Most people close to me know that I'm frequently planning a concert trip. I've been to quite a few over the past 12 years or so. By my rough estimate, I've seen close to 300 concerts...and that's only counting festivals like Lollapalooza as one concert, as opposed to counting each of the 10 bands per day, over three days, as one concert each.
This year was a little lighter on the concert calendar for me; lack of finances, concert-going friends spread out over the country, and relocating for a new career really cut down on my live music experiences in 2011. However, these were the two memorable (and surprising) highlights of the year:
Runner-Up: The Strokes @ PJ20, Alpine Valley, September 3 & 4
The weather really zapped the crowd's energy at Pearl Jam's huge 20th anniversary party over Labor Day weekend, but pre-PJ warm-ups The Strokes may have stolen the show in my mind that weekend. Having had little exposure to The Strokes prior to this weekend, I wasn't sure what they were all about. I knew their front-man Julian Casablancas was a wild, chic rocker, and their first album, Is This It, was wildly acclaimed as an indie classic.
Their set (which was performed in an eerily similar manner both days) was energetic, well-played, and fast and furious. Casablancas proved himself to be the egotistical snot that I had read about, but his whiney, fake-British accented choruses stuck with me long after the shows. In fact, I find that to be the sign of a really good show: I go home and, up to several months later, I still need to listen to a given track because it cathartically (is that a word?) takes me back to the show. Several of their songs still do that, particularly "New York City Cops" and "Take It Or Leave It." I guess that was one benefit of not being entirely familiar with their catalog prior to seeing them live, which is often not the way I go into concerts.
Pearl Jam was the big deal of the weekend, but I think The Strokes may have stole the show in my mind.
Winner: De La Soul @ Summerfest's Potawatomi/Sprecher Stage, July 9
I had plans to go to this show with a friend who had to cancel. I struggled with the idea of skipping, or heading down solo. I'm glad I decided to trek to the lakefront on my own.
Some of my fond memories of this show hinge on the fact that I executed everything perfectly. When I go to Summerfest alone, I normally find a free street spot on the lower East Side somewhere (around Metro Market, or sometimes even in the Metro parking garage) and hoof it to the fairgrounds. This night was no different, and I jammed some of my favorite De La Soul oldies from my high school days while I hiked the few miles to Summerfest. I arrived at the stage at 10:05 p.m., five minutes after their scheduled start, to hear house music still on the PA; in typical rap group fashion, they were fashionably late.
That was the only rap cliche that De La Soul adhered to that evening, though. At 10:07, as I was settling into my stealth, elevated corner spot with a good view of the stage, the DJ started scratching and soon Plug 1 and Derwyn were telling everyone to put their hands in the air. And, no, not in a super cheesy way that can convince people to not put their hands in the air.
The beats were good -- De La never really let the show fall into a lull. Between a DJ scratching legit vinyl, a la true 80's hip-hop DJs, and De La Soul actually playing entire songs (as opposed to song snippets and medleys like other rap acts are often prone to do), the hour-long set really flew by. I had known a limited portion of De La's song selection since I only had their classic 3 Feet High And Rising, discovered through a friend from high school, but immediately acquired the rest of their discography upon returning home after the show. They did do "Ghetto Thang" from that album, and also "Ooh Ooh Ooh" from Buhloone Mindstate, which I knew because that song had been showcased on an episode of Entourage. Otherwise, after the show I discovered that they did most of their historical classics, including "Keepin' the Faith" and "Ring Ring Ring (Ha Ha Hey)" which have since become top-plays in my iTunes library.
The entire crowd was bumpin', which says a lot because at Summerfest, it's typical that one walks out disgusted with the audience. Such was not the case at the Potwat stage with De La Soul; it was an ass-shakin' throwndown that avoided typical rap concert cliches. I'd see De La again in a heartbeat.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
High school students are funny, Vol. 2
I got Rick-Rolled on Friday. Not really intentionally. A wise-ass junior walked into my study hall blaring "Never Gonna Give You Up" on his iPhone, all while singing and doing a little impromptu choreographed dance. It's pretty much been in my head since yesterday at noon.
But, that's not really what inspired this post. Getting to the bathroom can be a challenge between classes sometimes. It's a sacrifice. I can stay in my room and risk bladder explosion, or run to the bathroom during passing time and let the rapscallions alone in my room, doing who-knows-what to my computer and stereo, sticking pencils in the ceiling, and drawing inappropriate stick figures on my dry-erase board. In this case, it was a sacrifice that had to be made.
I entered the bathroom and luckily there was an open urinal, which, during passing time, is not always a luxury. (On a side-note, every time I walk into the bathroom, I half expect to witness a drug deal going down, or a poor freshman getting swirlied in the toilet. Luckily, neither of those things were happened, or have happened during this schoolyear. Yet.) As I was just about finished relieving myself, an anonymous student walked in and claimed the first stall. (I say anonymous because my back was to him, thus prohibiting me from learning his true identity.) He made it quite clear that his appearance in the bathroom was noted by singing loudly and humming. He locked the stall, loudly unzipped his pants, dropped trou, and occupied his throne, also rather loudly.
The bathroom was rather quiet at this point, and voices tend to project anyway since things echo in the lavatories. This student then proceeded to announce, "Ya'll ready for this?" and started beat-boxing the popular tune that often serves as a spark-plug for football fans across the nation.
As a teacher, my first inclination was, "Gross. You need an audience for this?" But then, as my inner-13-year-old took over, I couldn't help but contain my laugh to a simple grin. It was funny. It really was.
But, that's not really what inspired this post. Getting to the bathroom can be a challenge between classes sometimes. It's a sacrifice. I can stay in my room and risk bladder explosion, or run to the bathroom during passing time and let the rapscallions alone in my room, doing who-knows-what to my computer and stereo, sticking pencils in the ceiling, and drawing inappropriate stick figures on my dry-erase board. In this case, it was a sacrifice that had to be made.
I entered the bathroom and luckily there was an open urinal, which, during passing time, is not always a luxury. (On a side-note, every time I walk into the bathroom, I half expect to witness a drug deal going down, or a poor freshman getting swirlied in the toilet. Luckily, neither of those things were happened, or have happened during this schoolyear. Yet.) As I was just about finished relieving myself, an anonymous student walked in and claimed the first stall. (I say anonymous because my back was to him, thus prohibiting me from learning his true identity.) He made it quite clear that his appearance in the bathroom was noted by singing loudly and humming. He locked the stall, loudly unzipped his pants, dropped trou, and occupied his throne, also rather loudly.
The bathroom was rather quiet at this point, and voices tend to project anyway since things echo in the lavatories. This student then proceeded to announce, "Ya'll ready for this?" and started beat-boxing the popular tune that often serves as a spark-plug for football fans across the nation.
As a teacher, my first inclination was, "Gross. You need an audience for this?" But then, as my inner-13-year-old took over, I couldn't help but contain my laugh to a simple grin. It was funny. It really was.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Getting ahead.
How does one get ahead in life? Every month my savings account goes DOWN in total amount. It should be going up. I know debt kills, but with a wage freeze for public sector employees, I'm literally watching my money supply shrink instead of grow. Forget Christmas presents...I'm just hoping I can pay my bills on a month-to-month basis once April rolls around. It's sad that I'm looking forward to the New Year for one major reason: a tax return. And for what? To pay down bills. Thank you very much, ass-hat douche-bag Scott ass-clown Walker. I hope you get a fat recall for Christmas.
In general, teaching is going well on a day-by-day basis. But thinking about any more than one day into the future makes me curl up in a ball in the corner with the shakes. The amount of planning, grading, and babysitting that one does as a high-school teacher is ridiculous given the reputation that teachers have among uneducated Republicans who think educators are overpaid and "only work 9 months out of the year." I've got no problem saying FUCK YOU to believers of this misconception.
Top 5 unrealistic things I'd like for Christmas:
5) An iPad. Seriously. It'd be nice for the classroom, at home, and everywhere in between. You might say, "Well, that's not really unrealistic." No, it is. I may be salaried, but I still live paycheck to paycheck just like I was working for a grocery store.
4) An entire unit, planned out, complete with lectures, hand-outs, assignments, and assessments. Just one unit, for one class.
3) A day off that I wouldn't have to plan for. I haven't taken a sick day because it's actually MORE work for me to stay home than it is to go to work sick or tired or generally unable to work that day. Class-by-class sub plans, rosters, instructions...shit, it's just easier to go in and be sick or miserable.
2) The ability to show anything I wanted in class. Students like South Park, rap music, and swearing. But I can't say a naughty word in class. So, YOU tell ME how I'm supposed to make this interesting for them.
1) A class filled with students who listen. I understand they don't care, but when I prepare a hand-out, explain it to them 3 times (to the tune of groans and sight of massive eye-rolling), play a review game, and drop the most obvious hints during the test, AND they still fail miserably, it's a tad bit discouraging.
In general, teaching is going well on a day-by-day basis. But thinking about any more than one day into the future makes me curl up in a ball in the corner with the shakes. The amount of planning, grading, and babysitting that one does as a high-school teacher is ridiculous given the reputation that teachers have among uneducated Republicans who think educators are overpaid and "only work 9 months out of the year." I've got no problem saying FUCK YOU to believers of this misconception.
Top 5 unrealistic things I'd like for Christmas:
5) An iPad. Seriously. It'd be nice for the classroom, at home, and everywhere in between. You might say, "Well, that's not really unrealistic." No, it is. I may be salaried, but I still live paycheck to paycheck just like I was working for a grocery store.
4) An entire unit, planned out, complete with lectures, hand-outs, assignments, and assessments. Just one unit, for one class.
3) A day off that I wouldn't have to plan for. I haven't taken a sick day because it's actually MORE work for me to stay home than it is to go to work sick or tired or generally unable to work that day. Class-by-class sub plans, rosters, instructions...shit, it's just easier to go in and be sick or miserable.
2) The ability to show anything I wanted in class. Students like South Park, rap music, and swearing. But I can't say a naughty word in class. So, YOU tell ME how I'm supposed to make this interesting for them.
1) A class filled with students who listen. I understand they don't care, but when I prepare a hand-out, explain it to them 3 times (to the tune of groans and sight of massive eye-rolling), play a review game, and drop the most obvious hints during the test, AND they still fail miserably, it's a tad bit discouraging.
Monday, November 28, 2011
High school students are funny, Vol. 1
I nearly lost my way to my poor old blog...I think about it often, but have little time or gumption to write.
If things are going right during my school day, I like to play music during passing times between classes. It's so funny to see students walk in and either groan at my choice (an affirmation that they at least know what it is), dance in unknowing approval, or ask me in their best parental voice, "What kind of music are you listening to?"
Last week I played "Natural Mystic" by Bob Marley before a freshman class of mine. Admittedly, it was kind of an experiment, as at least 3 or 4 students in that class frequently wear Bob Marley shirts. Those students walked in and eventually figured it out, mostly because of which, sadly, the only reggae they know is Bob Marley. But one student didn't quite get it at first.
"Who is this?" she asked, as she entered the classroom.
"Robert. Nesta. Marley." I said, slowly.
"WHO?" she asked again.
"Robert. Nesta. Marley." I repeated.
"Oh," she concluded as she confusedly took her seat.
(10 seconds later, a student from across the room asks:) "HEY, is this Bob Marley?"
"Yup," I said.
"Hey, you said this was Robert...Sherman...something," said the first girl.
"Robert Nesta Marley is what I said," I said.
"Who is that?" she said.
"That is Bob. Robert. Robert Marley, Bob Marley," I explained.
I think the light bulb went on.
But anyway, the next time you see a teenager with a Bob Marley shirt, or a Grateful Dead shirt, or any shirt that would make you think they listen to a band from outside of their generation, don't be fooled.
