has beat cancer and just won his first game of the season. Julio Lugo & Coco Crisp are hitting. We have Manny, Big Papi, Dice-K, and Beckett. Okajima & Papelbon are bullpen gold. And Curt Shilling will be back refreshed and ready to anchor the starting rotation. Let’s just politely smile at these facts and enjoy the remaining 63 games of the regular season.
Why mutter such a gloomy sentence? Why reference such an irrelevant statistic? 2007 is a new year with a much improved team.
I sure hope so.
With a dreadful bullpen, injuries to Matt Clement, Jason Varitek, Big Papi, & Jonathan Papelbon, and the incomprehensible announcement that Jon Lester had cancer, The 2006 Boston Red Sox imploded over the last two months of the season. The nadir occurred when they were swept in a 5 game series at home against The Yankees. During their 9-21 August, excitement melted to despair and congealed into misery that lasted until April 2007.
Such gruesome memories do not need to be conjured up in full detail, but neither should they be forgotten. There are 63 games left in this season and anything can happen. As Red Sox fans we know this in our bones, but after the magic of 2004 we sometimes think that we’re immune to getting jinxed.
I believe in science, statistics, and having a great bullpen. But baseball is a game where luck is embedded in its core. An inch here, a bounce there, and a game is won or lost. Clichéd maybe, but as they say in Bull Durham, “you can look it up”. While quality and depth are the antibiotics of the bad luck infection, sometimes there’s just no cure.
And make no mistake, ill fortune is always lurking. So how do we ward off these evil spirits who seek to ruin our season? For the players they just have to simply perform to their capabilities with a Zen-like mentality of hard work and relaxation. For us fans we cannot become arrogant or complacent with this 7 ½ game lead. But neither can we become to dour and stressed over a loss and a Yankee win. Curses and jinxes sneak through the door with overconfident s-o-b’s and depressed morons.
Jon Lester has beat cancer and just won his first game of the season. Julio Lugo & Coco Crisp are hitting. We have Manny, Big Papi, Dice-K, and Beckett. Okajima & Papelbon are bullpen gold. And Curt Shilling will be back refreshed and ready to anchor the starting rotation. Let’s just politely smile at these facts and enjoy the remaining 63 games of the regular season.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Time Travelin' Back To 2005- Remembering Hunter S. Thompson
Hunter S. Thompson was one of the greatest writers of the 20th Century, a man who chronicled The Death of The American Dream with humor, wit, and the utmost respect of his subject. Although his words and sentences were meticulous, he was so versed in his material that his pieces always had a carefree and spontaneous vibe that nobody could copy. Years before the person who coined the word “blog” was even born, Hunter S. Thompson was writing the sort of personal freewheelin’ journalism that millions call blogging.
The Good Doctor’s work has resonated for five decades because he was not only a verbal artist, he was an accidental prophet. Reading “Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas” was a watershed moment of my life. I never knew a book could be socially incisive, brilliantly written and hysterically funny at the same time. How could something drop serious wisdom on my brain AND make me laugh? H.S.T. did the same thing with “Fear & Loathing on The Campaign Trail”, “The Great Shark Hunt”, “Songs of The Doomed”, “The Curse Of Lono”, “Better Than Sex”, “The Rum Diary”, and his collection of letters. Especially his collection of letters.
“The Proud Highway” & “Fear & Loathing In America” will educate and entertain you about what really happened in the 60’s & 70’s like no one else can. Hunter S. Thompson was always right in the middle of history, and we’re lucky to have his letters that chronicle those turbulent and important decades. That's why it was so sad to see Doc go, because he had much to say about the 80’s, 90’s, and 21st Century. His 3rd and final collection of letters, which will concern the late 70's until his death in 2005, are supposed to finally appear later this year.
Here is my obituary of Dr. Thompson shortly after he took his own life:
02/27/2005
"He was an old, sick, and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him- not even when his friends came. So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun."
-Hunter S. Thompson, writing about Ernest Hemingway in 1964.
It's been nearly a week since I learned of H.S.T.'s suicide, and I still don't know what to say. Just about all of my favorite writers were long dead before I began reading them. Hunter was different. Here was a guy- not only a gifted writer and chronicler of America, but also a free spirted legend that could rival the intensity of any movie or rock star- who was still at it. Who was still providing a running commentary on the events that were happening in my life. Not only that, given the right circumstances, I could have met him.
But I never did and never will.
It didn't make much sense when I first learned of his death, and it only makes a little now. I guess with all the living he'd done, his body at 67 was probably that of a normal man who was ten years older. There was also his hip replacement surgery and back injury that caused nagging pain. But Doc still seemed- in his recent books and espn columns- like a man still having a great time. He had a 32-year-old wife, many friends, money, a wonderful home in the Rockies, and- something very important to a writer- an interested audience. Sure, he wasn't the artist he was 20 years earlier. And I bet the drugs and alcohol didn't make him feel as good as they once did. But I can't help think of my grandfather who is 21 years older than Hunter Thompson, and who still drives and lives on his own and still gets a kick out of life.
Ernest Hemingway's suicide, I've learned, can be attributed to the two near fatal plane crashes he endured and shock therapy. Most people don't know of either reason. Although the physical pain of having his body hurtled thousands of miles down to the ground in seconds had an enormous toll on Hemingway, it seems the electric shock treatments really did him in. Believing it was a wonderful solution to depression, top doctors in the 50's and 60's would run volts of pure electricity directly to a patient's brain. For Papa it ruined his memory, and he could no longer remember the details of his life. Writing would prove to be impossible. His last days were spent alone and confused in a tiny mountian town in Idaho.
Maybe someday we'll learn that H.S.T. had some sort of disease or that his brain cells had completely abandoned him due to too much fun. Maybe we'll never know. But even though he called it quits when millions check out of this world involuntarily, I still feel sad. His articles, books, letters, and the way he lived his life made the world a much more interesting place for me. I never met him, but I will miss Hunter S. Thompson.
"I have already lived and finished the life I planned to live-(13 years longer, in fact)- and everything from now on will be A New Life, a different thing, a gig that ends tonight and starts tomorrow morning."
-H.S.T. at 40 in 1977.
"My life has been the polar opposite of safe, but I am proud of it and so is my son, and that is good enough for me. I would do it all over again and never miss a beat, although I have never recommended it to others. That would be cruel and irresponsible and wrong, and I am none of those things."
