…or George O’Leary. Fair play to Dangerous Minds for uncovering an actual auction house’s efforts to sell a resume touting the work experience of one G.G. Allin to the highest bidder, but I think they’re slightly missing the point. People tend to embellish this stuff all the time; for instance, my last resume claimed I was the founder of the Guardian Angels.
The Geege, however, is uncharacteristically modest. For instance, had the self-proclaimed Madman Of Manchester (NH) mentioned he was once labelmates with David Peel, lord knows that kind of doors would’ve opened. If only all job seekers were nearly this ethical.
Every wanted to hear Kareem Abdul-Jabbar cover The Meatmen’s “I’m Glad I’m Not A Girl”? Though that’s probably not happening anytime soon, the Bucks/Lakers great-turned-ace social critic (above, far left) considers the creepy scrutiny afforded Serena Williams recently and argues, “we have established a definition of beauty so narrow that almost no one can live up to it.” From Abdul-Jabbar in Time.com :
The typical American woman spends about $15,000 on makeup over a lifetime (if that same money were invested into a retirement plan, it would give her about $100,000 at age 70). Even though Americans spend the most on cosmetics in the world, we are ranked only 23rd in one list of “satisfaction with life.” In a futile effort to fit this mythical ideal of beauty, millions of American women torture their feet with high heels, undergo unnecessary cosmetic surgeries, starve themselves, and make themselves physically and mentally miserable—all over an imaginary ideal they didn’t even create.
Some of the body shaming of athletic black women is definitely a racist rejection of black women’s bodies that don’t conform to the traditional body shapes of white athletes and dancers. No one questions the beauty of black actresses such as Kerry Washington (Scandal) or Lupita Nyong’o (12 Years a Slave) because they fit the lithe image perpetuated by women’s fashion magazines. The body shaming of Serena Williams is partly because she don’t fit the Western ideal of femininity. But another cause is our disrespectful ideal of the feminine body in general.
The bigger issue here is the public pressure regarding femininity, especially among our athletes. It’s a misogynist idea that is detrimental to professional women athletes and to all the young girls who look up to these women as role models because it can stifle their drive to excellence, not only on the playing field, but in other aspects of life.
Have you spent the summer wondering why Phil Jackson would provide LeBron James with a measure of depth in the form of J.R. Smith and Iman Shumpert for so little return? Me neither, but the New York Post’s Tim Bontemps quotes former Jackson associate Charlie Rosen as claiming the Knicks club president saw little value to keeping either player :
Jackson had previously met individually with all three of his shooting guards — Smith, Shumpert and Tim Hardaway, Jr. — all of whom were playing below expectations. Jackson said Hardaway appeared to respond to some of the things discussed, but talks with Smith and Shumpert didn’t seem to resolve anything.
“We talked about [Smith’s] statement to the press that our shooting-guard depth was going to be the team’s asset, but so far it hadn’t worked out that way,” Jackson said. “He was supposed to carry the scoring load for the second unit and he wasn’t doing the job. I also said that because of his unacceptable behavior, he had two strikes against him with this team. He didn’t really respond. He’s a very sensitive guy, with his big doe eyes. He looked like he was going to tear up. But he finally responded that he was going through some issues with his gal.”
As for his meeting with Shumpert, Jackson said, “After he suffered a hip injury in Dallas, his game went rapidly downhill. Did he have any other issues to explain his decline? He said, ‘No. I don’t know what has gone wrong with my game.’ As with J. R., nothing got resolved.”
First of all , debating the ESPY’s is only slightly more embarrassing than giving a fuck about the People’s Choice Awards — one could argue there’s some greater insult in making anyone, let alone a limbless veteran, attend the ceremonies. But considering Berg’s super thin resume — other than making the world safe for Explosions In The Sky and getting his ass kicked by Linda Fiorentino in “The Last Seduction”, he’s responsible for formulaic shit — maybe it’s time for ESPN to launch “The Peter Berg Cowardice Award” in time for next July’s broadcast?
