On the eve of Brooklyn’s home opener against Miami, Ludwig’s Drug Store of Prospect Heights alleges their employees have been subject to racial discrimination by Barclays Center staff, despite the pharmacist paying nearly $1 million for a 3 year luxury box license. From the New York Post’s Selim Algar :
Ludwig’s staffer Defreitas alleges that Barclays Senior Vice President of suite and ticket sales Brian Basloe (above) approached him on several occasions to ask why he was hanging around the ritzy portions of the arena.
“Why are you always here?” he asked, according to the suit. “You’ve been coming here a lot.”
Defreitas told him that he had box rights and Basloe backed off, according to the suit. “Sometimes I have to be the bad guy,” Basloe said. “I have a background in law enforcement.”
On Oct. 19, the trio overheard arena staffers on a radio remarking that they were a security threat and that their box should be investigated, the suit states. But a Barclays strike force invaded the wrong box and forced occupants to the floor to investigate them, the suit charges.
The trio claims that they are the only black luxury box licensees at Barclays Center.
In a somewhat less sensational charge, Ludwig’s staffers also claim they waited over an hour for a pizza to be delivered to their luxury box. I can’t say for certain whether or not this is further evidence of institutionalized racism at Barclays, but if Domino’s CEO Patrick Doyle can man the ovens on those horrible TV commercials, surely Nets marketing creep Brett Yormark is not above lending a helping hand, especially if it means avoiding bad publicity.
The attention to detail is superb — far more so than my Darryl Porter getup.
It would be a slight exaggeration to say that Tom Scharpling’s long-running Tuesday night program, “The Best Show On WFMU” has thoroughly permeated the mainstream consciousness, but there may be no greater testament to TBSOWFMU’s place in the hearts & minds of dedicated listeners than the actions of Fenway Park organist Josh Kantor (above).
Kantor, who previously paid homage to Superchunk this season, used Game 6 of the World Series to showcase his interpretation of “The Best Show”‘ theme tune, as exhibited above. Whether or not Kantor’s selection was inspired by Scharpling’s announcement the prior evening that “The Best Show” would cease production next month, or perhaps by the occasion of Scharpling co-conspirator Jon Wurter’s 21st birthday today, I cannot say for certain. Also — writing Kantor and asking him these simple questions would take me all of 3 minutes and I don’t have that sort of spare time.
“Imagine if the National Basketball Association partnered with EDM DJ/producers to create a next level marketing platform for the music, culture and progressive mainstream marketability of not just the league, but EDM culture and the longevity of the producers themselves?” That’s the
horrifying fascinating hypothesis outlined by Do Androids Dance?’s Marcus Dowling, who while quick to note Rony Seikaly’s second act as a deep house DJ, argues, “the interplay between music and the NBA has existed but been not capitalized upon in a commercially beneficial and progressive manner.”
“In this ideal scenario I have hand-picked franchises that have always or are currently showing an eye towards progressive ideologies, or, are located in cities wherein the tie between progressive idealism and electronic dance music is at a fever pitch. The DJ/producers involved? Even simpler. It’s a mix of top and rising names who are not currently affiliated with any one label in particular, and as well are closely affiliated with/grew up in that city, or are from within a 250 mile radius. The teams and producers that in my estimation would be incredible in the inaugural two-year run of the ideal scenario are as follows:
Miami Heat – GTA
Chicago Bulls – Flosstradamus (above)
Toronto Raptors – Wondagurl
Brooklyn Nets – Cousin Cole
New York Knicks – Baauer
Dallas Mavericks – Peligrosa
Los Angeles Clippers – TOKiMONSTA
Golden State Warriors – Nanosaur
Phoenix Suns – AZ Gunslingaz
Washington Wizards – Alex Young
Unless you want to see the star of “Scarecrow And Mrs. King” rain down half-hearted vengeance upon his enemies, “Murder At The World Series” is roughly as watchable as the 2013 Houston Astros. But it’s as close to Black Sunday as the World Series has yet come, which is… something? — Tom Keiser, The Classical
The Oregonian’s John Canzano received an open letter from a former University of Oregon football player who encountered some rather uncouth behavior in the stands at last Saturday’s home win against UCLA. Judging from the tone employed below, you might not want to invite this recent former Duck to your next tailgate.