-H.S.T. at 65 in 2003.
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbninquiry.asp?ean=9780684873169&z=y
The Good Doctor’s work has resonated for five decades because he was not only a verbal artist, he was an accidental prophet. Reading “Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas” was a watershed moment of my life. I never knew a book could be socially incisive, brilliantly written and hysterically funny at the same time. How could something drop serious wisdom on my brain AND make me laugh? H.S.T. did the same thing with “Fear & Loathing on The Campaign Trail”, “The Great Shark Hunt”, “Songs of The Doomed”, “The Curse Of Lono”, “Better Than Sex”, “The Rum Diary”, and his collection of letters. Especially his collection of letters.
“The Proud Highway” & “Fear & Loathing In America” will educate and entertain you about what really happened in the 60’s & 70’s like no one else can. Hunter S. Thompson was always right in the middle of history, and we’re lucky to have his letters that chronicle those turbulent and important decades. That's why it was so sad to see Doc go, because he had much to say about the 80’s, 90’s, and 21st Century. His 3rd and final collection of letters, which will concern the late 70's until his death in 2005, are supposed to finally appear later this year.
Here is my obituary of Dr. Thompson shortly after he took his own life:
02/27/2005
"He was an old, sick, and very troubled man, and the illusion of peace and contentment was not enough for him- not even when his friends came. So finally, and for what he must have thought the best of reasons, he ended it with a shotgun."
-Hunter S. Thompson, writing about Ernest Hemingway in 1964.
It's been nearly a week since I learned of H.S.T.'s suicide, and I still don't know what to say. Just about all of my favorite writers were long dead before I began reading them. Hunter was different. Here was a guy- not only a gifted writer and chronicler of America, but also a free spirted legend that could rival the intensity of any movie or rock star- who was still at it. Who was still providing a running commentary on the events that were happening in my life. Not only that, given the right circumstances, I could have met him.
But I never did and never will.
It didn't make much sense when I first learned of his death, and it only makes a little now. I guess with all the living he'd done, his body at 67 was probably that of a normal man who was ten years older. There was also his hip replacement surgery and back injury that caused nagging pain. But Doc still seemed- in his recent books and espn columns- like a man still having a great time. He had a 32-year-old wife, many friends, money, a wonderful home in the Rockies, and- something very important to a writer- an interested audience. Sure, he wasn't the artist he was 20 years earlier. And I bet the drugs and alcohol didn't make him feel as good as they once did. But I can't help think of my grandfather who is 21 years older than Hunter Thompson, and who still drives and lives on his own and still gets a kick out of life.
Ernest Hemingway's suicide, I've learned, can be attributed to the two near fatal plane crashes he endured and shock therapy. Most people don't know of either reason. Although the physical pain of having his body hurtled thousands of miles down to the ground in seconds had an enormous toll on Hemingway, it seems the electric shock treatments really did him in. Believing it was a wonderful solution to depression, top doctors in the 50's and 60's would run volts of pure electricity directly to a patient's brain. For Papa it ruined his memory, and he could no longer remember the details of his life. Writing would prove to be impossible. His last days were spent alone and confused in a tiny mountian town in Idaho.
Maybe someday we'll learn that H.S.T. had some sort of disease or that his brain cells had completely abandoned him due to too much fun. Maybe we'll never know. But even though he called it quits when millions check out of this world involuntarily, I still feel sad. His articles, books, letters, and the way he lived his life made the world a much more interesting place for me. I never met him, but I will miss Hunter S. Thompson.
"I have already lived and finished the life I planned to live-(13 years longer, in fact)- and everything from now on will be A New Life, a different thing, a gig that ends tonight and starts tomorrow morning."
-H.S.T. at 40 in 1977.
"My life has been the polar opposite of safe, but I am proud of it and so is my son, and that is good enough for me. I would do it all over again and never miss a beat, although I have never recommended it to others. That would be cruel and irresponsible and wrong, and I am none of those things."
-H.S.T. at 65 in 2003.
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbninquiry.asp?ean=9780684873169&z=y
Friday, July 20, 2007
Time Travelin' Back To 1995- A Random Journal Entry
.jpg)
Feb. 28th, 1995- 1:11 a.m.
Early Tuesday morning
“Television is not an orgasmic medium.”
- John Fiske, media theorist.
Early Tuesday morning
“Television is not an orgasmic medium.”
- John Fiske, media theorist.
As I sit here in the quiet confines of apartment 203 on the first block of Commonwealth Avenue, drinking a Bud Light and eating noodles, I am trying to ponder Mr. Fiske’s revelation. There is a part of me that desperately wants to believe him, but there is the more rational side that KNOWS all about television. I suspect orgasms are where you find them, and television is as good a place as any. And why not? It’s accessible, it’s safe, and it will never cause you grief. You have known TV just as long as you’ve known your parents.
Scary.
Yes, I grew up with a steady dose of sitcoms, sporting events, and cheesy dramas. Has TV had an adverse effect on me? Yes. Has there been positive aspects of it? Certainly. If you had watched less TV would you be a better person today? Without a doubt.
Without a doubt?
I could have used that time a lot better than being glued to Growing Pains, Family Ties, and Cheers. There certainly could have been more studying, more hours exercising, and a lot more time trying to get dates. For The Love Of God . . . with all the hours I spent in front of the boob tube I could have mastered a foreign language. But that is the past . . . The 90's are all about reading and learning. Really, this whole decade has been spent trying to fix the mistakes I made in the 80’s.
“Television has usurped time formerly spent on existing forms of mass media (particularly movies and radio), but taken from other free time and compulsive time activities.”
– Sahin & Robinson, media theorists.
I will never endorse usurping in any way, shape, or form. It is a wholly undemocratic way of action, and it sucks too. Uh-huh, hu, hu, hu. See, there you go. Beavis & Butthead just usurped my journal space. Damn cartoons . . . you can never trust them. Bugs Bunny was a notorious liar, thief, and sometime murderer. But that has never been proven in a court of law. So he remains free.
What?
A slow night at the bar, reading Hunter Thompson, and two beers will make your head turn fuzzy with gibberish. Not to mention the media theorists I have to read for class. Those bastards certainly know how to fuck with your mind. But that is another story. And this one is over. I’ve been up for over 18 hours and I need some sleep.
Scary.
Yes, I grew up with a steady dose of sitcoms, sporting events, and cheesy dramas. Has TV had an adverse effect on me? Yes. Has there been positive aspects of it? Certainly. If you had watched less TV would you be a better person today? Without a doubt.
Without a doubt?
I could have used that time a lot better than being glued to Growing Pains, Family Ties, and Cheers. There certainly could have been more studying, more hours exercising, and a lot more time trying to get dates. For The Love Of God . . . with all the hours I spent in front of the boob tube I could have mastered a foreign language. But that is the past . . . The 90's are all about reading and learning. Really, this whole decade has been spent trying to fix the mistakes I made in the 80’s.
“Television has usurped time formerly spent on existing forms of mass media (particularly movies and radio), but taken from other free time and compulsive time activities.”
– Sahin & Robinson, media theorists.
I will never endorse usurping in any way, shape, or form. It is a wholly undemocratic way of action, and it sucks too. Uh-huh, hu, hu, hu. See, there you go. Beavis & Butthead just usurped my journal space. Damn cartoons . . . you can never trust them. Bugs Bunny was a notorious liar, thief, and sometime murderer. But that has never been proven in a court of law. So he remains free.
What?
A slow night at the bar, reading Hunter Thompson, and two beers will make your head turn fuzzy with gibberish. Not to mention the media theorists I have to read for class. Those bastards certainly know how to fuck with your mind. But that is another story. And this one is over. I’ve been up for over 18 hours and I need some sleep.
.jpg)
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Why They Went To The Woods- a look at "Old Joy"
Ernest Hemingway believed in the “iceberg theory” of writing, that for every part of the story that shows seven-eights is underwater. In this principle, omitting details would make the piece stronger. But this only works if the writer has done his job, has rendered the story in such a manner that it would seem as if the missing facts were stated.
“Old Joy” was based on a short story (by Jonathan Raymond) and omits details much in the same manner as Hemingway did. The narrative concerns two estranged 30-something friends who reunite for a camping trip in Oregon. Mark (played by Daniel London) is a soon-to-be father who listens to the sad plight of this world on talk radio (the progressive Air America). Kurt (played by Will Oldham) is a free spirited neo-hippy, a guy who wants to get high off experiencing life and illegal narcotics. The plot is pure minimalism- the old friends meet up, talk a bit, go to the woods, and return. But, like a great piece of prose, it’s what happens beneath the action that counts.
Kelly Reichardt, the talented director of “Old Joy”, wrote in the press notes that “the film is a minimalist story of friendship that captured all the feeling of loss and alienation that everybody in my world seemed to be grappling with.” There is no doubt that Mark is cut off from the world around him. His face has a near constant expression of numbness. Mark has a baby on the way (soon by the size of his wife’s belly), and when Kurt invites him on the camping trip he doesn’t think twice about accepting. Although he does ask his wife’s permission, which she views as mere perfunctory gesture. Mark looks like a man who needs to get away.
Kurt, as we soon find out, lives his life as a perpetual escape. He smokes dope, communes with nature, and seems to expect The Universe to provide him with the answers. When the two meet up, it soon becomes clear they are far from being the friends they once were. Their silences seem to be only broken by Mark’s rambling stories of his Zen-like adventures. In telling these tales, Kurt is trying to reestablish a rapport with his old friend. Mark offers nothing in return, and even won’t speak to his wife on the cell phone in Kurt’s presence. At one point Mark walks about ten feet away from his car, and we’re left inside the vehicle with Kurt looking out at his friend as if he is only a part of the scenery viewed from the windshield.
Their destination is a natural Hot Springs, and most of film is the journey to this spot. The director treats us to long takes viewed from inside the car. Their voyage from the city to the woods is purposely delayed, much in the way that Stanley Kubrick dragged out the arrival to the space station in “2001 A Space Odyssey”. He did it to demonstrate the immensity of space, and it’s possible that Ms. Reichardt employs this same technique to show the immense chasm between our hectic everyday lives and the serene natural world. And it can also be seen as the great distance between a guy who’s chosen to lead a conventional life (Mark) and somebody who has opted to dwell in the counterculture (Kurt).
Or maybe I’m guilty of excessive extrapolation. Although I believe in Hemingway’s “iceberg principle”, there’s a danger in omitting too many details. And I think “Old Joy” is guilty of that. Barely over an hour long, it just seemed as if three or four scenes were missing. Mark might be alienated and feel paralyzed over the state of the world (which I can relate to), but I never learned personal details that would make me care about him. He’s got a pregnant wife, listens to political radio, and loves his dog, but I need more from a character. What does he do for a living? What was the last book he read? How did he meet his wife?
A film doesn’t have to answer every question or provide excessive information. But if it’s a simple story with a skeleton plot, then there should be emphasis on character development. While we get to know Kurt fairly well, Mark is instantly forgettable.
I strongly believe the audience should have to use their brains to unearth the subtext. Because it’s the undercurrent of emotions that elevates a film from mere entertainment to art. Unfortunately, “Old Joy” exists too much under the surface. I might be able to relate to the abstract emotions of the film (loss of friendship, getting older, and isolation), but I wasn’t given concrete details why I should care about Mark and Kurt grappling with these.
But there is much to like about “Old Joy”. The cinematography is beautiful, the music is haunting, and such a quiet and original film is a welcome respite from the loud replicas that continuously play at the multiplexes. Also, the meaning behind the title, that “sorrow is only worn out joy” is poetical wisdom. And despite its faults, here it is, more than a week after watching the film, and I’m still thinking about “Old Joy”. Still thinking about that slug and the trees and the birds and the bubbling water of the hot springs.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0468526/
“Old Joy” was based on a short story (by Jonathan Raymond) and omits details much in the same manner as Hemingway did. The narrative concerns two estranged 30-something friends who reunite for a camping trip in Oregon. Mark (played by Daniel London) is a soon-to-be father who listens to the sad plight of this world on talk radio (the progressive Air America). Kurt (played by Will Oldham) is a free spirited neo-hippy, a guy who wants to get high off experiencing life and illegal narcotics. The plot is pure minimalism- the old friends meet up, talk a bit, go to the woods, and return. But, like a great piece of prose, it’s what happens beneath the action that counts.