So it seems the co-founder of Keller-Williams Realty —a company that has profited wildly from Austin’s population/property boom — has plans to launch a highly touted “music incubator”, in which area musicians have access to rehearsal rooms, meeting areas, even a performance space, at little or no cost. In short, they’re promising to do what Spot Long and Trailer Space have been doing for years (except these real estate assholes want a fuckin’ parade).
The mooted “All ATX Music Factory” (WORD UP : ONLY TOOLS THINK “ATX” MAKES THEIR BRAND SOUND COOL) could well be a tremendous boon for aspiring Quiet Companies and similar Star Search hopefuls. And good for them, I’m sure their parents are very proud. But whether it means dick for, y’know, artists anyone’s gonna remember in 10 years is a harder question to answer. It might well depend on whether not such an endeavor is inclusive of musicians who aren’t gonna be tapped for a McDonald’s commercial anytime soon.
Until that’s been determined, can we please can the “incubator” talk? There are bands that need real assistance who are already full formed/realized as performers and recording artists. They just can’t afford to live here. They certainly don’t need their hair stroked by a huge real estate firm to confer legitimacy.
Spray Paint are 4 albums into for-real all-time-greats body of work. This was accomplished without the patronage of any real estate outfits, dot coms or even a shred of acknowledgment from the city’s biggest venues, festivals or an NPR affiliate that feigns a passing interest in quality local music. Not once have I wondered, “how much better would these guys be if only they had access to a real incubator?”
Look, if you’ve made a shit ton of money and you wanna do something useful, please, pay to get in, buy some records and support the places that cultivate those (otherwise dying) cultures. But when you start using a real, vibrant community as a branding prop, when you start likening musicians to babies, chickens (or worse, new app developers), excuse me if I’m a little suspicious that it isn’t just gonna result in the same super bland garbage the town’s best bands stand in stark opposition to.
A solitary red seat in a sea of green plastic in Fenway Park’s right field grandstand marks the spot where Ted Williams 502 foot HR landed on June 9, 1946. Quizzed by the Boston Globe’s Alex Speier, Red Sox DH David Ortiz expressed doubts (“the red seat? Cough – bullhshit – cough”) Williams (or anyone else) could hit a ball that far :
“I don’t think anyone has ever hit one there,” said Ortiz. “I went up there and sat there one time. That’s far, brother. Listen, do you see the No. 1 [Bobby Doerr’s retired uniform number on the façade above the right field grandstand]? I hit that one time. You know how far it is to that No. 1 from the plate? Very far. And you know how far that red seat is from the No. 1? It’s 25 rows up still. That’s the farthest I’ve ever hit the ball right there, and no one else has gotten to the No. 1 . . . The closest one that I have ever seen — I remember a day game, I hit a ball in that tunnel. But still — I crushed one and it wasn’t even close to that.”
Yet the historical record is fairly clear. The front page of the Boston Globe on June 10, 1946, featured a picture of Joseph Boucher holding the straw hat that Ted Williams’s blast punctured while he sat in the famous seat.
While a lot of gutless, easy-to-please ballplayers would waste generic platitudes on the majesty and wonder of being selected to represent their last place club in the Midsummer Classic, leave in to Philly closer Jonathan Papelbon to use the occasion to address a subject of universal concern : ie. his desire to finish the season with a contender.