If things are going right during my school day, I like to play music during passing times between classes. It's so funny to see students walk in and either groan at my choice (an affirmation that they at least know what it is), dance in unknowing approval, or ask me in their best parental voice, "What kind of music are you listening to?"
Last week I played "Natural Mystic" by Bob Marley before a freshman class of mine. Admittedly, it was kind of an experiment, as at least 3 or 4 students in that class frequently wear Bob Marley shirts. Those students walked in and eventually figured it out, mostly because of which, sadly, the only reggae they know is Bob Marley. But one student didn't quite get it at first.
"Who is this?" she asked, as she entered the classroom.
"Robert. Nesta. Marley." I said, slowly.
"WHO?" she asked again.
"Robert. Nesta. Marley." I repeated.
"Oh," she concluded as she confusedly took her seat.
(10 seconds later, a student from across the room asks:) "HEY, is this Bob Marley?"
"Yup," I said.
"Hey, you said this was Robert...Sherman...something," said the first girl.
"Robert Nesta Marley is what I said," I said.
"Who is that?" she said.
"That is Bob. Robert. Robert Marley, Bob Marley," I explained.
I think the light bulb went on.
But anyway, the next time you see a teenager with a Bob Marley shirt, or a Grateful Dead shirt, or any shirt that would make you think they listen to a band from outside of their generation, don't be fooled.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sunday Thought, #1
Isn't having a place kicker, and punter, kind of lame for a sport that otherwise encourages toughness and durability? I view this as the same thing as having the position of "all-time runner" in baseball. Ryan Braun hits the ball, then some Jamican speedster just zips out from behind the batter's box to second on a routine grounder to third. (I suppose that would actually be exciting...Ussain Bolt would definitely break records for inside-the-park home runs.)
But back to kickers...the new rule change (kicking off from the 35 instead of the 30) eliminates many exciting opportunities for touchdown returns and game-changing turnovers. It seems like all kickers have to do is kick the ball off of a tee from the 35 yard line, and a clutch field goal every now and then. The punter catches, drops, and kicks.
The position of full-time kicker and punter should be eliminated from the NFL. I'd love to see coaches' decisions on who would take the kickoff, or kick that game-winning 45-yard field goal as time expired. And how fun would it be to see Clay Matthews kicking away on 4th down? If it's a bad snap, the entire scenario is changed. I trust Clay Matthews with the ball on a botched play. I do not trust a punter.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Baseball truly is the greatest sport ever. Sometimes.
It's the final day of the MLB 2011 regular season. As I type this, the Red Sox are playing the Orioles on ESPN and the Phillies are tied with the Braves on ESPN2. Score updates of the New York Yankees vs. Tampa Bay Rays float across the screen. The Brewers start in 30 minutes, and are fighting for homefield advantage through the divisional round of the playoffs. The Diamondbacks host the Dodgers at 8:40 Wisco time and need only win if the Brewers lose. Surely there is a whole lotta scoreboard watching going on.
This is potentially the most exciting period of baseball I've ever witnessed in my life, and this is coming from a kid-turned-adult who has been devotedly (and memorably) following the Brewers since 1987. In fact, it was probably their season-opening 13-game winning streak and subsequent 39-game hitting streak by Paul "The Ignitor" Molitor that hooked me for life. I even remember seeing a game during Molitor's hit streak; I seem to recall is was upper-20-something.
Now, the Brewers are about to wrap up perhaps their finest season ever as a franchise. The Brewers made the playoffs via wild card in 2008, only to be ousted by the eventual World Series champs Philadelphia Phillies in 4 games. Looking back on that, now after a division title, reminds me of the Packers first getting back into the playoffs circa 1995-1996. They'd win a game, but couldn't get to that "next level." This feels like "the big show" now. And perhaps everything is heightened because of Fielder's final year as a Brewer, but maybe it's also that perfect mixture of Brewers right now, and just the right chemistry in the clubhouse and on the field, that are providing the extra push this time around. The hijinks of T-Plush...the knock-out pitching lineup that has faired quite well this season...the power and tenacity of every bat in the line-up (up to McGahee, anyway)...
Mix the hometown excitement in with the fact that both wild card races are tied right now, and will also determine the first round playoff matches in both leagues, and you've almost got an NCAA Tournament-type feel to the last day of the 2011 regular season. October is in the air; hopefully Milwaukee gets the extra whiff of homefield cookin' against their first opponent.
This is potentially the most exciting period of baseball I've ever witnessed in my life, and this is coming from a kid-turned-adult who has been devotedly (and memorably) following the Brewers since 1987. In fact, it was probably their season-opening 13-game winning streak and subsequent 39-game hitting streak by Paul "The Ignitor" Molitor that hooked me for life. I even remember seeing a game during Molitor's hit streak; I seem to recall is was upper-20-something.
Now, the Brewers are about to wrap up perhaps their finest season ever as a franchise. The Brewers made the playoffs via wild card in 2008, only to be ousted by the eventual World Series champs Philadelphia Phillies in 4 games. Looking back on that, now after a division title, reminds me of the Packers first getting back into the playoffs circa 1995-1996. They'd win a game, but couldn't get to that "next level." This feels like "the big show" now. And perhaps everything is heightened because of Fielder's final year as a Brewer, but maybe it's also that perfect mixture of Brewers right now, and just the right chemistry in the clubhouse and on the field, that are providing the extra push this time around. The hijinks of T-Plush...the knock-out pitching lineup that has faired quite well this season...the power and tenacity of every bat in the line-up (up to McGahee, anyway)...
Mix the hometown excitement in with the fact that both wild card races are tied right now, and will also determine the first round playoff matches in both leagues, and you've almost got an NCAA Tournament-type feel to the last day of the 2011 regular season. October is in the air; hopefully Milwaukee gets the extra whiff of homefield cookin' against their first opponent.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Pomplapost: Pomplamoose is still awesome
Around last Christmas, Honda unveiled a line of commercials with a hipster-ish looking couple singing Christmas Songs with some interesting footage of instrument playing and harmonization. It piqued my interest so much that I took to Google to find out who this outfit was from the commercial.
And I thusly discovered Pomplamoose. A duet from San Francisco, they produce "Video Songs" in which the viewers are able to see every manner in which they're creating notes for their songs, including instruments of all types, voice tricks, clapping, and even banging a head against the piano. As the viewer, you literally see every note they're playing, and the videos are pieced together as such that you even get an interesting perspective toward how they recorded each note and pieced them together with a computer. Pretty genius.
In my quest to find fun, short videos to show my classes, I rediscovered Pomplamoose after a 6 month hiatus. I can definitely get lost in their video playlist for 30 minutes every time I bring one up.
Beat It (Yeah, that Beat It.)
Mr. Sandman
Telephone (Lady Gaga)
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Last week was redonkulous.
I'm pretty bad at blogging. I don't do it as much as I know I should. Or even as much as I think I should. But I'm determined to avoid letting last week slip past the "Here's the 4-1-1" blogosphere.
After coming off my first two days of teaching last Thursday and Friday, I booked it to Milwaukee to meet Fantasy Friendship starter Adam for a weekend full of shenanigans at PJ20, Pearl Jam's 20-year anniversary festival at Alpine Valley.
Saturday was a muddy cold mess. We arrived at Alpine Valley a little after 12 noon to be held captive in my car for almost 3 hours by rain, thunder, and lightning. We were quickly cursing ourselves for only bringing a 6-pack of Miller High Life. We made it last over conversations with co-worker friends of Adam: Chrissy and Patrick. Eventually the rain softened to a sporadic drizzle, and, equipped in yellow ponchos and old shoes, we ventured into the venue, hoping to stay as dry as possible. The true question of the day was how would Adam accomplish buying an event poster and keep it dry for the duration of the show? We camped out on the lawn and after about 6 hours, my ankles felt as if they were shattered glass. I wanted to sit but the muddy ass wasn't worth the trade-off. Sunday's weather was much better; although a little chillier, it stayed dry and even offered us quick glimpses of the sun throughout the afternoon. The vibe was definitely happier on Sunday; the rain seemingly dampened everyone's excitement on Saturday, including Pearl Jam's.
I enjoyed the openers but was a little disappointed that Pearl Jam elected to toss out the same bands and same time slots for two days straight. It gave everyone the opportunity to select one day to arrive early and see music and come later the opposite day, but I, for one, would have appreciated more music or different line-ups. (And, on a personal note, it felt really weird for me to be at a festival and not see one single DJ. Personally.) I liked Mudhoney based sheerly on the fact that I've always respected their role within the grunge and 90's alternative scene, although they did get a bit "screamy" at times. I'd seen Queens of the Stone Age once before, also at Alpine Valley (see August post on Rage Against the Machine), and I enjoyed their set enough to say that I've seen them three times now, and moderately enjoyed each opening set. The Strokes really wowed me. I'd always enjoyed their music, but never really "felt" it until Alpine Valley. Coincidentally, I'd also been reading about Julian Casablancas in Neil Strauss' "Everyone Loves You When You're Dead," a book full of interviews with celebrities. Notably, Casablancas is cited as Strauss' worst interview ever. He seems much more comfortable on stage, where he donned all black clothing and aviator sunglasses. Both days.
Pearl Jam was a lot of fun, if not a bit sentimental at times. They offered up two atypical PJ sets over the weekend, since both sets featured ultra-rarities, lots of guests, and Temple of the Dog mini-sets featuring Chris Cornell during the first encores. Because of the hectic switches and tempo shifts, the sets felt a bit more disjointed than normal. They definitely put a lot of thought into what they played and making this weekend an unforgettable one, especially for the hardcore fans who literally came from all over the world. In all my festival-going days, I've never encountered so many people at a show who speak different languages, including French, Spanish, German, and various Latin- and South American descents. This was truly a big deal within the Pearl Jam community; witnessing the poster mayhem just shows you how rabidly obsessive Pearl Jam fans can be. Neil Young was heavily rumored and an obvious Sunday guest choice for Sunday, although it never came to fruition. (BTW, Adam indeed found a poster at an inner merch booth on Saturday, and subsequently found a UPS table set up that offered shipping for a nominal fee. He was promised his poster, dry and safe, would arrive at home on Thursday.)
I returned to Pulaski on Labor Day and tried to be as diligent toward lesson plans as possible. It was tough. I got my Tuesday planned out, stayed at school until 6:30 that night planning my next two days, and repeated the process on Wednesday. Normally I'd be a little more on the ball, but not only did I spend my entire long weekend at Pearl Jam, but I was going to be at the season-opening Packers game against the New Orleans Saints on Thursday night.
On Thursday, I would meet my cousin Shaun and his friends Darren and Jeff around Lambeauville. Luckily, a new co-teacher was available to give me a ride to her house, whereabouts I would meet Shaun. It worked like a charm, and by 4:30 the four of us were entering the Lambeau area to the conclusion of Maroon 5's set. The NFL Network had a huge tent set up outside the stadium, and the entire east-facing side of the stadium was packed with tailgaters and a stage that Kid Rock was about to destroy. People were already passed out in the back of trucks.
We had a great time at the game, and what more could you ask for? Two quick, opening scores from the Pack...a really close outcome (much closer than it should have been!), and a 109-yard kickoff return. For some reason, the two women next to us brought extra beverages back and gave them to us. There were funny characters surrounding us on all sides, including "the cheetah." I haven't quite decided if I should post a picture of the ferocious feline yet.
I eeked out a tired Friday at school and caught up on sleep (but not work) over the weekend. At least now I know I can escape for a weekend and stay out playing late on a weeknight and still make it through a week of teaching.
After coming off my first two days of teaching last Thursday and Friday, I booked it to Milwaukee to meet Fantasy Friendship starter Adam for a weekend full of shenanigans at PJ20, Pearl Jam's 20-year anniversary festival at Alpine Valley.