Kelly Reichardt, the talented director of “Old Joy”, wrote in the press notes that “the film is a minimalist story of friendship that captured all the feeling of loss and alienation that everybody in my world seemed to be grappling with.” There is no doubt that Mark is cut off from the world around him. His face has a near constant expression of numbness. Mark has a baby on the way (soon by the size of his wife’s belly), and when Kurt invites him on the camping trip he doesn’t think twice about accepting. Although he does ask his wife’s permission, which she views as mere perfunctory gesture. Mark looks like a man who needs to get away.
Kurt, as we soon find out, lives his life as a perpetual escape. He smokes dope, communes with nature, and seems to expect The Universe to provide him with the answers. When the two meet up, it soon becomes clear they are far from being the friends they once were. Their silences seem to be only broken by Mark’s rambling stories of his Zen-like adventures. In telling these tales, Kurt is trying to reestablish a rapport with his old friend. Mark offers nothing in return, and even won’t speak to his wife on the cell phone in Kurt’s presence. At one point Mark walks about ten feet away from his car, and we’re left inside the vehicle with Kurt looking out at his friend as if he is only a part of the scenery viewed from the windshield.
Their destination is a natural Hot Springs, and most of film is the journey to this spot. The director treats us to long takes viewed from inside the car. Their voyage from the city to the woods is purposely delayed, much in the way that Stanley Kubrick dragged out the arrival to the space station in “2001 A Space Odyssey”. He did it to demonstrate the immensity of space, and it’s possible that Ms. Reichardt employs this same technique to show the immense chasm between our hectic everyday lives and the serene natural world. And it can also be seen as the great distance between a guy who’s chosen to lead a conventional life (Mark) and somebody who has opted to dwell in the counterculture (Kurt).
Or maybe I’m guilty of excessive extrapolation. Although I believe in Hemingway’s “iceberg principle”, there’s a danger in omitting too many details. And I think “Old Joy” is guilty of that. Barely over an hour long, it just seemed as if three or four scenes were missing. Mark might be alienated and feel paralyzed over the state of the world (which I can relate to), but I never learned personal details that would make me care about him. He’s got a pregnant wife, listens to political radio, and loves his dog, but I need more from a character. What does he do for a living? What was the last book he read? How did he meet his wife?
A film doesn’t have to answer every question or provide excessive information. But if it’s a simple story with a skeleton plot, then there should be emphasis on character development. While we get to know Kurt fairly well, Mark is instantly forgettable.
I strongly believe the audience should have to use their brains to unearth the subtext. Because it’s the undercurrent of emotions that elevates a film from mere entertainment to art. Unfortunately, “Old Joy” exists too much under the surface. I might be able to relate to the abstract emotions of the film (loss of friendship, getting older, and isolation), but I wasn’t given concrete details why I should care about Mark and Kurt grappling with these.
But there is much to like about “Old Joy”. The cinematography is beautiful, the music is haunting, and such a quiet and original film is a welcome respite from the loud replicas that continuously play at the multiplexes. Also, the meaning behind the title, that “sorrow is only worn out joy” is poetical wisdom. And despite its faults, here it is, more than a week after watching the film, and I’m still thinking about “Old Joy”. Still thinking about that slug and the trees and the birds and the bubbling water of the hot springs.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0468526/
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Silence of the Beastie Boys
It’s difficult to imagine a group replicating the career of The Beastie Boys. From drunken hip hop hooligans to socially conscious music mavericks, Adam Yauch, Adam Horovitz, and Michael Diamond have been in the spotlight for the last 21 years. Their sound has shifted and evolved and has been in a constant state of reinvention. While the Beastie Boys influences are myriad, their songs are always original.
It’s big news whenever The Beastie Boys go back into the studio. For me there are not many artists who create excitement when they release a new CD. But when I heard The Beasties were working on an all instrumental project, my enthusiasm was more restrained.
Although it is great that The Beastie Boys are playing instruments again. "Hello Nasty" and "To The Five Burroughs" were both excellent hip hop works, but neither reached the high water marks of "Check Your Head" and "Ill Communication". Those earlier CDs, which deftly combine old school rap with funky lounge riffs, both reside on my Top 10 all time list.
With “The Mix Up”, their new all instrumental release conjures up all the great vibes you experienced while jamming to their funk flavored tunes in the early 90’s. All the songs are smooth and will put you in carefree state of mind. Since I'm not a musician, I can't really get into details of specific guitar or bass or drum riffs, but I do know when their cumulative effect connects with you on a deeper level. And The Beasties achieve that with "The Mix Up". The music is polished, the arrangements are tight, and it creates a hipster atmosphere that no clothing store on Melrose or club in West Hollywood could duplicate.
But now onto the negative. As much as I think it's ironic and cool that a rap group could put out all instrumental CD, it really makes me wish "The Mix Up" was Disc one of a Double CD. Because The Beastie Boys are great rhymers and storytellers, and not getting their brilliant lyrics is a disappointment. No words wouldn't bother me that much if The Beastie Boys released something every year or two. But, including this new one, they've put out only 3 studio releases in 13 years. Also, the total running time of "The Mix Up" is only 42 minutes.
But, I have to judge this CD on its own, and “The Mix Up” is damn good. I've listened to it several times over the last few weeks and will continue to enjoy these funky grooves for years to come. It makes me hope The Beastie Boys creative juices are once again flowing and maybe their next work will come sooner and be more substantial.
It’s big news whenever The Beastie Boys go back into the studio. For me there are not many artists who create excitement when they release a new CD. But when I heard The Beasties were working on an all instrumental project, my enthusiasm was more restrained.
Although it is great that The Beastie Boys are playing instruments again. "Hello Nasty" and "To The Five Burroughs" were both excellent hip hop works, but neither reached the high water marks of "Check Your Head" and "Ill Communication". Those earlier CDs, which deftly combine old school rap with funky lounge riffs, both reside on my Top 10 all time list.
With “The Mix Up”, their new all instrumental release conjures up all the great vibes you experienced while jamming to their funk flavored tunes in the early 90’s. All the songs are smooth and will put you in carefree state of mind. Since I'm not a musician, I can't really get into details of specific guitar or bass or drum riffs, but I do know when their cumulative effect connects with you on a deeper level. And The Beasties achieve that with "The Mix Up". The music is polished, the arrangements are tight, and it creates a hipster atmosphere that no clothing store on Melrose or club in West Hollywood could duplicate.