Serena Williams won her 6th Wimbledon singles title yesterday, her 21st major championship and a victory earned amidst weird contemplation of her body size rather than her greatness, to say nothing of uglier responses. In the view of the Guardian’s Bryan Graham, “only Floyd Mayweather can offer an adequate, if unlikely, comparison to Serena’s sustained dominance and unapologetic blackness,” (“we are lucky to be living in the age of Serena Williams. Only in time will it become stupidly obvious, a cultural truism, a trajectory not unlike Ali’s path from enemy of the state and champion of the disenfranchised to universally acknowledged icon”) :
Both Mayweather and Williams turned professional in the mid-1990s and almost immediately soared to the top of unforgiving individual sports, where competitors exist in an unsparingly exposed state and all but the strongest of mind and body wash out. Both have gone about their work with a rugged individualism, supplementing divine natural gifts with untold hours of hard work and dedication behind the scenes. Both have passed the litmus test of the greatest champions, winning titles when they’re young and keeping them till they’re old: Mayweather, a world champion for more than half his adult life, while Williams has now won grand slam titles in her teens (one), twenties (12) and thirties (eight, a record).
And disproportionately broad segments of America, either privately or otherwise, want both to lose.
Yet the crucial differences between the two most dominant athletes of their generation show Serena’s getting a rawer deal. Mayweather is a serial batterer of women who actively embraces the role of race-baiting pantomime villain in the self-interest of souring the crowd to sweeten the gate, while Serena has done nothing even remotely criminal or even deliberately offensive. All she’s done is win and not be sorry for it. Those hell-bent enough to find character flaws could point to moments of iffy sportsmanship early in her career, especially after losses. Yet she’s made demonstrable strides in that area, which is even more admirable than if she’d been perfect all along because people generally don’t change. Today she’s the exemplar of grace and graciousness in victory or defeat.
HEY everybody! Meet Bear! He’s the labrador entrusted by the Hamilton County Metro Child Exploitation Task Force to sniff out hidden SD cards from the residence of a prominent submarine sandwich pitchperson. According to the The Herald Bulletin’s Rebecca R. Bibbs, Bear is just one of 4 electronics sniffing dogs employed by U.S. law enforcement. Bear’s handlers affectionately call him “the porn dog” and one describes the pooch’s pursuit of micro drives as “a fun game”.
No matter how you might feel about the police or terrible chains selling yoga mats disguised as sandwich bread, I think we can all agree this fella is SUPER CUTE and he’s well on his way to replacing Bell Environmental’s Roscoe The Bed Bug Dog as the USA’s #1 most beloved mascot / indentured servant.
Montero was on a rehabilitation assignment for an oblique muscle injury with the team’s Class A short-season affiliate, the Everett AquaSox, in Boise. News reports said Baccala heckled Montero as he headed toward the team dugout between innings, then later had an ice cream sandwich sent to him in the dugout.
Upon receiving the ice cream, Montero is said to have angrily approached the stands with a baseball bat. The reports say he threw the ice cream at Baccala before being pulled away.
“We are going to separate the baseball part of Jesus Montero from the human element part of Jesus Montero,’’ Zduriencik said of the former top prospect, who spent most of the season in Class AAA and only six games with the Mariners. “Our intent is to address Jesus’ issues. There’s a history here of things that have happened. We are very, very disappointed in him.”
Baccala at first denied the ice cream sandwich story, then said he couldn’t comment one way or the other. He suggested a reporter check whether they even sell ice cream sandwiches at Memorial Stadium in Boise, where the game was played.
Todd Rahr, president and general manager of the Boise Hawks, confirmed that ice cream sandwiches are indeed sold at the ballpark during games. Rahr declined to comment further, saying it was out of respect to the Mariners organization.
Apologies for putting words in the mouth of The Nation’s Dave Zirin, while not responsible for the above headline, does advance the argument — with the ratings success of the US Women’s National Team’s World Cup triumph as a backdrop — that there’s been a major shift in the way women’s sports are watched, including but not limited to the WWE’s development arm, NXT :
While ESPN Radio self-parody Colin Cowherd says that men are stronger and better athletes and we appreciate greatness in America and that’s why men’s sports is more fun to watch, his radio contract appears in peril because fewer and fewer people care what he has to say. While academic reports are issued that show only 2 percent of SportsCenter’s coverageis devoted to women’s sports, which is discussed there by anchors with the joy and flair of kids forced to “eat their vegetables,” more and more people are choosing to get their news from different sources if the current ones don’t meet their needs.