Saturday was a muddy cold mess. We arrived at Alpine Valley a little after 12 noon to be held captive in my car for almost 3 hours by rain, thunder, and lightning. We were quickly cursing ourselves for only bringing a 6-pack of Miller High Life. We made it last over conversations with co-worker friends of Adam: Chrissy and Patrick. Eventually the rain softened to a sporadic drizzle, and, equipped in yellow ponchos and old shoes, we ventured into the venue, hoping to stay as dry as possible. The true question of the day was how would Adam accomplish buying an event poster and keep it dry for the duration of the show? We camped out on the lawn and after about 6 hours, my ankles felt as if they were shattered glass. I wanted to sit but the muddy ass wasn't worth the trade-off. Sunday's weather was much better; although a little chillier, it stayed dry and even offered us quick glimpses of the sun throughout the afternoon. The vibe was definitely happier on Sunday; the rain seemingly dampened everyone's excitement on Saturday, including Pearl Jam's.
I enjoyed the openers but was a little disappointed that Pearl Jam elected to toss out the same bands and same time slots for two days straight. It gave everyone the opportunity to select one day to arrive early and see music and come later the opposite day, but I, for one, would have appreciated more music or different line-ups. (And, on a personal note, it felt really weird for me to be at a festival and not see one single DJ. Personally.) I liked Mudhoney based sheerly on the fact that I've always respected their role within the grunge and 90's alternative scene, although they did get a bit "screamy" at times. I'd seen Queens of the Stone Age once before, also at Alpine Valley (see August post on Rage Against the Machine), and I enjoyed their set enough to say that I've seen them three times now, and moderately enjoyed each opening set. The Strokes really wowed me. I'd always enjoyed their music, but never really "felt" it until Alpine Valley. Coincidentally, I'd also been reading about Julian Casablancas in Neil Strauss' "Everyone Loves You When You're Dead," a book full of interviews with celebrities. Notably, Casablancas is cited as Strauss' worst interview ever. He seems much more comfortable on stage, where he donned all black clothing and aviator sunglasses. Both days.
Pearl Jam was a lot of fun, if not a bit sentimental at times. They offered up two atypical PJ sets over the weekend, since both sets featured ultra-rarities, lots of guests, and Temple of the Dog mini-sets featuring Chris Cornell during the first encores. Because of the hectic switches and tempo shifts, the sets felt a bit more disjointed than normal. They definitely put a lot of thought into what they played and making this weekend an unforgettable one, especially for the hardcore fans who literally came from all over the world. In all my festival-going days, I've never encountered so many people at a show who speak different languages, including French, Spanish, German, and various Latin- and South American descents. This was truly a big deal within the Pearl Jam community; witnessing the poster mayhem just shows you how rabidly obsessive Pearl Jam fans can be. Neil Young was heavily rumored and an obvious Sunday guest choice for Sunday, although it never came to fruition. (BTW, Adam indeed found a poster at an inner merch booth on Saturday, and subsequently found a UPS table set up that offered shipping for a nominal fee. He was promised his poster, dry and safe, would arrive at home on Thursday.)
I returned to Pulaski on Labor Day and tried to be as diligent toward lesson plans as possible. It was tough. I got my Tuesday planned out, stayed at school until 6:30 that night planning my next two days, and repeated the process on Wednesday. Normally I'd be a little more on the ball, but not only did I spend my entire long weekend at Pearl Jam, but I was going to be at the season-opening Packers game against the New Orleans Saints on Thursday night.
On Thursday, I would meet my cousin Shaun and his friends Darren and Jeff around Lambeauville. Luckily, a new co-teacher was available to give me a ride to her house, whereabouts I would meet Shaun. It worked like a charm, and by 4:30 the four of us were entering the Lambeau area to the conclusion of Maroon 5's set. The NFL Network had a huge tent set up outside the stadium, and the entire east-facing side of the stadium was packed with tailgaters and a stage that Kid Rock was about to destroy. People were already passed out in the back of trucks.
We had a great time at the game, and what more could you ask for? Two quick, opening scores from the Pack...a really close outcome (much closer than it should have been!), and a 109-yard kickoff return. For some reason, the two women next to us brought extra beverages back and gave them to us. There were funny characters surrounding us on all sides, including "the cheetah." I haven't quite decided if I should post a picture of the ferocious feline yet.
I eeked out a tired Friday at school and caught up on sleep (but not work) over the weekend. At least now I know I can escape for a weekend and stay out playing late on a weeknight and still make it through a week of teaching.
The greatness of NFL Sundays
The start to the 2011-12 football season really crept up on me. I couldn't tell if I wasn't as amped for it as usual, or just consumed by the start of a new job, advising a newspaper, and teaching four new classes.
Even being at the NFL Kickoff on Thursday night at Lambeau Field didn't quite feel for real yet, for some odd reason. There was so much going on at Lambeau Field that day...Maroon 5, Kid Rock, and Lady Antebellum; NBC and NFL Network cameras everywhere; Neon Deion Sanders in the flesh; and even a cheetah sighting.
Today feels for real though. If you're an amateur like myself and only have, you know, regular basic cable, you're privied to two games plus cutaway highlights for every other game. And the scores are high thus far, making for fun games, highlights, and outcomes. I expect that Mirman will be texting me soon to rub it in my face that he can watch any game at any time.
With a Sunday buffet on the burners, an evening episode of The Simpsons (alebit a rerun of last season's finale), and yet more football after that, I'm suddenly very happy that football is back for the next 22 Sundays.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Hurricane Idiocy
Today I saw a CNN interview done with a North Carolinean about the recently-decreed evacuation orders. With Hurricane Irene on the move, and projected to crash right into North Carolina, the National Weather service is starting to predict some pretty nasty possible outcomes.
This gentleman was explaining how they haven't experienced more than a 7-foot surge on his remote Carolina island since the 1930s, and how his property could survive a surge up to about 12 feet. He's defying police orders to vacate and evacuate. Good idea, buddy.
This gentleman was explaining how they haven't experienced more than a 7-foot surge on his remote Carolina island since the 1930s, and how his property could survive a surge up to about 12 feet. He's defying police orders to vacate and evacuate. Good idea, buddy.
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| Hurricanes on the Jersey Shore and NYC? Who doesn't believe in global warming now?? |
This is the type of gent you see on the news after the hurricane has passed, and has destroyed a small area of our country. He's the guy standing on top of his roof, only feet away from being swept away forever by a rush of ocean water, his only hope for life in clinging to some driftwood.
I have to applaud the CNN commentator. The guy said, "I'm staying here until the helicopters come in and pull me out of here." The commentator replied, "I don't think we should send a helicopter to rescue you after you've already been warned to evacuate, but good luck to you."
Later, another woman was saying how she was also ignoring the evacuation order, simply because she "has a spin class to teach on Sunday." Seriously? It's one thing to underestimate the power of the hurricane out of stubbornness. It's another to believe that people will show up for an exercise class following a devastating, and what is being called "100-year" storm.
Classic example of survival of the fittest, or, non-survival of the weakest and stupidest. I acknowledge that people in New Orleans may not have had the chance, or more importantly, the resources, to evacuate prior to Hurricane Katrina, which, as we all saw, resulted in imminent chaos and images comparable to third-world countries. But these people reek of machismo...the "I've been here for so long, I ain't goin' nowhere" type of guy. They've now had ample warning. I'd say "best of luck" to him, but as my uncle says, "Luck is for people without ability." These people are now beyond luck, and obviously fail at life.
(afternote: I'm happy to see that the damage done to mid- and north-Atlantic states wasn't as bad as first speculated.)
(afternote: I'm happy to see that the damage done to mid- and north-Atlantic states wasn't as bad as first speculated.)
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Battle of Alpine Valley
August 24, 2007. An unforgettable date for me.
The first part of my day was spent driving from Minneapolis to Milwaukee, which concluded a 6,500-mile road trip that started in Wisconsin two weeks earlier. The entire trip looped me from Milwaukee to Denver, then to Las Vegas, onward to Pasadena, and up the coast all the way to Seattle by way of San Francisco and Corvallis. After taking in Pike's Place Market in Seattle and visiting with old friends Leigh Ann and Bjorn Myhre in Tacoma, good friend Josh and I made the three-day trek back to Wisconsin. This portion of the trip earned Montana the nickname "The Forever State," because it did in fact take us forever to traverse the 900-mile long stage.
Awaiting us back home in Wisconsin? A random, one-off show by political music giants Rage Against the Machine at a concert-goers Mecca, Alpine Valley. It seemed like a fitting end to an epic road trip. Earlier that summer, other good friend Adam (previously mentioned in this blog as Dirt D-O-double-G) had miraculously hooked up tickets for us through Ticketmaster. We jumped around our upper flat like kids on Christmas morning when Adam exclaimed, "Uh, we're in the FRONT PIT!" We had never even seen or heard of anything like a "front pit" area at Alpine Valley, but figured they'd allowed it for this show since fans would have otherwise ripped the seats out of the ground by the screws.
Now, I've been to a lot of concerts. By my rough estimation, I've been to between 250 and 300 "concerts." It's tough to gauge a realistic number since a few of those are festival shows. Do you count each band seen as one concert, or the whole day as one? At any rate, I've been to a very healthy handful of concerts and live music performances at all types of venues in all types of cities, ranging from dive bars in Stevens Point, Wisconsin to New Year's at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York City. I think Rage Against the Machine's Battle of Alpine Valley 2007 killed them all.
It's always tough to qualify concerts -- sometimes the musical aspect of the show can totally suck, but standing in the right area with the right people can leave you with a favorable perception of the show. Likewise, sometimes you're just not feeling the atmosphere, the venue, or the crowd, although the music truly shines. This night at Alpine Valley, everything fired on all cylinders.
We arrived to Alpine Valley in the late afternoon and took shelter in Adam's Subaru Outback as the skies opened and offered a torrential downpour for 20 minutes. We noted that the lines to get in were already long for the lawn-boys...luckily we had no rush to get in since we were guaranteed standing room spots directly at the stage's front. We waited out the storm and entered the amphitheater to an already-packed lawn, most of which had since turned to mud. Everyone was muddy already. Mudslides a la Jewel of the Nile ensued; everyone was simply coated. The Battle of Alpine Valley was already raging and not a single note of music had been played. You think I'm joking? Check this video, captured before openers Queen of the Stone Age even took the stage.
We masqueraded around the mud pits as efficiently as possible and made our way down...down...all the way down to the stage. Just to make a point, I walked all the way up to the front gate and touched it when we got there. I've never been closer to the stage than at this show. You'd have to be ON stage to be closer. Queens of the Stone Age did their thing as Josh, Dirty, and I nervously took in the pit. We were flanked everywhere by dudes who were 6'6" and taller, 250 pounds and heavier, full of testosterone, and apparently both pissed off about life and amped for the show.
Knowing that we'd get our asses handed to us in the mosh pits during the show, I entered the show with only my wallet in my pocket. No phone, no glasses, not even chapstick. It proved to be a wise decision. Cameras were everywhere, and rumors that the band was taping this performance for a DVD release were flying like the mud cakes from the upper part of Alpine Valley. By this point, so many clumps of mud had been thrown around the place, we were starting to get muddy down in the front pit.
Rage Against the Machine took the stage after an absolutely ridiculously awesome introduction from guitarist Tom Morello's mom. The band immediately tore into "Testify;" the audience in the pit reacted by jumping, pushing, and clawing at anyone around them. It was brutal; it was a survival of the fittest; it was the Battle of Alpine Valley; and it was freaking incredible. You see that throng of jumping bodies 15 feet in front of Zach de la Rocha? That was us.