I remember walking in from fall camp practice and talking to my teammates about how similar our lives were to the TV series Spartacus. We were slaves. We were paid enough to live, eat, and train… And nothing more. We went out on the field where we were broken down physically and mentally every day, only to wake up and do it again on the next. On the outside, spectators placed bets and objectified us. They put us on pedestals and worshipped us for a short time, but only as long as we were winning. In the end, we were just a bunch of dumbass (racial slur) for the owners to whip, and the rich to bet on.
What I described is a business, I know. It’s how it works, and it is something we understand as athletes entering the system, as (expletive) up as it is. For many people entering that system, it’s better than what life has to offer elsewhere. So they take it. But having been on the outside now, to witness this disgusting display of “support”, I know that I want no (expletive) part of it. I will never attend a duck game as a spectator again. I am disgusted by duck fans and I will sit back and observe from afar with high hopes for the player’s success and understanding of their sacrifice, without having to hear the spoiled woes of ignorant fans.
I will always love the ducks: my coaches, my teammates, my brothers and family. The rest… Go (expletive) yourselves.
The New York Daily News’ Kristie Ackert reports Mets reliever Latroy Hawkins assisted American Airlines crew in ejecting an unruly passenger from a DFW to Santiago flight Sunday evening.
“We had to subdue a guy who was upset about not being able to sit in an open seat in business class. He and flight attendant started wrestling and fell into my lap. The (flight attendant) said he needed help,” Hawkins told the Daily News via text message.
Two of Hawkins’ friends, Rodney Carter and Leonard Whittenberg helped assist the flight attendant. They held down the unruly passenger as restraints were applied. Carter and Whittenberg are part of Hawkins’ traveling group that is hunting doves.
According to a report, the flight made an unscheduled stop in Lima, Peru, then continued to Santiago; the hunting is taking place across the border in Argentina.
Not only has Hawkins proven heroic, but he’s to be applauded for his discretion ; “a guy who was upset about not being able to sit in an open seat in business class” sounds an awful lot like Jeff Wilpon.
Not merely content with imagining Mike Francesa’s commentary during The Revolutionary War, bizzarozaun is back on the job with CIVIL WAR FRANCESA.
It would be an understatement to claim that since the respective arrivals of Blake Griffin, Chris Paul and Doc Rivers, the Los Angeles Clippers have achieved the near-unthinkable ; not are they consider a more realistic Western Conference contender this season than their Staples Center co-tenants, but the team’s immediate future seems to bright, you might forget they’re owned by a horny, incompetent racist.
That is, until you read Adrian Wojnarowski of Yahoo Sports’ account of Sterling’s attempts to veto his club’s Eric Bledsoe & Caron Butler for Jared Dudley & JJ Reddick swap, a meddlesome move Wojnarowski calls Doc’s “ultimate ‘welcome-to-the-Clippers’ moment” (“the kind of dysfunction that frightened prospective executives and coaches of Sterling, an eccentric, often illogical man long used to undermining and bullying staff that he had often kept on short, low-money contracts”)
Rivers contract gave him ultimate management authority on deals, and several sources dealing with the Clippers say that Rivers was beyond embarrassed and humiliated. He feared the unraveling of the deal would cost him his credibility and paralyze him in future trade and negotiation talks, sources said.
Redick’s representatives, led by the influential Tellem, were beyond livid. Accepting the Clippers’ word, agreeing to terms, there was no reason they wouldn’t expect this was a binding agreement. For Redick, there was nowhere left for him to get a comparable deal – never mind a contender, a city, where he wanted to play. For better or worse, he had to wait on Rivers and Sterling. There was no Plan B with which to rush and accept.
From the outside, there were those telling Rivers to unite with his superstar, Paul, and let Sterling understand they both could still walk out on him. Paul couldn’t sign his five-year, $107 million contract until July 11, but sources insist that Rivers never brought Paul into the quagmire.
Rivers’ job was to convince the owner – for a second time, in this instance – and there were those who believed a flat refusal on Sterling’s behalf could’ve resulted with Rivers’ resignation.