I was recently asked to name the five individual jocks who comprise my must-see television and, without thinking about it and without trying to make any kind of grand point or bow to the winds of political correctness, three of my five choices were women: joining Steph Curry and Bryce Harper were Serena Williams, ultimate fighter Ronda Rousey, and NXT pro wrestler Sasha Banks (seriously). Shockingly, pro wrestling, which for most of its existence has treated women like the industry was just an extension of Hugh Hefner’s grotto, is writing a script—literally—that says far more about where we are than the two-minutes-a-night broccoli serving of women’s sports delivered on SportsCenter. NXT is delivering a crew of empowering, genius women athletes like Banks, Charlotte Flair, and Becky Lynch who are winning over crowds and changing the expectations of what comprises greatness in the ring. It’s almost unreal to write, but the ways that crowds respond to Banks, Flair, and Lynch speaks with greater clarity about where consciousness is among sports fans than the tired highlight shows that treat athletics like a “man cave.”
(the bad news : look who’s back in NYC. the good news : if you’re Michael Kay, see below!)
It’s ok if I call you Justin, right? I feel like we sort of know each other, what with you being the program director of ESPN’s little engine that couldn’t, WEPN FM and me being an avid NY sports radio listener going back to the days of Art Rust Jr.
I know your job isn’t easy. Heck, faced with trying to not get blown out by the ratings juggernaut that is WFAN, I am certain you have much bigger fish to fry than any controversy over a matter as trivial as who hosts a Saturday evening fill-in slot during a national holiday.
Even so, I was mystified, stunned, even that an organizations as professional and normally not tone-deaf like Disney and ESPN would lend their airwaves, even briefly, to the fraudulent, multi-time loser otherwise known (when he’s not changing his name, anyway) as Dino Costa.
Listen, I’m not without empathy here. Given that numerous other outlets have given Costa a chance —— before inevitably finding out the only thing uglier than his collection of sleeveless tees is his poisonous worldview and personality — you’re not the first employer to make such a mistake.
Nor am I suggesting for a second that Costa ought to be denied the right to earn a living and put food on the table of his long-suffering family. And with that in mind, I am hoping you will reconsider the decision that led to you put Dino on the air, and instead find something for him to do that not only would enhance the work environment of your more accomplished broadcasters, but be truly in Costa’s personal wheelhouse.
Far from me to say the just-dethroned Joey Chestnut was in any way protected. But if People’s Champ Kobayshi wanted to make that argument, I’d listen all day long, secure in the knowledge there’s no hot dogs left in my fridge, so it’s not like he’d be staying much longer.
Pawtucket Red Sox outfielder Izzy Alcantara has been suspended for six games for his part in a bench-clearing brawl in a game against the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Red Barons earlier this week.
Alcantara, the International League leader in batting and home runs, became enraged during a game in Pawtucket on Tuesday after Red Barons pitcher Blas Cedeno brushed him back with an inside pitch.
Alcantara karate-kicked Red Barons catcher Jeremy Salazar in his facemask and then rushed the mound. He missed with one swing at Cedeno before being tackled by Scranton/Wilkes-Barre third baseman Kevin Orie.
“The Pawtucket Red Sox do not condone this type of behavior in any way and we do support the action taken by the league in this matter,” the team said in a statement.
Now, however, I’m thinking every major city in Texas can have a Vaughan Brothers statue. Depending on census results, suburbs and small towns will have to settle for monument to Jeff Healey, Romeo Rose, Blues Saraceno, Jimmy Crespo and James Dolan in descending order of population and/or proximity to Guitar Center. I’m also thinking the good (?) people of Oak Cliff would be well advised to consider the following CSTB entry from December 24, 2005, “Stevie Ray Vandalized” – GC)
A local correspondent who will remain nameless (in case he or she ever wants to do the weather at News 8 ) comments below :
Subject: My new hero(es)
Body: Some beautiful person and/or persons defaced the Stevie Ray Vaughan statue at Town Lake in Austin last night.