But now onto the negative. As much as I think it's ironic and cool that a rap group could put out all instrumental CD, it really makes me wish "The Mix Up" was Disc one of a Double CD. Because The Beastie Boys are great rhymers and storytellers, and not getting their brilliant lyrics is a disappointment. No words wouldn't bother me that much if The Beastie Boys released something every year or two. But, including this new one, they've put out only 3 studio releases in 13 years. Also, the total running time of "The Mix Up" is only 42 minutes.
But, I have to judge this CD on its own, and “The Mix Up” is damn good. I've listened to it several times over the last few weeks and will continue to enjoy these funky grooves for years to come. It makes me hope The Beastie Boys creative juices are once again flowing and maybe their next work will come sooner and be more substantial.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
More DVD Archives- "V For Vendetta" & "Stranger Than Fiction"
03-03-07
"V For Vendetta"
It's wonderful that such a film was even made, by a major studio nonetheless, considering the current state of the world. “V For Vendetta” has a lot of important things to say- examining the roots of terrorism, the desires for revolution, the evils of fascism, and the consequences of docile cooperation by the public. And woven on top of all this intriguing content is a visually appealing movie. It's a one-two combination of substance and style that is lacking in most Hollywood movies.
Based on a graphic novel from the 80’s (by David Lloyd) and set in the near future, the story concerns a young woman (Evey, played by Natalie Portman) who lives in a fascist state but is blissfully unaware of it until a chance violent encounter with her government’s secret police. She’s rescued by a masked man (V, played by Hugo Weaving) who shows her the truth about her corrupted country, and together they attempt to start a revolution. The screenplay was written by Andy & Larry Wachowski , whose Matrix was the best science fiction film of the last twenty years, and it was directed by James McTeigue, a first timer who had worked in an assistant capacity with The Wachowski brothers. Cool sci-fi premise, an important subtext, and talented filmmakers behind the scenes. . . “V For Vendetta” had the potential to be great.
But is in the execution of the story where the film fails.
In my screenwriting classes we were always reprimanded for stilted exposition scenes, where the characters unrealistically spout important information to the story. In such instances characters are mere tools, and for many scenes in "V For Vendetta" that was how I felt. The characters were always explaining everything and in many instances it stopped the film cold. There was never a flow, where one scene led into the other to build toward the climax. In "V" a lot of cool stuff would happen, but then the characters would talk about it and explain what they were going to do, and then the movie would get interesting again. You obviously don't want non stop action and I certainly don't have anything against talky scenes. But the dialogue has to be sharp, interesting and it has to keep the story moving forward. This didn't happen on a consistent basis in "V".
But it's a film worth watching, and praising, for the themes it explores and the visual style it uses.
But I can't help wonder how The Wachowski Brothers went from near perfection with the original "Matrix" to two weak sequels and then to "V For Vendetta", which certainly could have been much better.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0434409/
03-04-07
"Stranger Than Fiction"
This is a film, like "V for Vendetta", that I really wanted to love. It's dealing with writing, the importance of art, philosophy, and essentially the meaning of life. These are all themes that need to be explored in film and I'm glad they did.
But, once again, the execution of the story was very flawed.
And it's not in the premise, that a guy hears a voice in his head that turns out to be a writer actually writing his life story, where I found problems. I loved that idea and was looking forward to seeing what the filmmakers were going to do with it. "Adaptation" and "Deconstructing Harry" explored the same territory and were excellent.
Harold Crick (Will Ferrell) is an obsessive compulsive IRS auditor, a guy who must brush his teeth exactly 38 strokes vertical and 38 horizontal. He has built a predictable and safe life that is shattered when he must audit Ana (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a baker who is as free spirited and disorderly. Harold’s life becomes even more confusing when he hears a voice of a British author (Emma Thompson) narrating his every move. But nobody else can hear this narrator . . . it’s in his head.
This is a creative, witty set-up that becomes even more interesting when the voice tells Harold that he is going to die. I was very excited to see where “Stranger Than Fiction” was going to take me. I was ready to give myself over to this imaginary world.
But my suspension of disbelief was ruined by two of the secondary characters (the parts played by Queen Latifa and Dustin Hoffman). Both seemed to be mere cinematic tools. Latifa was only there to give Emma Thompson somebody to talk to and Hoffman's only purpose was to explain the literary/ philosophy things to the audience. Neither were real characters and they really took me out of the story. If you get rid of Latifa and Hoffman and devote more time to developing the relationship between Will Ferrel and Maggie Gyllenhaal then it's a much better.
Unfortunately, like "V", there was no flow to the film. There were a lot of good scenes and ideas, but they did not build organically to the ending. Which is ironic in a film that is examining writing, story, and plot. It's almost as if they thought since they were addressing such issues they thought they didn't have to execute them. Sometimes it seemed as if the characters were just wandering around looking for something to do.
That said, I loved Will Ferrel's performance. He is one of the funniest people on the planet, but he really becomes an average tax man who is going through an existential crisis. Without such an earnest performance the film wouldn't have just been troubled, it would have been bad. Ferrel made me care about the character and forgive the films flaws.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0420223/
"V For Vendetta"
It's wonderful that such a film was even made, by a major studio nonetheless, considering the current state of the world. “V For Vendetta” has a lot of important things to say- examining the roots of terrorism, the desires for revolution, the evils of fascism, and the consequences of docile cooperation by the public. And woven on top of all this intriguing content is a visually appealing movie. It's a one-two combination of substance and style that is lacking in most Hollywood movies.
Based on a graphic novel from the 80’s (by David Lloyd) and set in the near future, the story concerns a young woman (Evey, played by Natalie Portman) who lives in a fascist state but is blissfully unaware of it until a chance violent encounter with her government’s secret police. She’s rescued by a masked man (V, played by Hugo Weaving) who shows her the truth about her corrupted country, and together they attempt to start a revolution. The screenplay was written by Andy & Larry Wachowski , whose Matrix was the best science fiction film of the last twenty years, and it was directed by James McTeigue, a first timer who had worked in an assistant capacity with The Wachowski brothers. Cool sci-fi premise, an important subtext, and talented filmmakers behind the scenes. . . “V For Vendetta” had the potential to be great.
But is in the execution of the story where the film fails.
In my screenwriting classes we were always reprimanded for stilted exposition scenes, where the characters unrealistically spout important information to the story. In such instances characters are mere tools, and for many scenes in "V For Vendetta" that was how I felt. The characters were always explaining everything and in many instances it stopped the film cold. There was never a flow, where one scene led into the other to build toward the climax. In "V" a lot of cool stuff would happen, but then the characters would talk about it and explain what they were going to do, and then the movie would get interesting again. You obviously don't want non stop action and I certainly don't have anything against talky scenes. But the dialogue has to be sharp, interesting and it has to keep the story moving forward. This didn't happen on a consistent basis in "V".
But it's a film worth watching, and praising, for the themes it explores and the visual style it uses.
But I can't help wonder how The Wachowski Brothers went from near perfection with the original "Matrix" to two weak sequels and then to "V For Vendetta", which certainly could have been much better.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0434409/
03-04-07
"Stranger Than Fiction"
This is a film, like "V for Vendetta", that I really wanted to love. It's dealing with writing, the importance of art, philosophy, and essentially the meaning of life. These are all themes that need to be explored in film and I'm glad they did.
But, once again, the execution of the story was very flawed.
And it's not in the premise, that a guy hears a voice in his head that turns out to be a writer actually writing his life story, where I found problems. I loved that idea and was looking forward to seeing what the filmmakers were going to do with it. "Adaptation" and "Deconstructing Harry" explored the same territory and were excellent.
Harold Crick (Will Ferrell) is an obsessive compulsive IRS auditor, a guy who must brush his teeth exactly 38 strokes vertical and 38 horizontal. He has built a predictable and safe life that is shattered when he must audit Ana (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a baker who is as free spirited and disorderly. Harold’s life becomes even more confusing when he hears a voice of a British author (Emma Thompson) narrating his every move. But nobody else can hear this narrator . . . it’s in his head.
This is a creative, witty set-up that becomes even more interesting when the voice tells Harold that he is going to die. I was very excited to see where “Stranger Than Fiction” was going to take me. I was ready to give myself over to this imaginary world.
But my suspension of disbelief was ruined by two of the secondary characters (the parts played by Queen Latifa and Dustin Hoffman). Both seemed to be mere cinematic tools. Latifa was only there to give Emma Thompson somebody to talk to and Hoffman's only purpose was to explain the literary/ philosophy things to the audience. Neither were real characters and they really took me out of the story. If you get rid of Latifa and Hoffman and devote more time to developing the relationship between Will Ferrel and Maggie Gyllenhaal then it's a much better.
Unfortunately, like "V", there was no flow to the film. There were a lot of good scenes and ideas, but they did not build organically to the ending. Which is ironic in a film that is examining writing, story, and plot. It's almost as if they thought since they were addressing such issues they thought they didn't have to execute them. Sometimes it seemed as if the characters were just wandering around looking for something to do.
That said, I loved Will Ferrel's performance. He is one of the funniest people on the planet, but he really becomes an average tax man who is going through an existential crisis. Without such an earnest performance the film wouldn't have just been troubled, it would have been bad. Ferrel made me care about the character and forgive the films flaws.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0420223/
Thursday, July 12, 2007
From The DVD Archives- "Fast Food Nation" & "Children of Men"
3-10-07
Nobody makes films like Richard Linklater. Nobody has the confidence to create real characters and just drop the camera into their lives without being slaves to plot and conventional narrative techniques. "Fast Food Nation" has so much to say, and it could have been scripted to manipulate the audience into believing a "message". Instead Linklater presents us with people who are just going about their ordinary lives and trying to do what they think is best. Which is life, and it's messy and sprawling and each day you are exposed to facts and ideas that you can choose to ignore or act upon.
Which isn't to say that "Fast Food Nation" doesn't have a message. Of course it does, but it's offered on the screen in such a way that you can believe it or not. There's no sledgehammer here (such as Oscar winning films like "Crash" and "In The Bedroom"), and I can't help but think of what one of the characters (played in a cameo by Bruce Willis) says: “Most people don’t like to be told what’s best for them.” Nobody likes a lecture, not even college students who sit in a hall with notebooks and pens. Didactic rants, even ones that could be good for you, will always fade from your memory when something more entertaining comes along. Of course that same character also said that “everybody has to eat a little shit”.
Although it isn't perfect, it's interesting and unique and I really think we're lucky that somebody like Richard Linklater is giving us these kinds of films. Honestly, how many directors could have pulled this off? The book, which I'd like to read but haven't yet, was a best selling eye opener to the food industry. It's non-fiction and laden with facts, the kind of material that would normally only exist on paper, or possibly lend itself to a documentary. But the book was adapted for fiction by the author Eric Schlosser and Linklater . . . with the sole emphasis on character. It's one thing to explain how human beings have been tossed into a meat grinder because of an indifferent society and corporate greed. But it will resonate more if you show it, as Linklater has, through the every day lives we all lead.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460792/
03-29-07
Just having watched "Children Of Men", the only complaint I have is that I did not see it on the big screen. Because once the bleak view of the future and the violent images fade, you are left with the feeling that you were treated to an amazing cinematic experience. Compelling story, strong characters, and visual acumen that is rarely achieved, "Children Of Men" is a film that will lodge itself into your brain for a long time to come.But it's not easy viewing . . . it's terror and fear and war and you can feel the bullets whizzing your ears. Some people might refer to Alfonso Cuarón's as trying to achieve a documentary style. I think that is wrong. With his long takes and camera movements and saturation of detail, Cuarón truly puts you in the film. Just like the recent works of Linklater ("Fast Food Nation") and Fincher ("Zodiac"), "Children Of Men" breaks the wall and transforms you from spectator to participant.
I’ve heard some people criticizing the film for being too much a political statement of the current war in Iraq. Hearing such comments are extremely disappointing. What the director has done is just held up a mirror and shown how brutally violent and insipid all war is. The text and subtext of the film also deals with immigration, world over popularization, and the environment. These are human issues, not political issues.The World is going to shit, and elephants and donkeys and red and blue states aren't going to save it. Individuals, acting with integrity, are our only hope.We need more films like “Children of Men” to remind us of this.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0206634/
Nobody makes films like Richard Linklater. Nobody has the confidence to create real characters and just drop the camera into their lives without being slaves to plot and conventional narrative techniques. "Fast Food Nation" has so much to say, and it could have been scripted to manipulate the audience into believing a "message". Instead Linklater presents us with people who are just going about their ordinary lives and trying to do what they think is best. Which is life, and it's messy and sprawling and each day you are exposed to facts and ideas that you can choose to ignore or act upon.
Which isn't to say that "Fast Food Nation" doesn't have a message. Of course it does, but it's offered on the screen in such a way that you can believe it or not. There's no sledgehammer here (such as Oscar winning films like "Crash" and "In The Bedroom"), and I can't help but think of what one of the characters (played in a cameo by Bruce Willis) says: “Most people don’t like to be told what’s best for them.” Nobody likes a lecture, not even college students who sit in a hall with notebooks and pens. Didactic rants, even ones that could be good for you, will always fade from your memory when something more entertaining comes along. Of course that same character also said that “everybody has to eat a little shit”.
Although it isn't perfect, it's interesting and unique and I really think we're lucky that somebody like Richard Linklater is giving us these kinds of films. Honestly, how many directors could have pulled this off? The book, which I'd like to read but haven't yet, was a best selling eye opener to the food industry. It's non-fiction and laden with facts, the kind of material that would normally only exist on paper, or possibly lend itself to a documentary. But the book was adapted for fiction by the author Eric Schlosser and Linklater . . . with the sole emphasis on character. It's one thing to explain how human beings have been tossed into a meat grinder because of an indifferent society and corporate greed. But it will resonate more if you show it, as Linklater has, through the every day lives we all lead.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460792/
03-29-07
Just having watched "Children Of Men", the only complaint I have is that I did not see it on the big screen. Because once the bleak view of the future and the violent images fade, you are left with the feeling that you were treated to an amazing cinematic experience. Compelling story, strong characters, and visual acumen that is rarely achieved, "Children Of Men" is a film that will lodge itself into your brain for a long time to come.But it's not easy viewing . . . it's terror and fear and war and you can feel the bullets whizzing your ears. Some people might refer to Alfonso Cuarón's as trying to achieve a documentary style. I think that is wrong. With his long takes and camera movements and saturation of detail, Cuarón truly puts you in the film. Just like the recent works of Linklater ("Fast Food Nation") and Fincher ("Zodiac"), "Children Of Men" breaks the wall and transforms you from spectator to participant.
I’ve heard some people criticizing the film for being too much a political statement of the current war in Iraq. Hearing such comments are extremely disappointing. What the director has done is just held up a mirror and shown how brutally violent and insipid all war is. The text and subtext of the film also deals with immigration, world over popularization, and the environment. These are human issues, not political issues.The World is going to shit, and elephants and donkeys and red and blue states aren't going to save it. Individuals, acting with integrity, are our only hope.We need more films like “Children of Men” to remind us of this.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0206634/
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
A Walk To The Grindhouse
Originally written 04-20-07
Union Square, near postcard settings such as North Beach, Nob Hill, and The Ferry Building, is perfectly situated in San Francisco. It’s where I work and where I spend most of my week. But if you go 25 yards west you're just steps away from junkies, dealers, gangstas, and winos. It's called The Tenderloin, and in order to see "Grindhouse" I had to walk through San Francisco's most notorious neighborhoods. In the daylight it's safe enough, and I knew it was a good way to put me in the mood to watch a 3 plus hour celebration of 70's Grindhouse cinema.
So I entered the theatre in the right gritty frame of mind. I knew the films wouldn't be "Citizen Kane" or even "Pulp Fiction", but with Quentin Tarantino as one of the directors I had a certain expectation of Quality. For me, a movie can be drama, comedy, horror, parody, action, crime, thriller . . . whatever. I don't judge a piece of art (be it book, play, or film) on what genre the material is classified. I'm looking for Quality. So did "Grindhouse" deliver in what I wanted? Sometimes. But overall it was still very entertaining.
Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror" was a straightforward rendition of a zombie movie. There's no originality in his story or dialogue . . . in the writing there's nothing to transcend the genre. But the twists in his technical execution, with the film severely "scratched" and having "missing" reels can only make you smile. Then there's Rodriguez's wonderful eye for cinematography and editing, whether he's framing the gorgeous Rose McGowan in her gun prosthetic or cutting an action scene of zombies to make you jump. He has great pure skills as a filmmaker, and Mr. Rodgriguez has always been good at moving a shoddy plot forward. But . . . essentially we saw all this 10 years ago with "From Dusk Till Dawn". Swap vampires for Zombies and there's not much different.
Then there's Tarantino's "Death Proof". My biggest compliment of the film is that, in the exact opposite of "Planet Terror", it's highly original. Throughout the whole story you have no idea what's going to happen. Tarantino, as he did with Reservoir Dogs" and "Pulp Fiction", plays against the grain of genre. But instead of the crime/heist expectations, he's screwing with our collected knowledge of horror movies. And then, as the story progresses, he tosses the "Bullet", "Gone In 60 Seconds", "Smoky & The Bandit" car chase flick into his blender for great effect.
But the most surprising thing about "Death Proof" is that a large portion of the film could be sliced out and performed on stage as a play at any repertory theatre in the country. Quentin has always been all about dialogue, but he pushes it further in this one than he ever has. With his talent of creating real and interesting characters, this should be, and nearly is, a great thing. But . . . the Quality of dialogue does not live up to "Reservoir Dogs", "True Romance" or "Pulp Fiction". It's more on par with "Kill Bill", which means the characters speak better than the majority of movies that are released, but the writing doesn't live up to the standards Mr. Tarantino set in the early 1990's. And maybe it has something, at least a little bit, to do with the people who are delivering the lines. I could look at Rose McGowan and Marley Shelton for a ten hour film, but I don't think they have the acting chops of Samuel Jackson or Tim Roth or Amanda Plummer or Uma Thurman.
And when the film was over, I made my way back through The Tenderloin. In the dark, with the real possibility of getting mugged, there was no poetic grit as I walked to the train. And when I passed a bald freak selling a baggie of crack to a kid in dreadlocks, not taking a cab became a big mistake in my mind. Nothing happened, nobody said a word to me, and I got to my train safely. But the idea of a 70's style Grindhouse, a place where sleaze and violence can be celebrated, definitely lost its charm amongst the scum of San Francisco.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0462322/
Union Square, near postcard settings such as North Beach, Nob Hill, and The Ferry Building, is perfectly situated in San Francisco. It’s where I work and where I spend most of my week. But if you go 25 yards west you're just steps away from junkies, dealers, gangstas, and winos. It's called The Tenderloin, and in order to see "Grindhouse" I had to walk through San Francisco's most notorious neighborhoods. In the daylight it's safe enough, and I knew it was a good way to put me in the mood to watch a 3 plus hour celebration of 70's Grindhouse cinema.
So I entered the theatre in the right gritty frame of mind. I knew the films wouldn't be "Citizen Kane" or even "Pulp Fiction", but with Quentin Tarantino as one of the directors I had a certain expectation of Quality. For me, a movie can be drama, comedy, horror, parody, action, crime, thriller . . . whatever. I don't judge a piece of art (be it book, play, or film) on what genre the material is classified. I'm looking for Quality. So did "Grindhouse" deliver in what I wanted? Sometimes. But overall it was still very entertaining.
Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror" was a straightforward rendition of a zombie movie. There's no originality in his story or dialogue . . . in the writing there's nothing to transcend the genre. But the twists in his technical execution, with the film severely "scratched" and having "missing" reels can only make you smile. Then there's Rodriguez's wonderful eye for cinematography and editing, whether he's framing the gorgeous Rose McGowan in her gun prosthetic or cutting an action scene of zombies to make you jump. He has great pure skills as a filmmaker, and Mr. Rodgriguez has always been good at moving a shoddy plot forward. But . . . essentially we saw all this 10 years ago with "From Dusk Till Dawn". Swap vampires for Zombies and there's not much different.
Then there's Tarantino's "Death Proof". My biggest compliment of the film is that, in the exact opposite of "Planet Terror", it's highly original. Throughout the whole story you have no idea what's going to happen. Tarantino, as he did with Reservoir Dogs" and "Pulp Fiction", plays against the grain of genre. But instead of the crime/heist expectations, he's screwing with our collected knowledge of horror movies. And then, as the story progresses, he tosses the "Bullet", "Gone In 60 Seconds", "Smoky & The Bandit" car chase flick into his blender for great effect.
But the most surprising thing about "Death Proof" is that a large portion of the film could be sliced out and performed on stage as a play at any repertory theatre in the country. Quentin has always been all about dialogue, but he pushes it further in this one than he ever has. With his talent of creating real and interesting characters, this should be, and nearly is, a great thing. But . . . the Quality of dialogue does not live up to "Reservoir Dogs", "True Romance" or "Pulp Fiction". It's more on par with "Kill Bill", which means the characters speak better than the majority of movies that are released, but the writing doesn't live up to the standards Mr. Tarantino set in the early 1990's. And maybe it has something, at least a little bit, to do with the people who are delivering the lines. I could look at Rose McGowan and Marley Shelton for a ten hour film, but I don't think they have the acting chops of Samuel Jackson or Tim Roth or Amanda Plummer or Uma Thurman.
And when the film was over, I made my way back through The Tenderloin. In the dark, with the real possibility of getting mugged, there was no poetic grit as I walked to the train. And when I passed a bald freak selling a baggie of crack to a kid in dreadlocks, not taking a cab became a big mistake in my mind. Nothing happened, nobody said a word to me, and I got to my train safely. But the idea of a 70's style Grindhouse, a place where sleaze and violence can be celebrated, definitely lost its charm amongst the scum of San Francisco.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0462322/
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Scenes From McCovey Cove
Although I work less than a mile away from where The 2007 All Star Game is being played, there was zero chance of getting inside the park. I don't have season tickets, I'm not lucky, and I'm far from being rich. But I was able to to walk down to King Street and enjoy some of the atmosphere.
With an overcast sky and rare San Francisco humidity in the air I ambled around AT& T Park with no other agenda than checking out the sights and sounds. But I couldn't help but overhear all the scalpers announcing their prices when passerbys asked- $400, $475, and $600 for one ticket. There is just no way to justify spending that sort of cash on what is only an entertaining exhibition game.
But it is a part of baseball tradition. It’s Ted Williams 1941 game winning home run. It’s Pete Rose crashing into Ray Fosse in 1970. It’s Fred Lynn’s 1983 grand slam. It’s Tori Hunter robbing Barry Bonds of a home run in 2002. It’s all the greats who have played the game since 1933.On a personal level, it’s also the only all star game I watch. The Pro Bowl, with its absence of strategy and policy of light contact, makes a mockery of what football is all about. The NBA is just a bunch of millionaire kids listlessly going up and down the court throwing alley oops to each other. I can’t say much about the NHL because I hardly watch any hockey at all.
So it was cool to get close to the action. To see the street-wide red carpet in front of the park and watch all the boats and ginormous baseballs floating in McCovey Cove and to be at The Place where the entire baseball world has gathered. My original plan was to check of the sights and watch the game in a bar, but all my favorites were just too crowded (The 21st Amendment, MoMo's, and O'Neills). So I hopped on my commuter train and made it home in time to see Griffey put the NL ahead 1-0 in the bottom of the 1st.And right now it's 3-2 AL.
Being a Boston Red Sox fan, it was great to see Big Papi start the game (although he didn't get a hit) and to watch Josh Beckett strike out 2 in his 2 innings. The highlight has been Ichiro's inside the park homerun, which was the first ever in an All Star Game. Now it's 5-2 courtesy of Cleveland's Victor Ramirez, who knocked in Boston's Mike Lowell.So we go to the bottom of the 8th and the Red Sox's closer Jonathan Papelbon will get the chance for the hold. Seattle's Putz (who has a great fastball and a terrible name) will most likely save it for yet another American League victory.
. . . . . a little while later. The NL made it very interesting, loading the bases in the bottom of the 9th, but The American Leaugue continues it's 10 year dominance of The All Star Game. Why does the AL always win? The easy answer is they have more talent, but with free agency players jump leauges every season. I'd have to say it's more akin to a coin flip. Technically you have a 50-50 chance of picking the right side . . . but that doesn't mean you couldn't flip tails ten times in a row.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
.jpg){kind=link}