(above : how the male grooming thing was settled back in the early 1990′s)
The subject of the Red Sox facial hair has been an attractive (?) topic for columnists and bloggers alike this baseball season, and with Boston’s beards closing in on their 3rd World Series triumph in 9 years, the New Yorker’s Roger Angell has no longer resist the temptation to interrupt a clash fraught with tension to declare, “beards are kudzu”. “Fugazy, too,”, former Knick (but not former Bruin) Tim Thomas would surely add if anyone bothered to ask.
Jonny Gomes’s beard—a brown frigate bird’s nest—is among the uglier sported by the hairy Sox this year, and when numbers of his teammates began grabbing it and ritually tugging on it upon his return to the dugout after his blast I was among a minority in the land who were hoping they’d pull it off. Gomes, a nice guy from Petaluma, California, has broad sloping shoulders and a pleasant, or O.K.-ish, everyday expression, but he’s shaved his head now, too, which doesn’t help, unless you’re eager to join the crowding recent hordes of the undead. C’mon, Jonny.
Gomes’s isn’t the worst Sox beard—the title goes to backup catcher David Ross, whose unkempt cabbage includes a clashing streak of white that cascades over his chin—perhaps relic of a childhood moment when he ran into his grandfather in the narrow back hall outside the bathroom. The other catcher, Jarrod Saltalamacchia, has a raggedy garden-border growth, in keeping with the encircling back-yard shrubbery of his hair. Mike Napoli’s beard is thickest; Dustin Pedroia’s the weirdest, since it comes with his desert-saint stare and that repeated on-deck or between-pitch mannerism of opening and stretching his mouth into a silent O: a screech owl with laryngitis.
Where are the Red Sox wives or sweetie pies in all this? Have none of them spoken up—privately or in the Globe or in a thousand tweets—to protest this office fad? How does it feel to wake up, night after night, in immediate proximity to a crazed Pomeranian or a Malamute or an Old English sheepdog stubbornly adhering to the once caressable jaw of the guy on the nearest pillow? Doesn’t it scratch? Doesn’t it itch? Doesn’t it smell, however faintly, of tonight’s boeuf en daube or yesterday’s last pinch of Red Man? And what about the kids—how long can you keep putting them off with another recital of “The Three Little Pigs” or Edward Lear? Who does your husband/significant other think he is, anyway—Dostoyevsky? Brigham Young? Darwin? An Allman brother? Alexander Cartwright?
No matter how you look at it, this might be the most serious diss-by-omission Phil Mushnick’s received in a very long time.
Persons far more learned than myself have written extensively over the last day or so about the impact and legacy of the just-departed Lou Reed, and while there’s extensive documentation of Reed’s prowess as a lyricist, guitarist, journalist-baiter, tai chi enthusiast, scooter pitchman, occasional thespian and enduring symbol of all-things-NYC-demi-monde, there’s one side of Lou that’s not received nearly as much coverage ; The Consumerist Gadget Hound.
Reed interviews over the years are certain peppered with references to the technological innovations of the day, but if you’re like me, you’ve sometimes wondered how great one of Al Goldstein’s “Midnight Blue” tirades directed at Hammacher Schlemmer or 47th St. Photo might’ve turned out had they been written and narrated instead by Lou. The closest we’re likely to come is a July 2004, WSJ/Marketwatch piece by Ryan Malkin in which Reed — described as “a sonic perfectionist” — is invited to test out some of the era’s more high-end audio speakers. While Reed wasn’t without praise for some of the products on offer (“those Klipsch are fucking unbelievable; these things can do anything,”), the listening session got off to a rather rough start.
“So what’s the first one?” asks Reed, clad in jeans and a trim brown leather jacket. We turn up the volume on the Bose Acoustimass 5 Series III system ($500), which includes two tiny speakers — just 6.2-inches high — and a subwoofer. Bose is the No. 1 selling speaker brand in the country, likely due to the company’s hundred or so retail stores. But it’s certainly not this audiophile’s speaker of choice. “No, no!” Reed yells, not even a minute into “Rock Minuet,” furiously waving his hands back and forth for us to stop. His complaint? The speakers deliver high- and low-end sound, but no middle. Plus, they display a “harsh high end,” and although the subwoofer adds nice bass, “it makes the guitar sound thin.” A Bose spokesperson says that the speakers are balanced and designed to reproduce low and mid-to-high frequencies “according to the artist’s original performance.” But this artist, for one, disagrees. Still, we give the Bose another shot, this time playing hip-hop artist Mos Def, to test how the speakers handle heavy bass. “Oh no, oh no,” Reed groans, sitting up to pet Lola, his Jack Russell terrier, who’s curled up on a pillow next to him. “I’d pay money not to hear that.”