This ugly, overbearing, bronze statue has been a blistering eyesore for the tasteful masses for years now. News 8 (Time Warner’s sad 24 hour news station) covered it early this morning, revealing that the word “POSER” was painted on the front, “See you in Hell” at the base, and some unnamed profanity on the reverse. Some passerbys’ quotes include a woman in her late 40s with fashionable jogging gear: “I’m an artist, too, and I appreciate what that is, and everyone does, and — well — obviously some don’t.” (Um, what “real” “artist” is jogging at 8am?) An even older fellow, looking very confused: “I don’t know what they’re protesting against.” (I would wager that they were drunkenly protesting against mediocre, Hendrix nutsack-swinging, drug-fueled GARBAGE that is pervasively revered by the small “c” local celebrities who speak for Austin.) And finally, a random, ugly, bearded tourist from Florida: “No respect for the dead…All he did was make good music and make people happy.” (Many people take exception to this — people like myself, who, as a sign shop employee, was forced to hear his poisonous aural carrion day after fucking day on KLBJ-FM.)
I’m not glad the motherfucker’s dead, but bitches, please, this is the most overrated guitar player of all time, a product of a pissant city that thinks so highly of itself to call itself the “Live Music Capitol of the World.” His wanky, artless garbage encouraged many other morons to pick up an axe and continue the suffering he started, and make places like Antone’s be able to book filth like this 7 nights a week.
I love the Blues. I love these drunks who did this in the middle of the night. I love News 8 Austin for getting their cameras down there to shoot and record it before the City sent out their underpaid minions to wash it off around 10am. It shall live in eternity on my DVR (until I get it burned to DVD, at least).
This shall be the best Christkkkmas ever. My heart races with joy.
If Bonilla had accepted the $5.9 million in 2000 and invested the entire amount at 8% interest, the original investment would have grown to $104.1 million by 2035* (blue line in chart below). If instead, Bonilla takes his annual payment and invests that with an 8% annual return, he would have $95.2 million by 2035 (orange line in chart below).
In other words, Bonilla lost nearly $10 million by taking the payments instead of the lump sum.
But more importantly to the Mets, if they invested the $5.9 million at 8% interest in 2000. That money would have grown to more than $14 million before they had to make a single payment. And that money would continue to draw interest even while they are making payments.
A quick scan of Thurs-Sunday night action in the alleged Live Music Carhole reveals entertainment including but not limited to Spray Paint, Hex Dispensers, Xetas, Crooked Bangs, Street Eaters, Burnt Skull, Strutter, Holly Hunt, Fogg, James Arthur’s Manhunt, Wes, DEAD MOON, Bad Sports, A Giant Dog and not one but TWO Brother J.T. shows.
That said, the illustrious roster above runs the risk of being overshadowed by Friday’s Third Eye Blind/Dashboard Confessional/Quiet Company show in Cedar Park, the subject of the upcoming documentary film, “Everyone Here Failed At Life Parking Lot”
“A large amount of it is just vitriol and ignorance and ad-hominem arguments and ad-hominem attacks, and anyone who says otherwise is either not paying attention or being disingenuous,” he said. “And because of that, it attracts people who have that kind of personality profile. So there’s no leavening influence. You or I or many of your listeners are not going to wander into that precinct to say, wait a minute, let’s be reasonable here. So it just becomes a playground for people who want to vent or express over-the-top and often utterly uninformed and ignorant opinions. And then what’s worse yet is that the mainstream often reacts to it. … The idea that in some desperate attempt to remain relevant and to get more clicks, that we should dumb ourselves down by adopting the ethos of the mob, that’s something that I’m not good with.”