The crowd became more raucous and rabid with each song, and they played 'em all. Bombtrack, Killing in the Name, Bulls on Parade, People of the Sun, Revolver, Guerrilla Radio, Calm Like a Bomb...energetic Rage classic after classic. And for a loud (and the sound was quite loud) metal/rap band playing a single show, they were tight. Rage didn't miss a single note, de la Rocha jumped around the stage like a pinball, and the band fired on all cylinders. de la Rocha even offered a rant on the hypocrisy behind George W. Bush's entire political career and motives, launching the already amped crowd into more of a pissed-off frenzy.
The moshing continued. There were parts of the show where I had to resort to the extreme side of the stage for a breather, making me realize not only how out-of-shape I was, but how strong a throng of people can be. People generally tried to stop and pick up people who had fallen in the mosh pit, but it was so large, uncontrollable, and chaotic that you couldn't help but step on people during songs. At times it was safer in the middle of the mosh pits, as standing on the perimeter of it just meant you were the brick wall that stopped the flying people in the middle of it. There were no safe places; the entire general admission front pit was generalized chaos.
Tired, sweating, bruised, beaten, and completely muddy, we left right after the encore. I'm pretty sure either Adam or Josh had to leave their shoes in the parking lot because they had somehow turned from regular shoes to a clump of gritty mud, sweat, and sludge. We rehashed war stories on the way home like we just left Vietnam, started feeling sore spots and emerging bruises, and all vowed that we'd do it again in a heartbeat.
I still get chills watching those videos. Rage Against the Machine, I'm pretty sure you put on the greatest concert spectacle -- musically and experiential -- I've ever witnessed.
The first part of my day was spent driving from Minneapolis to Milwaukee, which concluded a 6,500-mile road trip that started in Wisconsin two weeks earlier. The entire trip looped me from Milwaukee to Denver, then to Las Vegas, onward to Pasadena, and up the coast all the way to Seattle by way of San Francisco and Corvallis. After taking in Pike's Place Market in Seattle and visiting with old friends Leigh Ann and Bjorn Myhre in Tacoma, good friend Josh and I made the three-day trek back to Wisconsin. This portion of the trip earned Montana the nickname "The Forever State," because it did in fact take us forever to traverse the 900-mile long stage.
Awaiting us back home in Wisconsin? A random, one-off show by political music giants Rage Against the Machine at a concert-goers Mecca, Alpine Valley. It seemed like a fitting end to an epic road trip. Earlier that summer, other good friend Adam (previously mentioned in this blog as Dirt D-O-double-G) had miraculously hooked up tickets for us through Ticketmaster. We jumped around our upper flat like kids on Christmas morning when Adam exclaimed, "Uh, we're in the FRONT PIT!" We had never even seen or heard of anything like a "front pit" area at Alpine Valley, but figured they'd allowed it for this show since fans would have otherwise ripped the seats out of the ground by the screws.
Now, I've been to a lot of concerts. By my rough estimation, I've been to between 250 and 300 "concerts." It's tough to gauge a realistic number since a few of those are festival shows. Do you count each band seen as one concert, or the whole day as one? At any rate, I've been to a very healthy handful of concerts and live music performances at all types of venues in all types of cities, ranging from dive bars in Stevens Point, Wisconsin to New Year's at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York City. I think Rage Against the Machine's Battle of Alpine Valley 2007 killed them all.
It's always tough to qualify concerts -- sometimes the musical aspect of the show can totally suck, but standing in the right area with the right people can leave you with a favorable perception of the show. Likewise, sometimes you're just not feeling the atmosphere, the venue, or the crowd, although the music truly shines. This night at Alpine Valley, everything fired on all cylinders.
We arrived to Alpine Valley in the late afternoon and took shelter in Adam's Subaru Outback as the skies opened and offered a torrential downpour for 20 minutes. We noted that the lines to get in were already long for the lawn-boys...luckily we had no rush to get in since we were guaranteed standing room spots directly at the stage's front. We waited out the storm and entered the amphitheater to an already-packed lawn, most of which had since turned to mud. Everyone was muddy already. Mudslides a la Jewel of the Nile ensued; everyone was simply coated. The Battle of Alpine Valley was already raging and not a single note of music had been played. You think I'm joking? Check this video, captured before openers Queen of the Stone Age even took the stage.
We masqueraded around the mud pits as efficiently as possible and made our way down...down...all the way down to the stage. Just to make a point, I walked all the way up to the front gate and touched it when we got there. I've never been closer to the stage than at this show. You'd have to be ON stage to be closer. Queens of the Stone Age did their thing as Josh, Dirty, and I nervously took in the pit. We were flanked everywhere by dudes who were 6'6" and taller, 250 pounds and heavier, full of testosterone, and apparently both pissed off about life and amped for the show.
Knowing that we'd get our asses handed to us in the mosh pits during the show, I entered the show with only my wallet in my pocket. No phone, no glasses, not even chapstick. It proved to be a wise decision. Cameras were everywhere, and rumors that the band was taping this performance for a DVD release were flying like the mud cakes from the upper part of Alpine Valley. By this point, so many clumps of mud had been thrown around the place, we were starting to get muddy down in the front pit.
Rage Against the Machine took the stage after an absolutely ridiculously awesome introduction from guitarist Tom Morello's mom. The band immediately tore into "Testify;" the audience in the pit reacted by jumping, pushing, and clawing at anyone around them. It was brutal; it was a survival of the fittest; it was the Battle of Alpine Valley; and it was freaking incredible. You see that throng of jumping bodies 15 feet in front of Zach de la Rocha? That was us.
The crowd became more raucous and rabid with each song, and they played 'em all. Bombtrack, Killing in the Name, Bulls on Parade, People of the Sun, Revolver, Guerrilla Radio, Calm Like a Bomb...energetic Rage classic after classic. And for a loud (and the sound was quite loud) metal/rap band playing a single show, they were tight. Rage didn't miss a single note, de la Rocha jumped around the stage like a pinball, and the band fired on all cylinders. de la Rocha even offered a rant on the hypocrisy behind George W. Bush's entire political career and motives, launching the already amped crowd into more of a pissed-off frenzy.
The moshing continued. There were parts of the show where I had to resort to the extreme side of the stage for a breather, making me realize not only how out-of-shape I was, but how strong a throng of people can be. People generally tried to stop and pick up people who had fallen in the mosh pit, but it was so large, uncontrollable, and chaotic that you couldn't help but step on people during songs. At times it was safer in the middle of the mosh pits, as standing on the perimeter of it just meant you were the brick wall that stopped the flying people in the middle of it. There were no safe places; the entire general admission front pit was generalized chaos.
Tired, sweating, bruised, beaten, and completely muddy, we left right after the encore. I'm pretty sure either Adam or Josh had to leave their shoes in the parking lot because they had somehow turned from regular shoes to a clump of gritty mud, sweat, and sludge. We rehashed war stories on the way home like we just left Vietnam, started feeling sore spots and emerging bruises, and all vowed that we'd do it again in a heartbeat.
I still get chills watching those videos. Rage Against the Machine, I'm pretty sure you put on the greatest concert spectacle -- musically and experiential -- I've ever witnessed.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Fantasy Friendship League: Pulaski version
In college, a good friend (we'll just call him "Dirty") introduced a great concept to me: the Fantasy Friendship League. It was a self-made list of your "starting five" friends at any given time, because the concept of having a "best friend" was beginning to seem a bit elementary. Obviously, everyone in your "starting five" were among your best friends, but the #1 or #2 starter were the friends who were really performing well at the time -- you know, like the ones who would go and buy you a pack of smokes on the way over to your house, or who would take their friend's PointCash card to get them food from Taco Bell only to find out that you were stuck at the drive-through with a zero-balance card and no cash. (Both of those earned, or should have earned, me a #1 or #2 position at the time, Dirt.)
These days, I've barely got enough friends to fill out a "starting five" and ample bench squadron, but if I were constructing a list based solely on top 5 friends in Pulaski, I know who my #1 starter would be. MTV Jams. That's not to say I haven't met anyone here yet. I've met a lot of great people...in fact, everyone I've met has been super friendly, helpful, and welcoming. But, I can't exactly have the superintendent of Pulaski schools and other co-workers as my starting five. Like I said...they're great, nice people, some of whom may eventually find their way into my starting five. But for now, they're co-workers and newly found acquaintences. I've always had a staunch stance on "work friends" vs. "real friends," at least since being employed by The Pointer at UW-Stevens Point. Ahem.
MTV Jams has been there for me at all hours. Like a true friend, it's not always bringing its A-game, but more often than not provides me with a great source of entertainment, a chuckle, or offering me something to think about. On Monday, in honor of the release of the new Jay-Z/Kanye West album, we were able to share in a glorious day of nothing but Jigga and Yeezy videos. There were old classics, newer additions, and plenty that I hadn't seen before.
I'd have to say that beyond the obvious greatness of every Jay-Z video ever made ('03 Bonnie & Clyde, what?!), the most ridiculous video that has capivated me is "9 Piece" by Rick Ross and Lil' Wayne. It's all there --- superfluously self-promoting lyrics, ridiculousness, tattoos, and of course...cell phones. (Warning: it's the explicit version and it's...well...explicit.)
OK, in all seriousness, here's a truly great rap video.
These days, I've barely got enough friends to fill out a "starting five" and ample bench squadron, but if I were constructing a list based solely on top 5 friends in Pulaski, I know who my #1 starter would be. MTV Jams. That's not to say I haven't met anyone here yet. I've met a lot of great people...in fact, everyone I've met has been super friendly, helpful, and welcoming. But, I can't exactly have the superintendent of Pulaski schools and other co-workers as my starting five. Like I said...they're great, nice people, some of whom may eventually find their way into my starting five. But for now, they're co-workers and newly found acquaintences. I've always had a staunch stance on "work friends" vs. "real friends," at least since being employed by The Pointer at UW-Stevens Point. Ahem.
MTV Jams has been there for me at all hours. Like a true friend, it's not always bringing its A-game, but more often than not provides me with a great source of entertainment, a chuckle, or offering me something to think about. On Monday, in honor of the release of the new Jay-Z/Kanye West album, we were able to share in a glorious day of nothing but Jigga and Yeezy videos. There were old classics, newer additions, and plenty that I hadn't seen before.
I'd have to say that beyond the obvious greatness of every Jay-Z video ever made ('03 Bonnie & Clyde, what?!), the most ridiculous video that has capivated me is "9 Piece" by Rick Ross and Lil' Wayne. It's all there --- superfluously self-promoting lyrics, ridiculousness, tattoos, and of course...cell phones. (Warning: it's the explicit version and it's...well...explicit.)
OK, in all seriousness, here's a truly great rap video.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
A new home with a new smell
I've officially made the move northbound to my new home, Pulaski, Wisconsin. I wrestled with the choice of moving to Pulaski, which is where I'll be teaching, or Green Bay, the closest and largest city (I wanted to use the word metropolis, but just can't) in proximity to Pulaski. Ultimately, Pulaski won out, with the rationale that I'd rather drive to Green Bay twice on the weekends to hang out as opposed to driving to Pulaski five days per week to commute to work.
Pulaski is small. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. You can count the town's dining options on two hands. You've got McDonald's, Dairy Queen (good for ice cream but I'm not sure I've ever tried actual "food" from DQ), Subway, Cousins, two small Mom-n-Pop diners (one of which definitely used to be a Hardee's), and a Chinese place that is called China Wok or Panda Garden or Emperor's Buffet or something like that. I've found through the years that small Chinese places like this are either decently good or really bad. I'm obviously hoping for the former. Either way, I foresee myself eating at Cousins and Subway. A lot. Anthony Bourdain will not be shooting any episodes for No Reservations in Pulaski, or even Green Bay.
There are two gas stations. A few bars. And a lot of farming and machinery type cooperatives, which brings me to the point of this post. The farm smell is strong. Much stronger than I've ever experienced. I have memories of driving through the country as a youngster and burying my face in my pillow while my mom took deep breaths of cow-soaked air, "Ahhhh that fresh country is great!" I always thought, "How can you like that smell?" I guess that's the difference between someone who grew up on a farm and myself, who grew up in a city. I prefer the smell of dead bodies and feral cats over cows.
