BRADLEY BATES

Simon & Garfunkel - Sounds of Silence

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 12:36:47 -0500

Bought: 1/1/13 for $2

Record Grouch - Greenpoint, Brooklyn

Simon & Garfunkel always make me think of aging – and just how weird and beautiful of a concept that is.

My first exposure to them was listening – as a kid – to the Central Park reunion show. That means while Simon & Garfunkel had already become famous, then broken up to pursue solo careers, only to come back together, and then drift apart yet again – I was just getting into them through, of all things, a reunion show. Backwards I went from there, listening to their earlier stuff, while we all got a little older. In New Orleans I saw them reunite once more to play Jazz Fest – the first show of what was supposed to be a reunion tour, plans that were scuttled due to Garfunkel’s ailing vocal chords. Standing in knee-deep mud as I watched him grimace from one song to another, I had plenty of time to be distracted by the thought of aging.

It’s an idea this album certainly doesn’t shy away from – along with themes of loneliness, loss, and suicide. That and the fact it starts off with Sound of Silence, overdubbed with a backing band without Simon & Garfunkel’s knowledge, and thrown together with a bunch of songs which had for the most part already appeared on other records, makes for a rather jarring experience. But it’s a great album – and like a lot of things, just not everything, it gets better with age.

Charles Munch and the Boston Symphony Orchestra - Bolero

Sun, 27 Jan 2013 15:29:19 -0500

Bought: 1/19/13 for $4

The Bop Shop - Rochester, NY

Bolero is one of the first classical pieces I fell in love with. When I was in school I would take adderall and listen to it over and over again while I frantically wrote Spanish papers that were due the next day. The fact it helped me graduate isn’t why I love it, though that certainly doesn’t hurt.

I’ve read articles which suggest that Ravel may have been in the early stages of frontotemporal dementia when he composed this piece; one of the most common symptoms of which is compulsive behavior. That would definitely explain the repetitive nature of the arrangement.

It’s fascinating to imagine a degenerative disease contributing to the creation of such an enduring work of art. Listening to this piece as it builds and builds has always filled me with a sense of purpose, and a belief that maybe I, too, could one day do something worthy of the memory of others.

But it’s also depressing as shit. I mean, Ravel composed Bolero with brain damage. What the hell have I done?

The Downton Abbey Football (Soccer) League - Week 2

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 21:11:00 -0500

Premier League Aristocrats Table

1. Matthew

2. Mary

3. Dowager Countess (up 1)

4. Lady Grantham (down 1)

5. Isobel (up 2)

6. Lord Grantham (up 2)

7. Branson (down 1)

—-Relegation Zone—-

8. Sybil (down 3)

9. Edith

Matthew

Bullish on the defense of his ideals, Matthew has nevertheless pledged to overhaul Downton Abbey from the ground up. He should be a contender for some time to come after he finishes revamping the training ground and youth facilities. Hopefully his stingy devotion to the wage budget doesn’t prevent him from bringing in the odd big-time signing from Brazil or thereabouts.

Mary

Edith’s stunning collapse at the altar gave Mary a decisive victory in the wedding derby. She continues to find joy with her attacking sensibilities, and should find herself playing continental football next season.

Dowager Countess

With Mrs. Levinson gone, Lady Violet should now be able to play more expressive football. Her clean challenge on Sir Anthony at the altar is a testament to her defensive capabilities and proves she is the anchor woman of the show.

Lady Grantham

This season’s campaign has been marked by a spirited approach for Cora. Her team talk to Edith after the would-be wedding may have been clichéd, but maybe it’s only important that she herself believes what she’s saying. It’s just that sometimes Cora appears to lack top-of-the-table ambition.

Isobel

Others around the league may criticize her management style, but Isobel believes there’s a certain way to play the game and holds firm to these standards. Mid-to-low table finish likely.

Lord Grantham

On the verge of falling into administration, Robert received a last second cash injection from Matthew. He’ll need to take his fate into his own hands from here on out, though, and stop concerning himself with the results of others around the league. With his level of prestige, a mid-table finish would be unacceptable to his supporters.

Sybil

Playing aimless football at the moment. Her best years are still in front of her, but she needs to shift her focus from making children to making goals.

Branson

Rampant nationalism is not unheard of in football, but hypocrisy has no place. If he’s to go on all day about the merits of the Irish League, he needs to just pack it in and move back there. It’s unfortunate that this season’s campaign is so full of hot air – and not much else.

Edith

She watched a disastrous howler slip into the back of her net as Lord Anthony spurned her at the altar. Can it get much worse for Edith? She may be the middle child, but she’s playing decidedly younger football than her years indicate and is now staring down the barrel of relegation. Moaning about her life to the servant Anna won’t help her position in the table either.

League One Servants Table

1. Thomas (up 3)

2. Carson

—-Promotion Zone—-

3. Bates (up 2)

4. Mrs. Patmore (down 3)

5. O’Brien (down 2)

6. Mrs. Hughes (up 4)

7. Daisy (up 2)

8. Anna (down 1)

9. Alfred (down 3)

10. Ethel (up 1)

11. Molesley (down 3)

Ethel

There’s a quiet dignity to her style of play, even if her sex life is gourmet food for the tabloids.

Bates

While in prison, he’s begun to mold himself in the image of a Vinny Jones-esque hard man. He beat a clever offside trap set by his cellmate to frame him, and deserved his goal.

Molesley

Snubbed at one point by the lowly Alfred, then embarrassed publicly by Thomas’ misinformation, Molesley’s supporters once again find themselves burying their heads in their hands. Will it get any better, or will they be loath to see what happens next?

Daisy

Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good, and after falling into Mary’s favor while netting a goal in the process, no one can testify to the veracity of this truism better than Daisy.

Carson

He’s reserved in his approach and stubbornly committed to bore draws and 1-0 matches. But Carson plays well within his limitations. Could promotion be a real possibility?

Mrs. Patmore

Mrs. Patmore allowed too many questions to be asked of her defense as she recklessly revealed Mrs. Hughes’ secret. A true flair for the dramatic works as much for her as it does against her.

Thomas

Goal of the week goes to Thomas, as he unleashed a screamer of an insult on O’Brien. No, no one has ever asked for her hand in marriage, but Thomas may begin to draw comparisons to that other hand, the one of God, if he continues this form.

Alfred

He’s starting to play with a bit more confidence, and he’ll need to if he is to avoid the comparisons to Peter Crouch.

Mrs. Hughes

A model of composure, Mrs. Hughes has handled her run of bad luck well. Now that cancer is no longer in the cards, she can concentrate on getting her fitness back for the second half of the season.

O’Brien

Her war of words in the media with Thomas guarantees this to be the rivalry of the season. Will have to do well to not come undone by his mind games, which can only be compared to those of Alex Ferguson.

Anna

Still taking a conservative approach to clearing Bates’ name, valuing possession over long shots. Whether or not it will pay off with the big goal she needs, however, remains to be seen.

The Downton Abbey Football (Soccer) League - Week 1

Tue, 15 Jan 2013 22:06:00 -0500

Premier League Aristocrats Table

1. Matthew

2. Mary

3. Lady Grantham

4. Dowager Countess

5. Sybil

6. Branson

7. Isobel

—-Relegation Zone—-

8. Lord Grantham

9. Edith

Matthew Crawley

Matthew is still adjusting to higher-than-usual expectations, having only recently established himself as an aristocrat and top of the table contender. Some early season jitters nearly cost him the wedding, but Matthew recovered nicely and could be one to watch if he accepts the large influx of inheritance cash from the oil-rich Saudis.

Mary

Clinical finishing did much to help Mary finally get over the altar-hump with Matthew. She looked splendid in her wedding day kit, and has so far played a very passionate brand of football. Prying a sizeable inheritance away from Matthew, though, will be a true test.

Lady Grantham

Not many could have handled Lord Grantham’s salvo of bad news as well as Cora did – she responded with a fine counter that displayed some lovely positive play. With two daughters now married, her supporters will be dreaming of further glory.

Dowager Countess

Many have touted this as a trophy-filled season for Lady Violet – but the early favorite would need to first overcome a brutal fixture with Mrs. Levinson. She handled herself well, keeping the defense organized as she absorbed one attack after another – even managing to deliver some of her signature one-liners in return. But the Countess will have to recover her confidence and play solid through the middle if she is to live up to her lofty expectations.

Branson

The newly-promoted Branson is finding it difficult to adjust to the Premier League. He looks a bit unsure on his feet, and the confidence that took him so far last season now looks fractured. Refusing to change his clothes and getting roofied may not help his survival in the top division, but if he does go down, at least it will be in an entertaining fashion.

Sybil

Returning from her loan spell in Ireland, Sybil appears to have lost some of her attractive, attacking qualities. Complacency may now be an issue. Can she recover her buccaneering form in time to make a run at the title?

Isobel

Last year’s winner of the FIFA Fair Play award for her philanthropy appears to be putting the same focus on sportsmanship this season. Lacking a talismatic difference-maker in the squad, her charity work may indeed be the only real hope she has of returning to a European competition in the future.

Lord Grantham

Grantham’s campaign opened with a howler of an own goal, as investments in the Grand Trunk Railway proved to be a massive tactical misstep. The Lord will have to do better if he is to secure continental qualification at season’s end.

Edith

It was obvious from the start this season would be a relegation dogfight for Edith. A desperate bid for stoppage-time fireworks with Sir Anthony ended when Lord Grantham executed a crunching two-footed tackle, though he quickly apologized and allowed play to continue.

League One Servants Table

1. Mrs. Patmore

2. Carson

—-Promotion Zone—-

3. O’Brien

4. Thomas

5. Bates

6. Alfred

7. Anna

8. Molesley

9. Daisy

10. Mrs. Hughes

11. Ethel

Mrs. Patmore

No one can question her passion. She always plays through the whistle and has exhibited some lovely teamwork with Mrs. Hughes.

Carson

His supporters may bemoan the long ball style, but Carson’s pragmatic approach rarely leaves him exposed at the back. Until he finds a trequartista in attack, his best bet may prove to be playing for the draw against stronger opponents and become aggressive against the cellar-dwellers like Alfred.

O’Brien

Some inspired wing play saw O’Brien able to set up employment for her cousin Alfred. But some back and forth with Thomas – the master of mind games – will be a challenge to her overall focus.

Thomas

He’s made an enemy of just about every other manager in the league, so he’ll be receiving all their best efforts week in and week out. But we’ve seen him make comebacks like this before – he’s capable of outmaneuvering anyone from a tactical standpoint.

Bates

He’s a lightning rod for the tabloids with his off-the-field issues, but Bates is showing himself to be a resolute force in the league this year. If anyone can save their club from a potential prison yard shivving, it’s Bates.

Alfred

Newly promoted Alfred is off to a shaky start following a thrashing at the hands of Carson. At least his flirtation with Mrs. Levinson’s assistant shows he can score when the defense just gives it to him. Will need to take greater advantage of his excellent height in the penalty box.

Anna

Her play this past week was just a bit too bogged down in midfield. She looked uninspired in her detective work on Bates’ behalf – she needs to start seeing the whole field and play a bit wider.

Molesley

He has begun the season confident of his value to Downton Abbey – even going so far as to suggest he might be playing top-flight football next season. Don’t expect the odds makers to take that bet, however. It’s more likely the end of the season will find Molesley making a thousand-yard stare of total confusion.

Daisy

She’s shown flashes of what she can do since emerging from the youth system, but her lack of experience has been her undoing lately. A failed dressing room strike and being upstaged in pursuit of Alfred by Mrs. Levinson’s assistant leave her facing an uphill struggle this year.

Mrs. Hughes

The head housekeeper will likely find herself struggling for fitness all year due to possible cancer.

Ethel

Ethel has returned to the 2^nd tier following a year of non-league football. Isobel has offered to be her parent club as Ethel seems to be in dire need of financial assistance. But will she take it?

The Allman Brothers - At Fillmore East

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 15:00:11 -0500

Bought: 1/1/13 for $5

Record Grouch - Greenpoint, Brooklyn

When I got home, I thought I’d been screwed.

The record I pulled out of its sleeve was pink, and the first words my eyes fell on were “Hot ’Lanta.” What kind of monster would switch out an Allman Brother’s LP with T.I.? Oh. Wait. This is the right record. Me feel dumb.

But at least this record make me feel lots of other things.

Whenever I put it on, I want to pound bourbon, chase that with PBR, then go ridin’. And I don’t even own a motorcycle. I’d have to take someone else’s. Every time I look at the cover, I’m overcome with an insatiable desire to just hang out with these guys. I doubt I’d last 5 minutes in 1971 Gregg Allman’s world. But I’d sure like to try.

The most memorable track for me has always been In Memory of Elizabeth Reed, and in particular, Duane Allman’s raging guitar solo that builds to a moment of pure Southern Rock-ecstasy.

It’s hard to believe just a few months after this show he’d be pinned beneath his own motorcycle; his organs crushed and unceremoniously revealed to be mortal. But maybe there was just no other way. I mean anyone who played an instrument with that intensity doubtless had to live the rest of their life in the same fashion – so I guess something had to give.

It’s a small but certainly not insignificant comfort that at least this recording happened first.

James Taylor - Sweet Baby James

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 11:52:27 -0500

Bought: 1/1/13 for $2

Record Grouch - Greenpoint, Brooklyn

James Taylor came into my consciousness in the late ‘90s, around the time he was experiencing a career rebirth and I was in junior high.

A friend-of-mine’s dad would always pump out his records and sing along enthusiastically whenever they hosted a party. Yeah, big JT fan. He even had this story about working in an embassy somewhere, and he got to help the guy out with his travel plans because there was a hiccup with his visa. I guess maybe JT rocked the boat a bit too much when he was younger.

There’s also that great Simpsons episode, Deep Space Homer, where JT comes to mission control and plays some relaxing folk-rock for the astronauts while all hell is breaking lose on the spacecraft. Good stuff.

My appreciation of this record doesn’t really approach the critical and commercial approval it’s garnered over the years - I don’t know, it’s just some of the songs are kind of cheesy. But the whole folk-rock genre treads liquid-gouda water anyway. Even still, on this, his second album, it’s clear JT has carved out his own distinct sound. Nothing gets me in the mood to do some ponderin’ quite like that syrupy old voice. And Fire and Rain is untouchable. That songs hits like a kangaroo to the solar plexus.

One interesting thing I read about the making of this album is that JT was promised $20,000 upon its completion, and needing one more song to finish it, he pieced together several nascent songs to create a medley. So what did he call this medley? Why, Suite for 20 G, that’s what. Pretty gangster, JT. Pretty gangster.

Iron Butterfly - In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

Wed, 09 Jan 2013 16:09:46 -0500

Bought: 12/31/12 for $2

Junk - Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Side one could have been anything.

It could have been the sound of a man snoring. Or cats fighting. It could have been a faucet dripping, someone reading the newspaper, or even complete dead air. It wouldn’t have mattered. I’d still think of this album the same.

As we have it, side one is roughly 20 minutes-worth of Iron Butterfly songs that aren’t In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Side two is just In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. And that’s all that matters.

What I think of when I hear this song:

1. William Petersen jumping through a glass door. This happens during the climactic scene of Manhunter, right as the climactic part of this song is playing – making it one of the most climactic moments of human existence.

2. Playing friends in the NCAA football video games in college. We’d always put music on whenever we played, and this song was a popular choice – owing to the fact you didn’t have to get up and change the song for a while, and also because our games tended to take on greater psychedelic qualities whenever this was the soundtrack.

3. Dinosaurs. The weird organ solo (I think it’s an organ?) shrieks in such a fashion as to remind of the raptors in Jurassic Park.

There’s not a whole lot else to say about this album, other than it’s awesome. I love all the stories that surround its construct – the singer was trying to say “in the garden of Eden” but was too wasted, the producer’s oversight of the recording was minimal due to his own persistent wasted-ness, and the finished version of the song was only meant to be a soundcheck which accidentally got recorded. When the band members heard this informal tune-up, they just decided to agree it was “good enough.”

Also worth noting – there’s a reissue album that features just the full song, a radio version of it, a short instrumental take, and a full instrumental version. This makes In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida the Who Let the Dogs Out of the ‘60s.

Blood, Sweat & Tears - Child is Father to the Man

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 19:14:17 -0500

Bought: 1/1/13 for $1

Record Grouch - Greenpoint, Brooklyn

My Dad’s all-time favorite concert was a Blood, Sweat & