We spent the TurkeySlaughter holidaze in Santa Barbara. A few choice pics follow from that splendid visit.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
"The Road" takes it sadly all the way to Bleaktastic
Movies that are so dark, so challenging that they make even the most dedicated viewers look at their watch after only a few minutes are an acquired taste. "The Road" is just such a movie. Boy, is it ever. I, for one, wish I'd not pulled this choice from the sampler.
I am one of the many that loved Cormac McCarthy's dark little gem, published in 2006. Since the movie adaptation is obsessively faithful to the spare storyline of the novel, I won't offer up any spoilers. But the primary reaction I had to the book was stunned wonder that McCarthy had managed to make it so hopeful. Bleaktastic, if you will. The problem with the movie is that all the while you're hoping for bleaktastic, you end up with honorably sad. In short, this movie never should have been made.
That's not to say that any of the performances are bad or that anything about the production design feels even a smidge inauthentic. John Hillcoat directed masterfully. Nick Cave (who's worked with Hillcoat often before) did the spare, beautiful music. The Coal Industry or The Coalition of American Fireplace Manufacturers appear to have done the makeup. And, if I were especially dark-humored, I would say that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals did the location catering. Because there's lots of cannibalism on the screen. Rimshot.
So what you've got here is a movie that takes you on a two-hour slow grind through all sorts of dark places, both real and allegorical. Even if you know exactly where it's going because you've read McCarthy's novel, you begin to feel like you don't want to go there. By the showing, the telling becomes so much less powerful.
I'll rate this movie a solid B. Without a recommendation to even the most fervent fans, though. Certainly everyone involved should feel good about what they've done here. And maybe someday I'll watch it again and realize that I've misjudged "The Road" and ended up getting off at the wrong place. For the time being, I'm just glad I could leave the silent theatre after the final scene and step into the sunny afternoon glow of a picaresque Santa Barbara day. This may all be gone someday and covered in post-apocalyptic sadness. All the more reason to head out for a nice Mexican meal with family where I guarantee you I'll be looking at the colors not only on my plate, but in the faces of those all around me.
I am one of the many that loved Cormac McCarthy's dark little gem, published in 2006. Since the movie adaptation is obsessively faithful to the spare storyline of the novel, I won't offer up any spoilers. But the primary reaction I had to the book was stunned wonder that McCarthy had managed to make it so hopeful. Bleaktastic, if you will. The problem with the movie is that all the while you're hoping for bleaktastic, you end up with honorably sad. In short, this movie never should have been made.
That's not to say that any of the performances are bad or that anything about the production design feels even a smidge inauthentic. John Hillcoat directed masterfully. Nick Cave (who's worked with Hillcoat often before) did the spare, beautiful music. The Coal Industry or The Coalition of American Fireplace Manufacturers appear to have done the makeup. And, if I were especially dark-humored, I would say that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals did the location catering. Because there's lots of cannibalism on the screen. Rimshot.
So what you've got here is a movie that takes you on a two-hour slow grind through all sorts of dark places, both real and allegorical. Even if you know exactly where it's going because you've read McCarthy's novel, you begin to feel like you don't want to go there. By the showing, the telling becomes so much less powerful.
I'll rate this movie a solid B. Without a recommendation to even the most fervent fans, though. Certainly everyone involved should feel good about what they've done here. And maybe someday I'll watch it again and realize that I've misjudged "The Road" and ended up getting off at the wrong place. For the time being, I'm just glad I could leave the silent theatre after the final scene and step into the sunny afternoon glow of a picaresque Santa Barbara day. This may all be gone someday and covered in post-apocalyptic sadness. All the more reason to head out for a nice Mexican meal with family where I guarantee you I'll be looking at the colors not only on my plate, but in the faces of those all around me.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Please pledge to the Richard Hugo House in advance of Write-O-Rama on December 5th
Some of you may know about the Richard Hugo House here in Seattle. Some of you may know that I've done some volunteer work with them. And some of you may have already received the following email from me this week. For everyone else, this is an organization I believe in and I encourage you to consider pledging to support the work they do. Regardless, thanks for taking the time to read this. I'll be back to regular posting the week after the Great TurkeySlaughter. Rock on.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey y’all -
A year ago around this time, you might have heard from me regarding a non-profit writer’s center here in Seattle where I’ve done some volunteer work. The Richard Hugo House on Capitol Hill is a mash-up of cool digs, interesting people, and open pathways available to writers of all ages. I’ve worked with Hugo House’s program to mentor promising young writers still in high school. But they also offer a wide gamut of classes and resources for writers of all skill levels. Unfortunately, like so many other deserving arts-themed non-profits, they’re once again hard-pressed by the fundraising realities of the age we live in. I, nonetheless, want to ask you on their behalf to consider a tax-deductible contribution to keep the Hugo House working for and with writers that depend upon the House’s resources to inspire and thrive.
On Saturday, December 5th, the Hugo House is having a special one-day fundraising event entitled “Write-O-Rama”. While raising money for the ongoing operation of the House, this event offers a chance to sample classes and connect with other writers. You can check out examples of December’s Write-O-Rama class offerings on Hugo House’s website. I’m again participating in this year’s Write-O-Rama, and collecting pledges in advance for the Hugo House. As these gigs generally go, you pledge what you can and thereafter receive a thank-you letter full of sincere plaudits to file along with 2009 tax documents. As in years past, the Hugo House will also provide you with a small vicarious whiff in summation of what good came from that generosity. I’m going to offer what I hope will be a bit of a sweetener to top that off. If you pledge any amount, I’ll forward you or anyone you benevolently convince to also pledge a full minty-fresh electronic blast of the day’s work. I won’t even edit out all the dirty words.
Since I’m gathering pledges beginning a few weeks in advance of Write-O-Rama, I have assumed the entirely overstated role of a “laureate”. Along with a number of other friends of the Hugo House, my bio is up on the Hugo House website. Most importantly, that link will provide you with a direct link to donate using the “Network For Good” website set up for internet pledges.
If you decide to pledge via the internet (the easiest way to do so), please just be sure to enter “Write-O-Rama” in the “Description” field, and “Magnuson” in the “Dedication” field. If you are uncomfortable donating via the internet, you can just email me in reply and I’ll gather a donation from you at some point in the future. And, of course, please feel free to forward this email to anyone you think would approve of the mission of the Hugo House. I encourage you to check out things on their website or just ask me for more justifications in reply to this humble solicitation. I wouldn’t be doing so if I didn’t stand steadfastly in support of the Richard Hugo House.
Thanks for considering my pitch. And otherwise, I’d like to formally offer my best wishes to Sarah Palin on her book tour. I imagine that packing the tour bus up with enough running clothes, moose jerky and general disdain for those of us not living in “real America” will make having a rush-job book ghost-written for you look like a weekend spent leisurely hunting on Alaska’s lovely frozen lakes by helicopter. Regardless, no pressure on the pledge, I swear. Love and non-creepy hugs to all in advance of a hoped for Happy Thanksgiving.
Ever -
E.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey y’all -
A year ago around this time, you might have heard from me regarding a non-profit writer’s center here in Seattle where I’ve done some volunteer work. The Richard Hugo House on Capitol Hill is a mash-up of cool digs, interesting people, and open pathways available to writers of all ages. I’ve worked with Hugo House’s program to mentor promising young writers still in high school. But they also offer a wide gamut of classes and resources for writers of all skill levels. Unfortunately, like so many other deserving arts-themed non-profits, they’re once again hard-pressed by the fundraising realities of the age we live in. I, nonetheless, want to ask you on their behalf to consider a tax-deductible contribution to keep the Hugo House working for and with writers that depend upon the House’s resources to inspire and thrive.
On Saturday, December 5th, the Hugo House is having a special one-day fundraising event entitled “Write-O-Rama”. While raising money for the ongoing operation of the House, this event offers a chance to sample classes and connect with other writers. You can check out examples of December’s Write-O-Rama class offerings on Hugo House’s website. I’m again participating in this year’s Write-O-Rama, and collecting pledges in advance for the Hugo House. As these gigs generally go, you pledge what you can and thereafter receive a thank-you letter full of sincere plaudits to file along with 2009 tax documents. As in years past, the Hugo House will also provide you with a small vicarious whiff in summation of what good came from that generosity. I’m going to offer what I hope will be a bit of a sweetener to top that off. If you pledge any amount, I’ll forward you or anyone you benevolently convince to also pledge a full minty-fresh electronic blast of the day’s work. I won’t even edit out all the dirty words.
Since I’m gathering pledges beginning a few weeks in advance of Write-O-Rama, I have assumed the entirely overstated role of a “laureate”. Along with a number of other friends of the Hugo House, my bio is up on the Hugo House website. Most importantly, that link will provide you with a direct link to donate using the “Network For Good” website set up for internet pledges.
If you decide to pledge via the internet (the easiest way to do so), please just be sure to enter “Write-O-Rama” in the “Description” field, and “Magnuson” in the “Dedication” field. If you are uncomfortable donating via the internet, you can just email me in reply and I’ll gather a donation from you at some point in the future. And, of course, please feel free to forward this email to anyone you think would approve of the mission of the Hugo House. I encourage you to check out things on their website or just ask me for more justifications in reply to this humble solicitation. I wouldn’t be doing so if I didn’t stand steadfastly in support of the Richard Hugo House.
Thanks for considering my pitch. And otherwise, I’d like to formally offer my best wishes to Sarah Palin on her book tour. I imagine that packing the tour bus up with enough running clothes, moose jerky and general disdain for those of us not living in “real America” will make having a rush-job book ghost-written for you look like a weekend spent leisurely hunting on Alaska’s lovely frozen lakes by helicopter. Regardless, no pressure on the pledge, I swear. Love and non-creepy hugs to all in advance of a hoped for Happy Thanksgiving.
Ever -
E.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Starbucks Borg Evolves
Much of my adult life has been spent in coffeehouses. And given that along the way I've lived for at least two years in each of five states other than the one I was born and raised in, I've logged enough varied cafe time to claim an honorary although worthless PhD on the subject.
My approach to coffeehouses has morphed over time to that of the quietly observant snob. I like to be recognized by the baristas so long as I don't need to chat it up, but I much prefer anonymity. I drink espresso - a "straight shot" is my favorite way to order. If the crema on top is gone when I get it, so am I. I tip well. Excessively, really. I desire a straight shot in this age to be a flat two bucks. A cent north of $2.30 is a rip-off. $2.15 is average. To drink a shot, you should take a quick sip to taste, give yourself a second or two to swallow and gauge, then toss the shot down in one gulp. Give yourself a few minutes, then drink a bunch of water. And after that, sit back, put on the blinders and get something done.
As an adoptive Seattlite, I acknowledge that much of the world thinks Starbucks is our baseline style. In actuality, Starbucks is airport coffee for most of us. Starbucks is coffee you resort to when you're in a strange place and hoping for an oasis of better-than-diner coffee. When I lived in Mexico for a month (Cuernavaca - a mid-sized, nothing-special city of 500K south of Mexico City), the one Starbucks in that city was a welcomed oasis where I shamelessly wore my ex-patriate jersey on a daily basis. But a Starbucks here in Seattle is Touristville. The original one across from the Pike Place Market is a newbie landmark that visitors always get a kick out of seeing. There's one in my neighborhood and every other imaginable neighborhood, they employ a ton of people, they were a killer app long ago over-merchandised that is now largely passe. So what does a massive corporation built on a model of franchises strictly designed and branded obsessively do when they need a mongo makeover? They overspend on furnishings and steal ideas that mashed-up look like a toothless offspring of Pottery Barn and a sexless version of Matthew Barney's "Cremaster" series.
Hence, the Roy Street Coffee & Tea cafe that opened today on Capitol Hill. It joins the nearby four-month-old 15th Ave. Coffee & Tea cafe as the second "Inspired by Starbucks" coffeehouse. Don't let the names fool you. The only thing there that's "inspired by Starbucks" is the soullessness and utter disdain for the surrounding neighborhood. So if you've been waiting for me to really sharpen up the teeth and unleash on a review, here's some sugar. These dumps get an appalled F rating.
The Roy Street space really needs to be seen to fully gauge the overdone horror of it all. It's huge. You could fit three or four decent small cafes into the space they've chosen, basically across the street for a beloved neighborhood cafe (Joe Bar) that's typically filled with a neighborhood melting pot that includes students from the Cornish School for the Arts down the block. Roy Street actually feels like three or four really poorly organized cafes inside. The furnishings of those cafes include a few huger than usable tables that probably cost as much as a new Prius, insane Restoration Hardware-quality overstated doodads everywhere, and scattered orange velvet-covered chairs that look like they're on loan from a Lady Gaga video set. They have four bathrooms (all of which require a keyless code), and an utterly insane bank of sinks outside of the bathrooms. I guess some overpaid designer would prefer to openly verify whether the people that work there wash their hands after taking a dump rather than keeping that detail appropriately private. You can imagine all the rest - dark wood everywhere ready to hide thousands of coffee stains but meant to keep the place from ever getting truly cleaned, micro spot lighting that probably will make it all feel like a gallery when sunlight's not plentiful (as if that's a problem in Seattle), garish murals and an utterly out of place entrance deco wall sculpture and cats and dogs sleeping together and utter Goldman Sachs-like disregard for taste. If Roy Street Coffee & Tea was a rock tour, it would be U2's ZooTV. If it were a drink, it would be a Long Island Iced Tea with Bacardi 151. If it were a porn star, it would be skinny Jenna Jamison. If it were a car, it would be a hybrid Escalade. If it were a chef, it would be Wolfgang Puck. In other words - yucky without even a hint of self-awareness.
Already at 9:30am on the first day, there were a handful of the questionably non-homeless cast throughout the 3,600 square feet of grossly overdone ickiness focused on their laptops. All PCs, by the way. None of whom looked up as I walked around marvelling at the tacky overstatement everywhere. So they were either Starbucks spies or completely uncurious morons. And as I passed by the bathrooms and looked at the handful of purposely positioned flyers stuck up on the community boards (no pushpins, people - only a smattering of magnets...bring massive rolls of duct tape if you're looking to advertise there), I got hit with the corporate boilerplate about "green building" materials or whatever sort of low-quality enviro-vodka they're dumping in the karmic punchbowl meant to get the crowd lubed up. In short, Starbucks' cynicism knows no bounds.
The moral of this review is that places like this always fail, but not until they seduce some of the unaware all the while trying to stick a fork to the independents in every area that remains unassaulted by the prior Starbucks stabs at killing the cool. And the larger point is a warning to America. This is what Starbucks has planned for you. Poorly cloaked corporate greed meant to seduce by duping you into thinking it was created to mirror the neighborhood being taken over. At least the old Starbucks model was clear - put a store on every street corner that could possibly sustain it and openly bleed the community of its inherent personality. The new model is far scarier and stupider. Don't buy it, America. You'll just be encouraging Starbucks to ruin more of the country with this sort of tasteless dreck if you do so.
Oh, I almost forgot. The coffee? It's Starbucks. 'Nuff said.
My approach to coffeehouses has morphed over time to that of the quietly observant snob. I like to be recognized by the baristas so long as I don't need to chat it up, but I much prefer anonymity. I drink espresso - a "straight shot" is my favorite way to order. If the crema on top is gone when I get it, so am I. I tip well. Excessively, really. I desire a straight shot in this age to be a flat two bucks. A cent north of $2.30 is a rip-off. $2.15 is average. To drink a shot, you should take a quick sip to taste, give yourself a second or two to swallow and gauge, then toss the shot down in one gulp. Give yourself a few minutes, then drink a bunch of water. And after that, sit back, put on the blinders and get something done.
As an adoptive Seattlite, I acknowledge that much of the world thinks Starbucks is our baseline style. In actuality, Starbucks is airport coffee for most of us. Starbucks is coffee you resort to when you're in a strange place and hoping for an oasis of better-than-diner coffee. When I lived in Mexico for a month (Cuernavaca - a mid-sized, nothing-special city of 500K south of Mexico City), the one Starbucks in that city was a welcomed oasis where I shamelessly wore my ex-patriate jersey on a daily basis. But a Starbucks here in Seattle is Touristville. The original one across from the Pike Place Market is a newbie landmark that visitors always get a kick out of seeing. There's one in my neighborhood and every other imaginable neighborhood, they employ a ton of people, they were a killer app long ago over-merchandised that is now largely passe. So what does a massive corporation built on a model of franchises strictly designed and branded obsessively do when they need a mongo makeover? They overspend on furnishings and steal ideas that mashed-up look like a toothless offspring of Pottery Barn and a sexless version of Matthew Barney's "Cremaster" series.
Hence, the Roy Street Coffee & Tea cafe that opened today on Capitol Hill. It joins the nearby four-month-old 15th Ave. Coffee & Tea cafe as the second "Inspired by Starbucks" coffeehouse. Don't let the names fool you. The only thing there that's "inspired by Starbucks" is the soullessness and utter disdain for the surrounding neighborhood. So if you've been waiting for me to really sharpen up the teeth and unleash on a review, here's some sugar. These dumps get an appalled F rating.
The Roy Street space really needs to be seen to fully gauge the overdone horror of it all. It's huge. You could fit three or four decent small cafes into the space they've chosen, basically across the street for a beloved neighborhood cafe (Joe Bar) that's typically filled with a neighborhood melting pot that includes students from the Cornish School for the Arts down the block. Roy Street actually feels like three or four really poorly organized cafes inside. The furnishings of those cafes include a few huger than usable tables that probably cost as much as a new Prius, insane Restoration Hardware-quality overstated doodads everywhere, and scattered orange velvet-covered chairs that look like they're on loan from a Lady Gaga video set. They have four bathrooms (all of which require a keyless code), and an utterly insane bank of sinks outside of the bathrooms. I guess some overpaid designer would prefer to openly verify whether the people that work there wash their hands after taking a dump rather than keeping that detail appropriately private. You can imagine all the rest - dark wood everywhere ready to hide thousands of coffee stains but meant to keep the place from ever getting truly cleaned, micro spot lighting that probably will make it all feel like a gallery when sunlight's not plentiful (as if that's a problem in Seattle), garish murals and an utterly out of place entrance deco wall sculpture and cats and dogs sleeping together and utter Goldman Sachs-like disregard for taste. If Roy Street Coffee & Tea was a rock tour, it would be U2's ZooTV. If it were a drink, it would be a Long Island Iced Tea with Bacardi 151. If it were a porn star, it would be skinny Jenna Jamison. If it were a car, it would be a hybrid Escalade. If it were a chef, it would be Wolfgang Puck. In other words - yucky without even a hint of self-awareness.
Already at 9:30am on the first day, there were a handful of the questionably non-homeless cast throughout the 3,600 square feet of grossly overdone ickiness focused on their laptops. All PCs, by the way. None of whom looked up as I walked around marvelling at the tacky overstatement everywhere. So they were either Starbucks spies or completely uncurious morons. And as I passed by the bathrooms and looked at the handful of purposely positioned flyers stuck up on the community boards (no pushpins, people - only a smattering of magnets...bring massive rolls of duct tape if you're looking to advertise there), I got hit with the corporate boilerplate about "green building" materials or whatever sort of low-quality enviro-vodka they're dumping in the karmic punchbowl meant to get the crowd lubed up. In short, Starbucks' cynicism knows no bounds.
The moral of this review is that places like this always fail, but not until they seduce some of the unaware all the while trying to stick a fork to the independents in every area that remains unassaulted by the prior Starbucks stabs at killing the cool. And the larger point is a warning to America. This is what Starbucks has planned for you. Poorly cloaked corporate greed meant to seduce by duping you into thinking it was created to mirror the neighborhood being taken over. At least the old Starbucks model was clear - put a store on every street corner that could possibly sustain it and openly bleed the community of its inherent personality. The new model is far scarier and stupider. Don't buy it, America. You'll just be encouraging Starbucks to ruin more of the country with this sort of tasteless dreck if you do so.
Oh, I almost forgot. The coffee? It's Starbucks. 'Nuff said.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Weekend Food Group #2 - The Cookies. In this case, decorated shapes. Including free form mustaches and one goatee (visible in the lower left hand corner). Seriously.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
The Man Who No Longer Stares At His Own Goatee
If you've viewed my profile picture or any other picture taken of me since 1991, you've seen a goatee. Sometimes long like a biker, sometimes trimmed to within a shadow of existence. But a goatee nonetheless. Sure, for a few rare periods it had been surrounded by a full beard. The goatee, however, has been a constant companion for close to two decades. Or had been. I shaved that goat this past Halloween.
I don't expect many of you actually care about my facial hair configuration. Yet I'm inspired on this weekend - the very day that "The Men Who Stare At Goats" opens - to reflect for a bit on just what the goatee has come to signify in American male culture. And why I encourage each and everyone one of you to lose yours before it's too late.
There was a time about 20 years ago that a goatee had come back into vogue as "edgy". Dare I say, "grungy". Possibly, for a few years there, it was sexy. Can some of us still rock the goat? Most assuredly. But it had become a crutch for me and so many other men like me. That's why the clean look is the new edgy, in my own personal style universe. I realize many of you have come to rely upon my style recommendations over the years. I mean, remember Zubaz? You're welcome.
You're probably asking, what's next? Doing away with the ironic t-shirt? Or losing the baseball cap? No, no let's not throw the baby out with the proverbial bong water here.
Ponder for a moment the momentous monstrosity that is The GoateeSaver. Here you have a product marketed to seduce the goatee wearer with the false claims that "(Your goatee) reflects your personality. It declares your individuality. Your goatee is much more than just facial hair, your goatee style helps fashion your identity." So true. So ironically, dispassionately true.
Next, consider some of the more famous of those examples of men rockin' the goat. In no particular order, I select:
1. the current Brad Pitt. Crazy, grey goat.
2. the old Spock. Lush, galatic goat.
3. the Chuck Todd. Wonky, sexless goat.
4. the Da Ali G. Fastidious, bedonka-donk loving goat.
5. the Kevin Youkilis. Should guest-star on "Sons of Anarchy" biker goat. The single best name/goat pairing in modern history.
6. the Sheldon from "The Big Bang Theory" on the Season Premiere episode. Dork goat (proving anyone can grow one).
7. the Todd Palin. Purposeless goat (especially ironic if worn on a snowmobile in Alaska).
8. the Dave Navarro. Dooshy goat, always in transition.
9. the Billy Bob Thornton. The afraid to act his real age goat.
10. the Frank Zappa. The technically-not-a-goat goat that everyone lets slide because, well, it's Zappa.
Aside from Zappa, I gotta say I'm happy to be out of that particular club. So, please, gentlemen. I implore you. Take a look at your chin. Or what's hidden there where your chin used to be. Maybe you're like me and your face is rounder than you'd like to remember it being. Maybe your chin is as weak as a George W. Bush motivational speech. Or maybe you just like to think you still look good and Pearl Jam's new album shows no sign of going out of style. Whatever the excuse, look around and consider your goat peers. Then take a look at yourself. Not a deep introspective look. Just a shallow, superficial look. You'll be glad you did.
And, once again, you're welcome.
I don't expect many of you actually care about my facial hair configuration. Yet I'm inspired on this weekend - the very day that "The Men Who Stare At Goats" opens - to reflect for a bit on just what the goatee has come to signify in American male culture. And why I encourage each and everyone one of you to lose yours before it's too late.
There was a time about 20 years ago that a goatee had come back into vogue as "edgy". Dare I say, "grungy". Possibly, for a few years there, it was sexy. Can some of us still rock the goat? Most assuredly. But it had become a crutch for me and so many other men like me. That's why the clean look is the new edgy, in my own personal style universe. I realize many of you have come to rely upon my style recommendations over the years. I mean, remember Zubaz? You're welcome.
You're probably asking, what's next? Doing away with the ironic t-shirt? Or losing the baseball cap? No, no let's not throw the baby out with the proverbial bong water here.
Ponder for a moment the momentous monstrosity that is The GoateeSaver. Here you have a product marketed to seduce the goatee wearer with the false claims that "(Your goatee) reflects your personality. It declares your individuality. Your goatee is much more than just facial hair, your goatee style helps fashion your identity." So true. So ironically, dispassionately true.
Next, consider some of the more famous of those examples of men rockin' the goat. In no particular order, I select:
1. the current Brad Pitt. Crazy, grey goat.
2. the old Spock. Lush, galatic goat.
3. the Chuck Todd. Wonky, sexless goat.
4. the Da Ali G. Fastidious, bedonka-donk loving goat.
5. the Kevin Youkilis. Should guest-star on "Sons of Anarchy" biker goat. The single best name/goat pairing in modern history.
6. the Sheldon from "The Big Bang Theory" on the Season Premiere episode. Dork goat (proving anyone can grow one).
7. the Todd Palin. Purposeless goat (especially ironic if worn on a snowmobile in Alaska).
8. the Dave Navarro. Dooshy goat, always in transition.
9. the Billy Bob Thornton. The afraid to act his real age goat.
10. the Frank Zappa. The technically-not-a-goat goat that everyone lets slide because, well, it's Zappa.
Aside from Zappa, I gotta say I'm happy to be out of that particular club. So, please, gentlemen. I implore you. Take a look at your chin. Or what's hidden there where your chin used to be. Maybe you're like me and your face is rounder than you'd like to remember it being. Maybe your chin is as weak as a George W. Bush motivational speech. Or maybe you just like to think you still look good and Pearl Jam's new album shows no sign of going out of style. Whatever the excuse, look around and consider your goat peers. Then take a look at yourself. Not a deep introspective look. Just a shallow, superficial look. You'll be glad you did.
And, once again, you're welcome.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Next time, get through the "boos!" on Halloween
I grew up in Wisconsin, cheering for the Green Bay Packers. I did so before I even knew why, like most kids from that part of the world. To this day I have a hilarious picture of a favorite childhood Packer on my fridge. Below average but lovable running back Eric Torkelson did an afternoon autograph session at a True Value Hardware store in Medford, the "big town" in the county. My dad drove me the 30 miles there and snapped a crappy 110-film shot of Torkelson with his arm around my shoulder. I'm wearing a delightful Shopko-quality Milwaukee Brewers jacket while I'm holding my 9-year-old boy-sized football that Torkelson signed. I continued to play with that ball until his autograph eventually wore off. Which in the late fall months of northern Wisconsin meant about a week worth of games at recess. My younger brother and his family currently live in Green Bay and last year got both Torkelson and Lynn Dickey to sign a postcard for me at Packer Day during the pre-season. In short, I go all the way back. But this past weekend, I rooted for the Vikings.
The rift caused by Brett Favre going to the Vikings is unlike any icon's departure in the history of professional sports. There are deeply entrenched opinions on both sides. Depending on where you stand, Favre is either a traitor or the Packers screwed the pooch by not finding a way to keep him. Regardless of where you stand, though, all Packers fans are by their very nature meant to despise the Vikings. That animosity developed in full during the 70s, when the Packers were running on the fading vapors left from the iconic Lombardi era and the Vikings were making it to and then losing four Super Bowls in the decade. Fran Tarkenton was the devil in my childhood home. One of my earliest lingering memories of the NFL in the 70s was feeling great about the Vikings getting the lutefisk kicked out of them by John Madden's Raiders after the '76 Season. I was in second grade. Yada yada yada.
As an undergraduate I went to the University of Minnesota, like my dad and older brother before me. The rest of the family went to college in Wisconsin. While in the Twin Cities, I met and befriended countless Vikings fans. I came to see their point of view as possibly valid. They, too, had hopes and dreams of a Super Bowl victory in their lifetimes. They too hated. They too loved. And even though their stadium situation has been a major drawback for decades, I saw them as real NFL fans of the highest order. I still hated the Vikings. But I'd come to know them, while still rooting against them to my very core.
Until this year. Favre and I are the same age, and I've identified with him during his career like no other professional athlete. That is why, on some level, when he had trouble finding satisfaction in Green Bay because of a boss that was being a complete prick, I started rooting for him to make it in another uniform. I knew he wanted to be in the NFC North, most obviously in the system he knew best like what they run in Minnesota. Last year's sojourn with the Jets was like a wealthy hayseed dating a brainless supermodel - it sounded like fun as a concept, but it basically never worked for either side of the equation. Even when the Jets were winning and Favre wasn't injured. But then when the chance came for a move to Minnesota, I saw it as a surprisingly obvious chance for Favre to get back to the Super Bowl. Many others have a very different view of Favre's choice to move to the Vikes, usually predicated by some nonsensical claim of his self-centered nature. To those I have one thing to say - Brett Favre is an NFL quarterback. Aside from ballerinas or dictators, I can't think of another line of work more tailor made for people with such a prima donna complex.
So at long last Sunday in Green Bay playing for another team, NFL fans the whole world wide saw just what Favre had left in the tank. The Packers are a team that currently constitute a Wild Card level of competitiveness. The Vikings are a complete team that could compete for the Super Bowl. In a year when there are a hearty handful of darn good teams and an equal portion of just plain awful teams, the Packers are in the upper middle. Favre puts the Vikes up near the very top.
Seeing and hearing the Packers fans boo Favre mercilessly was so abhorrent, so beyond classless that you can't even joke your way to a justification. Even back in Sconnie, a hearty majority of people grew uneasy with events such as the "Funeral 4 Favre" event some moronic radio station staged Friday at a bar in Appleton. On the Coast where I live or just about everywhere else, it looks like sour grapes of the lowest order. You know what, funeral goers? Favre buried you. In his two games against the Vikes this year, he threw seven touchdowns and no interceptions. His field awareness is unparalleled and he still throws the ball hard enough to break fingers from 20 yards away. When the camera was on him, he smiled or winked or just plain ol' got fired up like a player half his age. More intangibly, no one's got his star power. By the end of the game, I was outright rooting against the Packers. Not the team, mind you. The people that for decades I sat next to at Lambeau and in countless bars that are so damn well-versed in terms of football, but so damn mindless in their embrace of the Packers brand. Did Favre handle his retirement gesticulating well? Absolutely not. But to call the guy a traitor, burn his jerseys and boo his return? Face it, Packer fans. The rest of the country is laughing at us right now. Favre has more fans than ever before. And the Vikings are a brand on the rise. For way too long, NFL fans all across the country have tired of the expected genuflecting for the history and tradition of the Packers. In some ways, they are the NFL's Yankees, or the Celtics, or the old Canadiens. People wanted to root against Favre and the Packers when he was still there because they were so ceaselessly told to do so, usually by John Madden or comedians making fun of the man-love directed at Favre in the Green and Gold. But now that equation has been flipped. People want to root against the Packers for what they've done to Favre.
I fear that even if Aaron Rodgers is a very good quarterback the effects of booing Favre's return will damage the Packers brand for years to come. No other franchise could have generated such a big, over-hyped event like yesterday's game because it was the gawddamn Green Bay Packers at frickin' Lambeau Field. Bud Lea for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel is the dean of Wisconsin sports writers and he says he's never seen anything like the hype that went into the build-up to yesterday. But here's where it hurts - no other franchise could have so horribly fumbled the snap. Booing Favre may have felt like the rush you could get from throwing a asphalt block through the bay window of your ex-girlfriend's sorority house. But when you sober up and realize what you've done, everyone involved in the prank ends up feeling like a criminal. I hope we can recover. But as any football fan knows, unforced turnovers just kill a team's spirit. Maybe that of its fans, too.
The rift caused by Brett Favre going to the Vikings is unlike any icon's departure in the history of professional sports. There are deeply entrenched opinions on both sides. Depending on where you stand, Favre is either a traitor or the Packers screwed the pooch by not finding a way to keep him. Regardless of where you stand, though, all Packers fans are by their very nature meant to despise the Vikings. That animosity developed in full during the 70s, when the Packers were running on the fading vapors left from the iconic Lombardi era and the Vikings were making it to and then losing four Super Bowls in the decade. Fran Tarkenton was the devil in my childhood home. One of my earliest lingering memories of the NFL in the 70s was feeling great about the Vikings getting the lutefisk kicked out of them by John Madden's Raiders after the '76 Season. I was in second grade. Yada yada yada.
As an undergraduate I went to the University of Minnesota, like my dad and older brother before me. The rest of the family went to college in Wisconsin. While in the Twin Cities, I met and befriended countless Vikings fans. I came to see their point of view as possibly valid. They, too, had hopes and dreams of a Super Bowl victory in their lifetimes. They too hated. They too loved. And even though their stadium situation has been a major drawback for decades, I saw them as real NFL fans of the highest order. I still hated the Vikings. But I'd come to know them, while still rooting against them to my very core.
Until this year. Favre and I are the same age, and I've identified with him during his career like no other professional athlete. That is why, on some level, when he had trouble finding satisfaction in Green Bay because of a boss that was being a complete prick, I started rooting for him to make it in another uniform. I knew he wanted to be in the NFC North, most obviously in the system he knew best like what they run in Minnesota. Last year's sojourn with the Jets was like a wealthy hayseed dating a brainless supermodel - it sounded like fun as a concept, but it basically never worked for either side of the equation. Even when the Jets were winning and Favre wasn't injured. But then when the chance came for a move to Minnesota, I saw it as a surprisingly obvious chance for Favre to get back to the Super Bowl. Many others have a very different view of Favre's choice to move to the Vikes, usually predicated by some nonsensical claim of his self-centered nature. To those I have one thing to say - Brett Favre is an NFL quarterback. Aside from ballerinas or dictators, I can't think of another line of work more tailor made for people with such a prima donna complex.
So at long last Sunday in Green Bay playing for another team, NFL fans the whole world wide saw just what Favre had left in the tank. The Packers are a team that currently constitute a Wild Card level of competitiveness. The Vikings are a complete team that could compete for the Super Bowl. In a year when there are a hearty handful of darn good teams and an equal portion of just plain awful teams, the Packers are in the upper middle. Favre puts the Vikes up near the very top.
Seeing and hearing the Packers fans boo Favre mercilessly was so abhorrent, so beyond classless that you can't even joke your way to a justification. Even back in Sconnie, a hearty majority of people grew uneasy with events such as the "Funeral 4 Favre" event some moronic radio station staged Friday at a bar in Appleton. On the Coast where I live or just about everywhere else, it looks like sour grapes of the lowest order. You know what, funeral goers? Favre buried you. In his two games against the Vikes this year, he threw seven touchdowns and no interceptions. His field awareness is unparalleled and he still throws the ball hard enough to break fingers from 20 yards away. When the camera was on him, he smiled or winked or just plain ol' got fired up like a player half his age. More intangibly, no one's got his star power. By the end of the game, I was outright rooting against the Packers. Not the team, mind you. The people that for decades I sat next to at Lambeau and in countless bars that are so damn well-versed in terms of football, but so damn mindless in their embrace of the Packers brand. Did Favre handle his retirement gesticulating well? Absolutely not. But to call the guy a traitor, burn his jerseys and boo his return? Face it, Packer fans. The rest of the country is laughing at us right now. Favre has more fans than ever before. And the Vikings are a brand on the rise. For way too long, NFL fans all across the country have tired of the expected genuflecting for the history and tradition of the Packers. In some ways, they are the NFL's Yankees, or the Celtics, or the old Canadiens. People wanted to root against Favre and the Packers when he was still there because they were so ceaselessly told to do so, usually by John Madden or comedians making fun of the man-love directed at Favre in the Green and Gold. But now that equation has been flipped. People want to root against the Packers for what they've done to Favre.
I fear that even if Aaron Rodgers is a very good quarterback the effects of booing Favre's return will damage the Packers brand for years to come. No other franchise could have generated such a big, over-hyped event like yesterday's game because it was the gawddamn Green Bay Packers at frickin' Lambeau Field. Bud Lea for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel is the dean of Wisconsin sports writers and he says he's never seen anything like the hype that went into the build-up to yesterday. But here's where it hurts - no other franchise could have so horribly fumbled the snap. Booing Favre may have felt like the rush you could get from throwing a asphalt block through the bay window of your ex-girlfriend's sorority house. But when you sober up and realize what you've done, everyone involved in the prank ends up feeling like a criminal. I hope we can recover. But as any football fan knows, unforced turnovers just kill a team's spirit. Maybe that of its fans, too.
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