I went for an exploratory walk tonight and passed two farm machine-type co-ops that were dispensing grain, or loading trucks with fertilizer, or doing whatever it is that they do at those places. The odor was strong. I'm not saying that Pulaski smells like...well, you know. But my biggest adjustment in moving to Pulaski won't necessarily be adjusting to the small size of the town; it'll be adjusting to the crazy, overwhelming scent of farm and cow.
I do believe that Pulaski will grow on me, especially as the schoolyear draws closer. But I really hope that I get used to that cow and farmy smell pretty soon.
Pulaski is small. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. You can count the town's dining options on two hands. You've got McDonald's, Dairy Queen (good for ice cream but I'm not sure I've ever tried actual "food" from DQ), Subway, Cousins, two small Mom-n-Pop diners (one of which definitely used to be a Hardee's), and a Chinese place that is called China Wok or Panda Garden or Emperor's Buffet or something like that. I've found through the years that small Chinese places like this are either decently good or really bad. I'm obviously hoping for the former. Either way, I foresee myself eating at Cousins and Subway. A lot. Anthony Bourdain will not be shooting any episodes for No Reservations in Pulaski, or even Green Bay.
There are two gas stations. A few bars. And a lot of farming and machinery type cooperatives, which brings me to the point of this post. The farm smell is strong. Much stronger than I've ever experienced. I have memories of driving through the country as a youngster and burying my face in my pillow while my mom took deep breaths of cow-soaked air, "Ahhhh that fresh country is great!" I always thought, "How can you like that smell?" I guess that's the difference between someone who grew up on a farm and myself, who grew up in a city. I prefer the smell of dead bodies and feral cats over cows.
I went for an exploratory walk tonight and passed two farm machine-type co-ops that were dispensing grain, or loading trucks with fertilizer, or doing whatever it is that they do at those places. The odor was strong. I'm not saying that Pulaski smells like...well, you know. But my biggest adjustment in moving to Pulaski won't necessarily be adjusting to the small size of the town; it'll be adjusting to the crazy, overwhelming scent of farm and cow.
I do believe that Pulaski will grow on me, especially as the schoolyear draws closer. But I really hope that I get used to that cow and farmy smell pretty soon.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Not all Young Adult Lit is created equal...
"Harry Potter is all about confronting fears, finding inner strength, and doing what is right in the face of adversity. Twilight is about how important it is to have a boyfriend."
-Stephen King
Since completing a class in my English Education program entitled "Young Adult Literature," I've taken a greater interest in the genre. Prior, I hadn't even know such a niche existed. I'm not sure if it's because my first year of teaching is approaching, or it just happened coincidentally, but I've really buried myself in easy-to-read, hormone-infested books that deal with coming-of-age, high school life, and life-changing decisions.
The unfortunate, most recent of these books, and the one which ultimately inspired this diatribe, was the fourth and final installment of the Twilight series, entitled Breaking Dawn. Simply put, it sucked. 754 pages of basically nothing happening, whatsoever. **SPOILER ALERT:** here is my brief plot synopsis.
Bella, the humanoid fiancee of Edward, you know, Robert Pattinson, the gorgeous, perfectly chiseled vampire (I only mention that because it's mentioned eight million times throughout all four books), finally ties the knot with said vampire. The two honeymoon, and reluctantly bust humps, despite Edward's reservations about his strength being too much for Bella to handle. Bella gets knocked up, (because all it takes is once, kiddies, even when you know it's impossible) despite their prior belief that it wasn't possible since, apparently, becoming a vampire prohibits baby vampires from swimming down the ol' Egg River. As Bella is giving birth to the half baby/half vampire, she inevitably faces complications. To save her, Edward turns her into a vampire. That would cover the first 500 pages or so.I was hoping that the final 254 pages would present some sort of climax, and while it hinted at one, I'd say any sort of action in the book was sorely lacking. The Volturi, or vampire Gestapo if you will, catches wind of this monster baby, terribly named "Renesmee" (a combination of Bella's mother's name, Renee, and Edward's mother, Esme. UGH.), and have to decide whether to kill terribly-named monster baby or let her live in happiness and harmony with her perfectly beautiful mother and father. (Again, there is no shortage throughout on emphasizing how important perfect looks are.) I sensed and hoped for some sort of fight, but alas, they solved the problem diplomatically, and all involved parties live happily, and beautifully, ever after.
Another aspect of the book that made my eyes roll back in their sockets so badly that they nearly fell out was the "love" that now-married Bella showed for her "best friend," werewolf, and husband's mortal ex-enemy Jacob. Another 200 pages or so were devoted to Bella jerking Jacob around, telling him she loved him, touching him, embracing...I didn't know otherwise impregnable vampiresses were such teases to werewolves. And congratulations, Stephanie Meyer, for finding out how to extend 200 pages of material (tops!) into 754 long, agonizing pages of useless description, streams of consciousness, and emotional self-analyses.
Oh but wait, I know why. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was 759 pages, and they made two movies out of it. (Albeit much, much better story telling, character development, and plot twists occur throughout the entire Potter series as opposed to the scat that Meyer wrote for Twilight.) Not to be outdone, it's only fitting that Hollywood drag this out for as long as possible, as Breaking Dawn will also be released theatrically in two parts. I can only imagine the first installment will mostly focus on Bella and Edward romantically nuzzling and embracing for a good 90 minutes.
Not all is lost, though. I'd highly recommend any of the following Young Adult books, even for the most seasoned of readers. They're light, an easy read, and at times, can take you back to your lost and frequently forgotten younger years.
The Hunger Games Trilogy (The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay) by Suzanne Collins
Pros: Surprisingly, it provided a pretty good escape and painted a vivid picture of a futuristic world lost in the madness of entertaining itself by putting their children in a field to fight to the death. The books were never dragged out or too long. I was surprised by the frank manner in which Collins presented death throughout the series -- apparently kids aged 13-18 have a gloomier view on reality than my somewhat sheltered generation did. We'll see the first installment of this trilogy hitting theaters sometime in 2012, with an interesting cast featuring side characters played by Woody Harrelson, Donald Sutherland, and Lenny Kravitz.Cons: Another wishy-washy "should I choose him, or him?" relationship quandary exists throughout this series, but not as aggravating as the one presented in Twilight. Of course, with nearly all Y.A. lit, this trilogy, at times, became rather predictable.
My rating: Good, very entertaining, but not great.
Divergent by Veronica Roth
Pros: This thick book, just released in May of 2011, didn't really meander or drag on in an unnecessary fashion. The main character, Beatrice, was fairly interesting to keep tabs on, and the romance within the book never got to a level that made me gag. The action, plot, and the general way the story unfolded made me want to continue reading. The action and death presented, similarly to The Hunger Games, are rather blunt and straightforward. I also thought it neat that Roth included Chicago landmarks and buildings within the plot, as this takes place in a futuristic rendition of The Second City. I'm excited for the next installment of the trilogy to come out, rumored to happen in May of 2012, and apparently the book rights were just purchased by Hollywood execs, so expect a movie by 2013, I'd guess.Cons: You never really find out why their weird, futuristic society (which is divided into five "factions") ended up in their current state. I'm guessing, and hoping, that this is detailed in the next book. Otherwise, I'd say it's a rather huge oversight.
My rating: I'd put this near the top of the list in entertaining Y.A. books I've read, although the lack of explanation about their society keeps it from attaining "great" status. For now.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Pros: I was naturally inclined to like this book since it's been banned or challenged by many schools. And undoubtedly, its inclusion of sex, drugs, alcohol, and homosexuality would trigger those crazy, suburban, right-winged mothers to think they're bigger than the 1st Amendment. Although controversial topics abound, they're presented in a very realistic manner that any student going through high school did or is bound to encounter. It's tough not to sympathize with the protagonist, Charlie, throughout this book, and clocking in at just under 200 pages, it's a remarkably quick, easy, and enjoyable read. Wallflower is also due out in theaters in 2012, with Emma Watson (more popularly known as Hermione from the Harry Potter movies) playing Sam, the unattainable love of Charlie's life.
Cons: I've got no literary qualms with this book. It gets a little sad from time to time, but hey, life is tough and Chbosky does a spot-on job of telling it like it is.
My rating: Read it. Then read it again.
---
Judging by the number of books you'll find now in the "Young Adult" section of Barnes and Noble, it's no secret that the genre is taking off with all sorts of new series that are not your mom-and-pop's version of children's books. And no, not all of them are about vampires. The genre will only get bigger, especially with all of these books finding their ways to the silver screen in the next year. Don't hate...in fact, I'm proud to admit that I don't even call them "guilty pleasures" anymore.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Welcome back, Hell's Kitchen
Call it terrible television. Call it watching culinary trainwrecks getting absolutely demoralized by a hot-headed, 5-star Michelin chef. Call it a guilty pleasure. But whatever you call it, I can't seem to stop watching.
Hell's Kitchen, under chef Gordon Ramsay, just launched its ninth season, which is admittedly at least four or five more than I ever thought it would celebrate. The show is an unabashed ripoff of Bravo's Top Chef, but produced, unsurprisingly, with FOX standards. Whereas Top Chef focuses primarily on the chefs, and actually attracts good talent, Hell's Kitchen is a mismatch of how-have-you-not-been-run-over-by-a-bus-type contestants and about five or six promising, up-and-coming cooks.
Being in its ninth go-round, the show is on the verge of becoming formulaic, if not there already. Punishments, rewards, and tendencies are completely transparent by this point, and I'm not only talking about "losers clean the kitchen." There's the standard episode where losers have to unload the truck of deliveries and inevitably don't read the invoice, consequently accepting incorrect or damaged product, enraging chef Ramsay even more than usual. The challenges have been repeated so many times by now that I can tell who's going to win or lose and why before chef Ramsey even utters his popular criticisms and lashings. There's always one moment per season that is billed as "the biggest twist in Hell's Kitchen history," but turns out to be an a former punishment with the addition of not getting lunch. I could go on.
But then again, Hell's Kitchen has never really been about showcasing talent...at least until the final two or three episodes. It's more about seeing the meltdowns and failures of the also-formulaic contestants, and then watching chef Ramsay belittle those individuals by calling them any name out of a variety of favorites, including "wanker," the classic "bitch," "big boy," or my personal favorite, "donkey."
The intital episodes always showcase the worst, so as not to let the most talented chefs be spotted so early in the season. There's the stereotypical fat guy who either can't handle the stress of the kitchen, or can't cut it medically. (Incidentally, it's 28 minutes into the season 9 premier and "Jason" from Chicago has already been taken to the hospital for chest pain and shortness of breath. Seriously? You didn't even cook anything yet!) There's the standard overconfident contestant on each team -- the overbearing, usually crazy Alpha-female who rivals the worst Bridezilla imaginable, and the cocky male who boasts "I don't care what chef Ramsay says, I know my cooking is great." And possibly my favorite, the middle-aged guy who always knows what he's doing is perfect until Ramsay has the unfortunate task of telling him that he completely sucks at what he's been doing his entire life. FOX has the casting for the show down to a science, really.
That's not to say that the show, towards the end of each season, doesn't actually showcase some surprising talent. But let's be serious here...in no way does this "talent" ever equal, or even rival in a distant way, the talent on Top Chef.
If Top Chef is the over-achieving, perfect-featured, well-dressed cousin who attends an Ivy League college, Hell's Kitchen is, without a doubt, the adopted, guitar-playing-in-the-garage, chain-smoking, long-haired, acne-riddled high school drop-out. That's not to say it's no fun watching the trainwreck, though.
Hell's Kitchen, under chef Gordon Ramsay, just launched its ninth season, which is admittedly at least four or five more than I ever thought it would celebrate. The show is an unabashed ripoff of Bravo's Top Chef, but produced, unsurprisingly, with FOX standards. Whereas Top Chef focuses primarily on the chefs, and actually attracts good talent, Hell's Kitchen is a mismatch of how-have-you-not-been-run-over-by-a-bus-type contestants and about five or six promising, up-and-coming cooks.
Being in its ninth go-round, the show is on the verge of becoming formulaic, if not there already. Punishments, rewards, and tendencies are completely transparent by this point, and I'm not only talking about "losers clean the kitchen." There's the standard episode where losers have to unload the truck of deliveries and inevitably don't read the invoice, consequently accepting incorrect or damaged product, enraging chef Ramsay even more than usual. The challenges have been repeated so many times by now that I can tell who's going to win or lose and why before chef Ramsey even utters his popular criticisms and lashings. There's always one moment per season that is billed as "the biggest twist in Hell's Kitchen history," but turns out to be an a former punishment with the addition of not getting lunch. I could go on.
But then again, Hell's Kitchen has never really been about showcasing talent...at least until the final two or three episodes. It's more about seeing the meltdowns and failures of the also-formulaic contestants, and then watching chef Ramsay belittle those individuals by calling them any name out of a variety of favorites, including "wanker," the classic "bitch," "big boy," or my personal favorite, "donkey."
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| Another one bites the dust. |
The intital episodes always showcase the worst, so as not to let the most talented chefs be spotted so early in the season. There's the stereotypical fat guy who either can't handle the stress of the kitchen, or can't cut it medically. (Incidentally, it's 28 minutes into the season 9 premier and "Jason" from Chicago has already been taken to the hospital for chest pain and shortness of breath. Seriously? You didn't even cook anything yet!) There's the standard overconfident contestant on each team -- the overbearing, usually crazy Alpha-female who rivals the worst Bridezilla imaginable, and the cocky male who boasts "I don't care what chef Ramsay says, I know my cooking is great." And possibly my favorite, the middle-aged guy who always knows what he's doing is perfect until Ramsay has the unfortunate task of telling him that he completely sucks at what he's been doing his entire life. FOX has the casting for the show down to a science, really.
That's not to say that the show, towards the end of each season, doesn't actually showcase some surprising talent. But let's be serious here...in no way does this "talent" ever equal, or even rival in a distant way, the talent on Top Chef.
If Top Chef is the over-achieving, perfect-featured, well-dressed cousin who attends an Ivy League college, Hell's Kitchen is, without a doubt, the adopted, guitar-playing-in-the-garage, chain-smoking, long-haired, acne-riddled high school drop-out. That's not to say it's no fun watching the trainwreck, though.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Thank you World Cup.
I've really come a long way since my indifference to soccer pre-2002, when I was living in a huge, Real World-esque house with 7 strangers. (Except they were all ladies who knew each other -- I was the stranger.) My recently acquired BFF, Dan Mirman, somehow injected the World Cup bug into my veins. I'm not sure I even knew what the World Cup truly was prior to that summer, but we'd either stay up late to watch the "early" men's matches at roughly 2 or 3 a.m., or wake up at 5 a.m. to watch the "late" matches as they were broadcast live from South Korea and Japan. My roomies would come home from the bars to find us grilling burgers and cheering on Cameroon and Italy. And we got some seriously weird looks when grilling out at 5:15 a.m. for a U.S.A. match one morning. But, that was the summer of enlightenment when anything went, and watching soccer at 5 a.m. while eating burgers for breakfast was the norm.
I followed last summer's South African World Cup most seriously, partly because I was still hooked from the good times and memories of summer of 2002, and partly because I was unemployed and had the means to watch every single match. I started to understand the intricacies of the game -- it wasn't simply a bunch of dudes running up and down a huge field anymore. I began to see the strategies, the fouls; I finally started to understand what the hell "offside" meant; and adopted an affinity for terms like "equalizer" and the ethos that shots can be "unlucky." I followed the U.S. men devotedly, from the dramatic Donovan goal against Angola to their unfortunate demise to Ghana. (Hey, if it had to be anyone, I didn't mind an African team beating the U.S. to advance. It was, after all, their own home turf...kind of.) I developed favorite players, from Uruguay's Diego Forlan to Argentina's Lionel Messi and their belovable coach, Diego Maradona.
Feeling a void this summer, I was excited when the Women's World Cup tournament started from Germany. And, as a bonus, I wouldn't have to watch live matches at 4 a.m. While the top-ranked U.S. women cruised through their first two matches in group stage, they stuttered against a resilient and unforgiving Swedish team. Instead of the easier quarterfinal match against Australia, the loss paired the stars-and-stripes up against Brazil, a renowned football powerhouse.
The match was frustrating despite an own-goal from Brazil only 2 minutes into the match. For the remainder of the first half and most of the second, the U.S. seemed to be simply defending their lead, not plying to extend it. Finally, Brazil scored on a penalty kick gift after several bunk calls and a red card penalty on U.S. Having to play one person down and against the momentum of Brazil's goal, it seemed as if the U.S. women had met their match. Despite countless corners, free kicks and centered break-aways, the U.S. simply couldn't will the ball into the net.
Already in extra time, and fast approaching the 120-minute mark, the refs granted 3 extra minutes of stoppage time. After an unsuccessful corner kick, the announcer repeated that the U.S. had seemingly run out of time and attempts, until Megan Rapinoe centered a lengthy pass to Abby Wambach for a serious last-second goal at 122 minutes in to send the match to penalty kicks. Still, a day-and-a-half after the goal was scored, I struggle to remember any sports moment as clutch, exciting, and amazing as the one I witnessed at the end of this match.
Even 9 years ago, enthralled by the men's World Cup matches in the early morning hours while consuming grilled meat products, I never would have imagined that "soccer," "women's," and "World
Cup" would have been the descriptors of one of, if not the most memorable and exciting sports moment in my sports spectating career. While I can't say I'm as enthusiastic about "football" as Dennis Hopper in Entourage, you can certainly bet that I'll be camped in front of a TV for every World Cup for the remainder of my life.
I followed last summer's South African World Cup most seriously, partly because I was still hooked from the good times and memories of summer of 2002, and partly because I was unemployed and had the means to watch every single match. I started to understand the intricacies of the game -- it wasn't simply a bunch of dudes running up and down a huge field anymore. I began to see the strategies, the fouls; I finally started to understand what the hell "offside" meant; and adopted an affinity for terms like "equalizer" and the ethos that shots can be "unlucky." I followed the U.S. men devotedly, from the dramatic Donovan goal against Angola to their unfortunate demise to Ghana. (Hey, if it had to be anyone, I didn't mind an African team beating the U.S. to advance. It was, after all, their own home turf...kind of.) I developed favorite players, from Uruguay's Diego Forlan to Argentina's Lionel Messi and their belovable coach, Diego Maradona.
Feeling a void this summer, I was excited when the Women's World Cup tournament started from Germany. And, as a bonus, I wouldn't have to watch live matches at 4 a.m. While the top-ranked U.S. women cruised through their first two matches in group stage, they stuttered against a resilient and unforgiving Swedish team. Instead of the easier quarterfinal match against Australia, the loss paired the stars-and-stripes up against Brazil, a renowned football powerhouse.
The match was frustrating despite an own-goal from Brazil only 2 minutes into the match. For the remainder of the first half and most of the second, the U.S. seemed to be simply defending their lead, not plying to extend it. Finally, Brazil scored on a penalty kick gift after several bunk calls and a red card penalty on U.S. Having to play one person down and against the momentum of Brazil's goal, it seemed as if the U.S. women had met their match. Despite countless corners, free kicks and centered break-aways, the U.S. simply couldn't will the ball into the net.
Already in extra time, and fast approaching the 120-minute mark, the refs granted 3 extra minutes of stoppage time. After an unsuccessful corner kick, the announcer repeated that the U.S. had seemingly run out of time and attempts, until Megan Rapinoe centered a lengthy pass to Abby Wambach for a serious last-second goal at 122 minutes in to send the match to penalty kicks. Still, a day-and-a-half after the goal was scored, I struggle to remember any sports moment as clutch, exciting, and amazing as the one I witnessed at the end of this match.
Even 9 years ago, enthralled by the men's World Cup matches in the early morning hours while consuming grilled meat products, I never would have imagined that "soccer," "women's," and "World
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| "Great sport. Pele turned me onto it back in the day when we were chasing honeys." |
Monday, July 4, 2011
Egotistical writer reviews egotistical rapper : Kanye West 6/30/11
Kanye's 808s and Heartbreaks left a sour taste in my mouth. I've never liked the auto-tune sound and the album was much more R&B than hip-hop/rap. I know, I've been told that his stab at an auto-tune album was to prove his versatility, that he's great at everything. That's an ethos I can get down with -- I love to prove, especially to ladies, that I'm good at everything too. But I draw the line at auto-tuned R&B. I digress, though. While I don't give Kanye's newest effort, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, as much acclaim as the five-stars that Pitchfork.com awarded it, there are many impressive tracks which re-piqued my interest in Kanye's musical direction.
I wasn't completely surprised that the Kanye West/Kid CuDi billing at Summerfest's Marcus Amphitheater on June 30 didn't sell out (I'd estimate attendance at 20,000; full capacity is 23,000) but the crowd truly did bring the heat. I've been to my fair share of concerts where fans sat on their hands, and contrarily, bounced off the walls. This show certainly gravitated toward the latter, proving itself a sing-along throw-down that primarily consisted of all of Kanye's greatest hits, new and old.
After coming on 15 minutes past when he should have, Kanye predictably opened the show with "Dark Fantasy," the opening track from his latest release. He performed this song, and most of the other tracks from Fantasy, flanked by dancers, or ballerinas, or some artistic combination of the two. Surprisingly, amidst f- and n-bombs, the artsy tutu-clad dancers worked. Don't ask...maybe it was a "had-to-be-there" thing. It flowed naturally into "POWER," with 20,000 strong chanting the backing vocals, which pretty much amped up everyone in the crowd and set the bar pretty high for the remainder of the show. "Jesus Walks" (admittedly lower on my totem pole of favorite Kanye songs) and "Can't Tell Me Nothing" followed, showcasing some of West's fancy footwork and lyrical prowess.
My show-mate, an admitted Kanye West fanboy, kept talking about how West is just there to give you the best show ever. And, usually when I hear this sort of thing, I dismiss it. I'm not sure if Kanye really does walk out on stage with the sole intention of giving "the fans" the best show they've ever seen; I guess only Kanye himself would know that. But, I must say, he is quite the showman and truly does put on an impressive performance, especially considering that most rap concerts are terrible stage shows. Kanye exhibited a huge Greek-goddess backdrop, featured the aforementioned artsy dancers throughout the newer tracks, and beyond that simply kept things interesting on stage through dancing and maintaining the crowd's attention. Not bad, West.Beyond the impressive stage presence, it's tough to not get into a show that features, simply put, a lot of good songs. The middle of the show turned into a greatest hits hour, with Kanye hitting on "Touch the Sky," "Gold Digger," "Through the Wire," "All Falls Down," Flashing Lights," "Good Life," and "Homecoming," before closing his main set with "Stronger." He even brought out Kid CuDi for their mixed-tape bomb "Poke Her Face," which I played on the way to the show because there was "no way they're playing this tonight." Damn you for making me look like a foolish n00b, Kanye.
I really only found two, perhaps three, disappointing aspects to Kanye's show. The first, which is something that is quite typical at most rap shows: he performed only a verse of many of his older songs. On one hand, I'm happy to hear the song instead of it not being played at all, but to hear only a verse of "Through the Wire," "All Falls Down," and "Homecoming" is really more than a tease. Secondly, and this is just the jaded snob in me, I wish he would have hit on a few more older tunes, specifically "Breathe In Breathe Out" and "Get 'Em High" -- although, to be fair, I pretty much wish this at every concert I see.
The third reason for disappointment was a noodle-scratcher altogether. After Kanye's rendition of Stronger, the artsy ballerinas draped the entire stage in a huge white sheet while the backing DJ played "Chariots of Fire" for about 3 minutes. I suppose this served as an encore break, which I didn't think was a negative aspect to the show, but the song selection after the sheet-incident was questionable at best. Kanye re-emerged with new wardrobe and proceded to close the show with "Runaway," one of his dragged-out, over-produced songs off Fantasy, then an 808s & Heartbreaks tune (see above comments on 808s), and finally wrapped things up with a fake-emotional rendition of "Hey Mama," complete with (probably) fake tears after he collapsed to the stage floor. After a show full of raw energy and ass-shaking beats, to end on such a melancholy note with presumably fake crying seemed odd, if not altogether poor.
Aside from the final three songs, the show was not only a fun one, but was surprisingly good to these hyper-critical ears.
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| Young Hov' "the billionaire": accept no substitutes |
Saturday, May 7, 2011
I'm owned by conspicuous consumption, and so are you.
We are all machines. You might not realize it. Or you might just be in denial. But rest assured, if you're reading this, you are certainly a machine, just like me.
OK, perhaps this is a confusing beginning to an otherwise post-surgical-Vicodin-riddled post. Perhaps I've also been reading a Young Adult Novel entitled Feed by M.T. Anderson, which has pretty much blown my mind. (Yes, even despite the painkillers.)
The novel takes place in a futuristic America, where teens are able to take spring breaks to the moon, or underwater vacations, or even the family trip to Mars. 73% of the population receives a "feed" through a computer microchip implanted directly into their heads. Although the book was written in 2002, I pretty much equate it to having an iPad soldered directly to your cerebellum. Participants of the "feed" have a Google- or Bing-esque access to information, like it or not. They receive media and news updates; see banners of products, prices, and shopping suggestions when they're out and about; and they're able to send private mental chats to any other person in on the "feed." The devastating effect that the young characters experience is the densensitization to everything real happening in the world around them, ranging from environmental degradation (one of the last forests was cut down in order to build an "air factory"), to the elimination of intricate wording and even spoken conversation, to corporate greed and infiltration into everything. Corporations have taken over the schools; in fact, "School" is trademarked throughout the book, since the term is no longer public domain, but privately owned. Consequently, students didn't learn facts in "School (TM)" anymore, since any sort of information was available instantaneously through the feed. Students learned what was hip, what jobs would make them the most money in the future (no doubt corporatized), and the best way to decorate their bedrooms.
I'm on the verge of finishing this quick read tonight, and I haven't yet decided whether I like the book yet. I guess, since the general idea is so theoretically possible since the advent of contraptions like SmartPhones and iPads, I'm too scared by the concept to actually enjoy the book. I realized today that, although an extreme hyperbole, the general ideas that M.T. Anderson presses throughout his book have already happened.
I had nose surgery last Wednesday, and have been "taking it easy," as the saying goes, for the past four days. I've barely been out-of-commission for 100 hours, with the freedom to lay on the couch wearing as little clothing as I want, watching horrible TV shows, and eating a pretzels-n-vicodin mix all day long. I've been away from work for four days, and have another four days off. Starting on Friday, I started to go stir-crazy. I had been antsy, but on Friday afternoon, my mood notably shifted to agitated and irritable as I realized I missed being out and about. It didn't even matter where I was, just so I wasn't confined to my box of a condo anymore. It took four days.
On Saturday, I finally broke loose and drove myself to Jimmy John's for lunch, and then proceeded to Barnes and Noble (perhaps subconsciously to find a follow-up book to Feed to continue scaring the crap out of me?), and the simple task of driving to some of my favorite establishments and spending money brought me back to a normal state-of-mind. An $8 combo of a Beach Club, bag of Jimmy Chips and regular-sized Cherry Coke put me in a better mood, and after wandering through Barnes and Noble for an hour, and downing a $25 gift card on two new books, I was smiling and singing with the windows down on my way back home. That's all it took.
I couldn't help but think of our society's concept of conspicuous consumption and how our values system is based on what you have, and how much you spend. I felt good spending money. The books I bought were unnecessary; I've got various towers of unread books scattered throughout my condo, about 50 in total, yet it made me feel better to purchase more. The truth is we've all been programmed, in one way or another, to buy things we don't need, whether in the form of food, booze, books, media, computers, video games, clothes, whatever, to give our lives value. Deny it all you want, but every single person I know falls victim to this statement.
In the summer of 2002, I experienced "The Summer of Enlightenment" with very close amigo Dan Mirman. We read a few books on Buddhism and (yes, admittedly, how dorky is this) would take walks through Schmeeckle Reserve in Stevens Point, where we were living for the summer between college semesters, and discuss our new findings and how incredible we thought they were. We were 21 and living the dream with perfect summer schedules; it just felt right I guess. But the main idea that I took away from Buddhism is that attachment breeds jealousy (which must be true, since Master Yoda exudes a similar quotation in Star Wars Episode II) and attachment is suffering. Physical objects will give you nothing in life.
Pulling all of this full-circle, I realize how badly I want to detatch myself from physical possessions, money, and, well, for the lack of a better word, "things." But the absolute truth is that our society has carved us into these machines to consume; to spend; to use; to own. Without these virtues, you're viewed as out-of-touch. Uncool. Irrelevant. And that really bothers me, which is why I guess I'm really struggling to accept the fact that I like this book. It's too true, and simply dichotomizes our society to a "T."
M. T. Anderson, you win this round.
Monday, April 25, 2011
A Royal Waste of Money
OK, I get it. I get that English royalty (is that supposed to be capitalized, like "Presidency" or "God?") is a big deal across the pond. I get that it's tradition. But I simply cannot wrap my mind around the idea why anyone cares. Really.
Here we have two people getting married. The bride-to-be is considered a "commoner" by all means, albeit an attractive one, admittedly. Beyond that, I simply do not understand the hype, the money, the media coverage, and the overall importance of this occassion.
Wars are happening and political dissonance is occurring vastly throughout the middle east . Gasoline prices are nearing all-time highs. In Wisconsin, half of the state Senators are, or will be, facing recalls over King Walker's union-busting budget bill. Yet the local NBC news finds this wedding newsworthy enough to cover it every day. Yesterday bride-to-be Catherine went shopping at *gasp* a NORMAL store. Like, OMG and LULZ. Media is scrutinizing the invite list, because a sort of dictator from Bahrain is invited to the wedding but ex-PM Tony Blair was snubbed. Oh, the travesty. Meanwhile, the lasting effects of the tsunami in Japan, and ongoing fighting in Libya and Syria, go relatively unmentioned on the daily news. Today, Milwaukee's TMJ4 news cut to a "live shot" of the to-be wedding scene; a black, unlit building with one outer light on. To quote and adlib Randall from the infamous Honey Badger narration, "Thanks for the update, STUPID."
I guess it all comes down to what people want to hear about on the news; they want the escape to something they desire but can't have instead of the doom and gloom of the reality before our faces. Maybe ignornace truly is bliss.
Here we have two people getting married. The bride-to-be is considered a "commoner" by all means, albeit an attractive one, admittedly. Beyond that, I simply do not understand the hype, the money, the media coverage, and the overall importance of this occassion.
Wars are happening and political dissonance is occurring vastly throughout the middle east . Gasoline prices are nearing all-time highs. In Wisconsin, half of the state Senators are, or will be, facing recalls over King Walker's union-busting budget bill. Yet the local NBC news finds this wedding newsworthy enough to cover it every day. Yesterday bride-to-be Catherine went shopping at *gasp* a NORMAL store. Like, OMG and LULZ. Media is scrutinizing the invite list, because a sort of dictator from Bahrain is invited to the wedding but ex-PM Tony Blair was snubbed. Oh, the travesty. Meanwhile, the lasting effects of the tsunami in Japan, and ongoing fighting in Libya and Syria, go relatively unmentioned on the daily news. Today, Milwaukee's TMJ4 news cut to a "live shot" of the to-be wedding scene; a black, unlit building with one outer light on. To quote and adlib Randall from the infamous Honey Badger narration, "Thanks for the update, STUPID."
I guess it all comes down to what people want to hear about on the news; they want the escape to something they desire but can't have instead of the doom and gloom of the reality before our faces. Maybe ignornace truly is bliss.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Green and Yellow Green and Yellow
The following is an account of my Super Bowl Sunday, February 6, 2011. As Ice Cube would say, "Today was a good day."
3:49: With two flicks of match heads against one another, I start the grill.
3:55: Ahhh, nothing like the smell of a charcoal grill in mid-winter.
4:40: Brats go on. Sizzzzzzzzle. With a Hinterland Pale Ale in the snowbank, snausages on the grill, and the Pack in the Super Bowl, life is good.
5:07: Brats come off the grill and immediately get dunked in Corona. Ahhh mamacita.
5:10: Dinner's almost served, woah, Sam Elliot (check), of Lebowski notariety, is doing the pre-game intro montage voice-over! One thing dude...do you have to use so many cuss words?
5:12: Green and Yellow Green and Yellow.
5:15: OUCH. MOFO. I put a huge knife through the tip of my thumb and leave a flap of skin as the tip of my finger. Oh well, they just showed Christina Aguilera for the first time and she's lookin' h-a-w-t. Thumb hurts, but I'll live. Hopefully no blood got on the onions.
5:26: Food is served, wow, what timing. Brats, soft pretzel bread, potato salad, cole slaw, pasta salad, chicken wings, shrimp, and taco salad. Yeeeeee-yah, what a spread.
5:28: Christina Aguilera. Yum. "Home of the"...what? Uh, pretty sure she messed up the anthem, but I can't stay mad at her for long.
5:43: My mom inadvertently consumes a "hot" chicken wing because she thought it was a regular. Hilarity ensues.
6:02: There is a score, and it's green and yellow!!! 7-0 Pack.
6:05: Harrison Ford, Cowboys vs. Aliens, really? REALLY?
6:07: Nick Collins INT for touchdown. More high-fives all around!!
6:08: Ohhh, foolish Nick Collins. As Lombardi would say, "Act like you've been there before." Regardless, 14-0 Pack.
6:09: Eminem, "That's why I don't do commercials." And that's why you should continue to not do them.
6:12: I am stuffed. And I only ate one brat! Ugh. There's like 3 lbs. of chicken wings left too, and we haven't even cracked the taco dip yet. Nobody's touched the pound of shrimp, either.
6:17: I don't think I've L-O-L'd during one commercial so far. BE. MORE. FUNNY!
6:23: Stillers are on the board. Nice to see the Packers D solidify and hold Pittsburgh on a 3rd down. I think I need some Mountain Dew, waking up at 5:01 a.m. today is starting to catch up to me.
6:33: The VW/Little Kid in the Darth Vader costume commercial takes the cake so far. That'll be a tough one to beat. Another score from GB would be nice to put us at a comfortable lead, but at least the Steelers don't look too threatening at this point. Holding penalty, thank you.
6:35: Did Troy Aikman and Joe Buck both intentionally wear purple ties today? What are the odds that they didn't? They had to coordinate that, otherwise there was some sort of crazy prop bet about what color tie they'd wear today, and both Buck and Aikman placed bets on their own tie color selection.
6:42: Rapelisberger throws his 2nd interception. Pittsburgh, and especially Rothlisberger, do not look especially impressive so far.
6:45: JENNINGS. Green and yellow green and Yellow! 21-3 Pack with 2 minutes and change left in the first half, lookin' good so far!!
6:55: The Pack are dropping like flies...Sam Shields and Charles Woodson head to the locker room within 5 minutes of each other...with the Steelers driving, a hold before halftime would be nice.
6:57: Hines Ward makes a somewhat impressive catch. Boo Steelers. 21-10 Pack.
7:00: It's halftime. Good thing, because we don't have any more D-backs to spare in the first half. Enter Black Eyed Peas.
7:11: Let It Go > Boom Boom Pow. The sound of this halftime show is perhaps the worst sounding musical production ever. > Sweet Child O' Mine with Slash. As sweet as it is to see Slash playing guitar, Fergie's singing is atrocious and well, you can't really hear Slash anyway since the mix is so terrible. Ugh, Fergie, really, stop singing.
7:22: Hmmm. Tough to not be too harsh on the ol' Black Eyed Peas, but that was probably the worst halftime performance I've ever seen. Since when is it cool to play literally 13 seconds of each one of your songs?
7:31: Charles Woodson is out with a collarbone injury. Shields and Driver return to the game. Hopefully we can get it done without Woodson, but it'd be a little more comforting if #21 were on the field.
7:37: James Jones drops a pass that could have easily resulted in a 75-yard touchdown. Lost opportunity, indeed.
7:42: Steelers march right down the field for a TD. 21-17 Pack, but the momentum is shifting out of the Pack's favor.
8:31: JENNINGS TD. The game has simply been too tense to blog. My dad is getting into his verbal "coaching the TV" behavior, I'm on the edge of my seat and my mom has said, "I can't watch!" about 9 times in the past 30 minutes. Tense times.
9:12: Ladies and gentlement, your World Champion Green Bay Packers! Game is over. The last 40 minutes have been tense. Tense, tense, tense. The Packers' D prevailed, holding Big Bad Ben and the Steelers on a 4th and 5. Phew. I'm exhausted, and all I've done is eat all night.
3:49: With two flicks of match heads against one another, I start the grill.
3:55: Ahhh, nothing like the smell of a charcoal grill in mid-winter.
4:40: Brats go on. Sizzzzzzzzle. With a Hinterland Pale Ale in the snowbank, snausages on the grill, and the Pack in the Super Bowl, life is good.
5:07: Brats come off the grill and immediately get dunked in Corona. Ahhh mamacita.
5:10: Dinner's almost served, woah, Sam Elliot (check), of Lebowski notariety, is doing the pre-game intro montage voice-over! One thing dude...do you have to use so many cuss words?
5:12: Green and Yellow Green and Yellow.
5:15: OUCH. MOFO. I put a huge knife through the tip of my thumb and leave a flap of skin as the tip of my finger. Oh well, they just showed Christina Aguilera for the first time and she's lookin' h-a-w-t. Thumb hurts, but I'll live. Hopefully no blood got on the onions.
5:26: Food is served, wow, what timing. Brats, soft pretzel bread, potato salad, cole slaw, pasta salad, chicken wings, shrimp, and taco salad. Yeeeeee-yah, what a spread.
5:28: Christina Aguilera. Yum. "Home of the"...what? Uh, pretty sure she messed up the anthem, but I can't stay mad at her for long.
5:43: My mom inadvertently consumes a "hot" chicken wing because she thought it was a regular. Hilarity ensues.
6:02: There is a score, and it's green and yellow!!! 7-0 Pack.
6:05: Harrison Ford, Cowboys vs. Aliens, really? REALLY?
6:07: Nick Collins INT for touchdown. More high-fives all around!!
6:08: Ohhh, foolish Nick Collins. As Lombardi would say, "Act like you've been there before." Regardless, 14-0 Pack.
6:09: Eminem, "That's why I don't do commercials." And that's why you should continue to not do them.
6:12: I am stuffed. And I only ate one brat! Ugh. There's like 3 lbs. of chicken wings left too, and we haven't even cracked the taco dip yet. Nobody's touched the pound of shrimp, either.
6:17: I don't think I've L-O-L'd during one commercial so far. BE. MORE. FUNNY!
6:23: Stillers are on the board. Nice to see the Packers D solidify and hold Pittsburgh on a 3rd down. I think I need some Mountain Dew, waking up at 5:01 a.m. today is starting to catch up to me.
6:33: The VW/Little Kid in the Darth Vader costume commercial takes the cake so far. That'll be a tough one to beat. Another score from GB would be nice to put us at a comfortable lead, but at least the Steelers don't look too threatening at this point. Holding penalty, thank you.
6:35: Did Troy Aikman and Joe Buck both intentionally wear purple ties today? What are the odds that they didn't? They had to coordinate that, otherwise there was some sort of crazy prop bet about what color tie they'd wear today, and both Buck and Aikman placed bets on their own tie color selection.
6:42: Rapelisberger throws his 2nd interception. Pittsburgh, and especially Rothlisberger, do not look especially impressive so far.
6:45: JENNINGS. Green and yellow green and Yellow! 21-3 Pack with 2 minutes and change left in the first half, lookin' good so far!!
6:55: The Pack are dropping like flies...Sam Shields and Charles Woodson head to the locker room within 5 minutes of each other...with the Steelers driving, a hold before halftime would be nice.
6:57: Hines Ward makes a somewhat impressive catch. Boo Steelers. 21-10 Pack.
7:00: It's halftime. Good thing, because we don't have any more D-backs to spare in the first half. Enter Black Eyed Peas.
7:11: Let It Go > Boom Boom Pow. The sound of this halftime show is perhaps the worst sounding musical production ever. > Sweet Child O' Mine with Slash. As sweet as it is to see Slash playing guitar, Fergie's singing is atrocious and well, you can't really hear Slash anyway since the mix is so terrible. Ugh, Fergie, really, stop singing.
7:22: Hmmm. Tough to not be too harsh on the ol' Black Eyed Peas, but that was probably the worst halftime performance I've ever seen. Since when is it cool to play literally 13 seconds of each one of your songs?
7:31: Charles Woodson is out with a collarbone injury. Shields and Driver return to the game. Hopefully we can get it done without Woodson, but it'd be a little more comforting if #21 were on the field.
7:37: James Jones drops a pass that could have easily resulted in a 75-yard touchdown. Lost opportunity, indeed.
7:42: Steelers march right down the field for a TD. 21-17 Pack, but the momentum is shifting out of the Pack's favor.
8:31: JENNINGS TD. The game has simply been too tense to blog. My dad is getting into his verbal "coaching the TV" behavior, I'm on the edge of my seat and my mom has said, "I can't watch!" about 9 times in the past 30 minutes. Tense times.
9:12: Ladies and gentlement, your World Champion Green Bay Packers! Game is over. The last 40 minutes have been tense. Tense, tense, tense. The Packers' D prevailed, holding Big Bad Ben and the Steelers on a 4th and 5. Phew. I'm exhausted, and all I've done is eat all night.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Philip Martin Simms, I loathe thee.
My inexplicable hatred of Phil Simms has been brewing for years now. It's not that I disliked Simms as a New York football Giant. It's that I can't stand his voice. I can't stand his broadcasting. And I absolutely can't stand the way he says "him."
As an English teacher, small subtleties like this do tend to bother me, but usually I can let things like this go. People frequently, and annoyingly, mispronounce everyday words and phrases, like "for all intensive purposes," "I could care less" (then why don't you?), and the unnecessary phantom "t" ended to the end of "across." For the record, whenever I question people about that "t," they deny it, but I know they said "acrosst" the first time. The "t" -- it was there.
I know my hatred for Simms is rooted in the vein of senselessness. The guy was a quarterback, and actually kind of a good one, and definitely did not go to school for English, speech, broadcasting, or communications. (FYI, that's a gross assumption, because a simple Google search would not yield an answer to what he studied at Moorhead State. Probably a major in "how to annoy linguists.") Throughout the course of a game, he annoys me perpetually with different inaccuracies in his speech patterns, generally sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger (you know, it sounds like he's choking on his own throat when speaking but without the entertaining Austrian accent), but none of this eclipses the atrocity by which he pronounces the simple pronoun "him." "Heem." "Heem, Heem, HEEEEEM." If there was an actual award for "Person Who Most Accurately and Consistently Substitutes the Short 'i' Sound For Long 'e,'" Phil Simms would be undisputed 12-time recipient.
Google was very telling, however, in why Phil Simms speaks in the manner that he does. The dude's from northwest Kentucky, which, combined with the corner of southeast Indiana, takes the cake for, in my opinion, the most god-awful annoying accent and linguistic patterns known to man. I dated a girl (read: psycho) from Indiana once, so yeah, I'm kind of an expert. In this sad region of the world, people LOVE (yeah, that's caps and italics) NASCAR (or Indy Car, or Sports Motor racing, or funny-car, gas-wasting, hit-the-pedal and steer left driving, or whatever they want to call it), White Castle, firearms, and Merle Haggard. They also love to say "warsh" (as in, "I've got to warsh the clothes, then warsh some dishes, then warsh my car, and then take it out to the Indy Speedway, hit the gas pedal, and steer left), and neglect the entire concept of the "to be" verb form. For example, something doesn't need to be washed, it just "needs warshed." Something doesn't need to be heated in the oven, it "needs heated." Don't confuse this with any progressive tense forms, where it'd be perfectly acceptable to say that something "needs heating." No. Past tense all day, "needs warshed." I call this sort of speech "Kentuckianian." But I digress.
Phil Simms really can't help the fact that he was raised in the third-world region of America. But I still can't stand the way he talks.
As an English teacher, small subtleties like this do tend to bother me, but usually I can let things like this go. People frequently, and annoyingly, mispronounce everyday words and phrases, like "for all intensive purposes," "I could care less" (then why don't you?), and the unnecessary phantom "t" ended to the end of "across." For the record, whenever I question people about that "t," they deny it, but I know they said "acrosst" the first time. The "t" -- it was there.
I know my hatred for Simms is rooted in the vein of senselessness. The guy was a quarterback, and actually kind of a good one, and definitely did not go to school for English, speech, broadcasting, or communications. (FYI, that's a gross assumption, because a simple Google search would not yield an answer to what he studied at Moorhead State. Probably a major in "how to annoy linguists.") Throughout the course of a game, he annoys me perpetually with different inaccuracies in his speech patterns, generally sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger (you know, it sounds like he's choking on his own throat when speaking but without the entertaining Austrian accent), but none of this eclipses the atrocity by which he pronounces the simple pronoun "him." "Heem." "Heem, Heem, HEEEEEM." If there was an actual award for "Person Who Most Accurately and Consistently Substitutes the Short 'i' Sound For Long 'e,'" Phil Simms would be undisputed 12-time recipient.
Google was very telling, however, in why Phil Simms speaks in the manner that he does. The dude's from northwest Kentucky, which, combined with the corner of southeast Indiana, takes the cake for, in my opinion, the most god-awful annoying accent and linguistic patterns known to man. I dated a girl (read: psycho) from Indiana once, so yeah, I'm kind of an expert. In this sad region of the world, people LOVE (yeah, that's caps and italics) NASCAR (or Indy Car, or Sports Motor racing, or funny-car, gas-wasting, hit-the-pedal and steer left driving, or whatever they want to call it), White Castle, firearms, and Merle Haggard. They also love to say "warsh" (as in, "I've got to warsh the clothes, then warsh some dishes, then warsh my car, and then take it out to the Indy Speedway, hit the gas pedal, and steer left), and neglect the entire concept of the "to be" verb form. For example, something doesn't need to be washed, it just "needs warshed." Something doesn't need to be heated in the oven, it "needs heated." Don't confuse this with any progressive tense forms, where it'd be perfectly acceptable to say that something "needs heating." No. Past tense all day, "needs warshed." I call this sort of speech "Kentuckianian." But I digress.
Phil Simms really can't help the fact that he was raised in the third-world region of America. But I still can't stand the way he talks.
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