“Next,” Reed demands. “Rock Minuet” once again begins to pump, this time through the B&W 704s ($2,200). B&W is the bestselling high-end speaker on the market. The company’s press release claims the 704s “redefine the overall level of loudspeaker performance that rational audio consumers can demand.” Maybe so, but Reed was never accused of being completely rational. “Whoa, ugly,” he shakes his head. “I found that unpleasant, the voice sounds sibilant, it’s just not clear.” B&W says the problem could be a number of things, from electronics to placement. “Speakers are very subjective, and I’m sorry Mr. Reed didn’t care for these,” says Chris Browder, B&W’s executive vice president.
With sincere apologies to Alan Licht for the above headline, the above reaction seems entirely reasonable when compared to the carnage that took place at Ford Field. Not only do the Cowboys come up with new ways to choke on an annual basis, but they’ve somehow managed to allow a team that started the year 0-6 to climb to within 2 games of first place with half a season to play.
…especially as it was marked down for having the inscription, “PROPERTY OF MIKE MAYOCK” on the upper-right corner of the back cover.
I’m not entirely sure what the fuck is going on here, but unless/until some merchant introduces the anatomically-correct John Riggins Doll (In A Diaper), Ashton-Drake Galleries just won the award for creepiest doll/action figure without a Jesus component.
Though I’m tempted to say Memphis’ Mike Miller should sue whoever told him a ponytail was a good idea, the 33 year old F/G is said to be mulling a lawsuit against the Miami Heat claiming he lost $1.7 in a con orchestrated by Haider Zafar (above), a former Dublin, OH resident currently facing charges over a $10 million real estate scam. Zafar, previously dubbed “The South Beach King of Bling”, was allegedly referred to Miller by a Heat executive, as the Miami Herald’s Barry Jackson reports :
According to Miller’s complaint that has been drawn up but not yet filed, a Heat employee introduced Miller to Zafar, and Zafar used $700,000 of the money he stole from Miller to pay for courtside Heat tickets. In the potential lawsuit, Miller is seeking a lot more: the entire $1.7 million that he lost in Zafar’s scam.
According to the complaint which I obtained, Zafar last December agreed to spend $3 million over three seasons for Heat courtside seats and other benefits but did not submit payment.
In February, Miller sent Zafar $2 million to invest in what Zafar portrayed as a private investment fund with a high-interest yield. Fine said Zafar had access to no such fund and ended up keeping most of Miller’s money.
Zafar, who is imprisoned in Ohio awaiting trial on fraud charges in an unrelated case, also reneged on a promise to invest $40 million in three of Miller’s businesses.
Miller determined that Zafar was a fraud in late April. Until that point, “(Heat executive vice president) Stephen Weber continued to vouch for Zafar even though he never paid” some of the $1 million due the Heat, according to Miller’s complaint.
What broadcasting career could possibly survive three annual/consecutive N-bombs uttered on live television? It would appear ESPN commentator Stephen A. Smith possesses teflon-like qualities, though the New York Daily News’ Bob Raissman likens it to, “someone high up at ESPN must have deposited a lot of leeway in the National Bank of Mess-Up. They’ve given Smith a max credit line on his MasterScrewup Card, too.”
On Wednesday’s edition of “First Take,” Smith and his co-mouth, Skip Bayless, were debating where Kevin Durant falls in the pecking order of NBA players. Is he right behind LeBron James? At one point, Smith got riled up and said: “That’s the way it goes. That’s all! N—-, please. Please.”
Smith rolled out the same defense he did the first two times his mouth out-ran his brain. He’s denying he used the N-word. ESPN bought his “take” and looked further into the matter. “We have concluded no inappropriate language was used after closely reviewing the segment several times, including physical aspects of speech, and speaking to Stephen A., who maintains he jumbled his words,” an ESPN spokesperson said.
Well, we looked at the video several times and beg to differ with ESPN’s conclusion — vehemently differ.
ESPN has stood behind Smith’s denials. This time it did so publicly and contended it never even happened. Either the suits believe they didn’t hear Wednesday’s N-bomb, or they don’t want to come down on one of their marquee talents, a guy who has plenty of upside in his tank. None of this negates the fact Smith is damaging his credibility. In his world, he’s never dropped the N-word on ESPN.
Where exactly is Smith coming from? When the Riley Cooper N-word thing came down, Smith wondered: “What level of responsibility do we (African Americans) harbor considering the fact that it (the N-word) is something we use ad nauseam in the presence of people outside our community?. . . .We have to ask ourselves do we play a role in the ease that it comes out of other people’s mouths.”
I thought it shameful enough when Boomer wore a Poker Stars.com beanie during postgame interviews, but was it really necessary to license David Wells’ likeness for this ghastly Halloween item?
AND the guy from the Draft Street.com commercial! It seems the straight-to-Netflix “All Wifed Out” has been awaiting release for over a year, perhaps to take advantage of Metta World Peace’s relocation to New York City. Or because it’s possibly not very good.
All of that said, there’s every chance the above film represents an artistic apex for the former Ron Artest when measured against his work alongside Jeanie Garth.
Though his account has since been deleted, MetsmerizedOnline reader Salty Gary has helpfully collected some of the more inflammatory tweets from serial troll @DanXTanna, aka Aryn Leroux of West Haven, CT, who was arrested yesterday and charged with making threats towards Mets ownership and management.
Tanna: “tomorrow is Friday the 13th… lets get a gang of us to wear Jason Vorhees masks to Citi-Field and go skin us a GM-Owner-Manager”
Tanna: “think of it… it would be the lead story on CNN…. #mets fans kill the team owner-gm-manager. before they kill us #selfdefense”
Tanna: “what are some good ways to dispose of Wilpon-Alderson-Collins any ideas?”
Tanna: “there will be a blood bath at Citi-Field tomorrow night”
Tanna: “no #mets fan will get out alive if you have on a 7 Line t-shirt… Jason Vorhees doesn’t care for plump plums”
While I deplore Mr. Leroux’s ugly Twitter outburts, I am very hopeful Zach Galifianakis considers the part meaty enough when the inevitable “Law & Order : SVU” episode is penned.
Though at the age of 36, Carlos Beltran isn’t nearly the outfielder he was earlier in his career with Kansas City, Houston and the Mets, Beltran has been no slouch patrolling right field for the National League Champion Cardinals, as evidenced by last night’s rib-crunching, robbery of an-otherwise-David-Ortiz-grand-slam in the second inning of World Series Game 1.
Beltran, hardly reluctant to sacrifice his body during an up and down tenure in Flushing, was rushed to Massachusetts General Hospital last night, and it was only natural to fear that after 16 years chasing a ring, the 8-time All-Star’s World Series might have come to a very quick ending. It’s since been announced, however, that Beltran will be start for St. Louis tonight, a decision that comes on the heels of Sirius/XM host Steve Phillips opining that “if Beltran can play in Game 2, he shouldn’t have taken himself out of Game 1″.
Presumably, Phillips has watched the replay of Beltran colliding with the Fenway Park bullpen wall, and considers said impact to be no big deal. And yeah, compared to being hit in the face by one of Marni Phillips’ shoes, it might not hurt that much. But what sensible person — let alone a decorated collegiate athlete (cough) like Phillips — could witness such an incident, and immediately presume a player — especially one who’s waited a career for this moment — was looking for an early exit?
Not for the first time, I have to ask what qualifies the charmless, devoid of insight Phillips to be doing anything in media besides crying to Dr. Drew. He’s one of the more widely despised Mets executives of the modern era, hardly distinguished himself in print, on TV or radio with ESPN, and his well-documented zipper issues would seem to preclude him from questioning anyone else’s personal integrity. It does seem the sole criteria for continued employment at Sirius/XM’s Mad Dog Radio comes down to answering “no” to the question, “is your name Dino Costa?”
Man, someone oughta boycott me for that headline. Quizzed by the New York Times’ Juliet Macur about his upcoming NBC Sports assignment at the Sochi Winter Games, the suddenly-retired from figure skating Johnny Weir reiterated his comments on a recent episode of “Olbermann”, that he opposes an Olympic boycott and has no intention of using his analyst gig as a platform for protest against Russian law forbidding support of homosexuals.
“I risk jail time just going there, but the Olympics are not the place to make a political statement,” he said. “I’m not a politician and I don’t really talk about politics. You don’t have to agree with the politics, but you have to respect the culture of a country you are visiting.”
“It’s pretty obvious that I’ve been gay my whole life,” he said as he gave himself a once-over. “I don’t need to break any laws or wear a rainbow pin to show people that I support gay rights.”
Some of his gay peers — including his husband, Victor Voronov, a first-generation Russian-American — want him to speak out and “be more on the side of the gay team.” Others have vehemently disagreed with the way he has lived his life, like the way he waited until 2011 to acknowledge publicly that he was gay. Weir is sure that his extravagantly expensive Hermès Birkin bag was recently defaced by another gay man who took a marker to its orange leather and wrote an expletive.
“The gay community has not reacted well to me because some people think it’s my responsibility to be an activist,” Weir said. “They’re expecting me to hate Russia because I haven’t been given equal rights in Russia.”
Macur goes on to detail Weir’s long-standing love affair with Russia, noting that an upcoming exhibition tour with gold medalist Yevgeny Plushenko will occur, “a few months after Elton John plays Moscow.”
“If it’s good enough for Elton John, it’s good enough for me,” Weir said.
In his Breaking Madden series at SB Nation, Jon Bois has used some ingenious “Madden 25″ hackery to simulate a number of tantalizing, “what if?” scenarios this season, including but not limited to giving Peyton Manning a porous offensive line, placing Adrian Peterson and Marshawn Lynch on the Giants and perhaps best of all, subbing Jags QB Blaine Gabbart with “Beeftank” (“400 pounds of lightning-quick, tackle-breaking muscle”). Since Victory-formation disrespecting Tampa head coach Greg Schiano is 0-6, and recently opined to grumbling season ticket holders that “the situation needed Greg Schiano”, Bois couldn’t help but wonder, if ONE Greg Schiano was requisite, how fucking amazing would the Bucs be with 44 of them?
This game took me about five hours to simulate from start to finish, because nearly all the plays were scores, changes of possession, or injury timeouts that stopped the clock. That’s an awfully long time to subject virtual mortals to such a nightmare.
PANTHERS 412, BUCCANEERS 0.
I wish I could offer substantial proof that I did indeed score 412 points. The thing is, the game just stopped counting. The scoreboard was stuck. I had to start counting manually, and in so doing, I think I really may have approached the ceiling of how many points can possibly be scored in a 60-minute football game.
There’s several reasons why Vulcan (or your local equivalent, if you’re lucky enough to have one) deserves your patronage more than Netflix or Redbox. You didn’t need one, but here’s another. And yes, this is a blatant attempt to get them to waive my late fees after I neglected to return a series of art films in a timely manner.
A year after Barclays Center management sent Jay-Z fans thru metal detectors but neglected to do the same at a Barbara Streisand concert, the Brooklyn Nets’ home venue is now requiring metal detector inspections to simply enter the box office. From the New York Post’s Elizabeth Hagen and David K. Li :
“I can understand the whole safety issue and everything — but, just to come in and buy tickets?” said Queens resident Randy Alvin, 39, who dropped by to purchase “Disney On Ice” ducats on Monday.
The metal detectors were re-installed just before the Nets preseason game against the world-champion Miami Heat last week.
“I’m OK with security during a show, but to buy a ticket? No,” said box-office visitor Tim Harris, 36, of Bedford-Stuyvesant.
“I might have to .?.?. catch my events at Madison Square Garden because they don’t do all this. Any other event that goes on, if it goes on at MSG, I’d rather go there than come back here. Because you got to go through this just to spend your money.”
Barclays CEO Brett Yormark (above) insisted that cops and NBA officials wanted the arena to use metal detectors. Barclays Center had been using less-intrusive hand-held wands.
“We believe that walk-through magnetometers will even better serve our guests in providing a safer environment,” Yormark said. “With the support of New York law-enforcement experts and NBA security [officials] we have decided to utilize walk-through magnetometers at all events.”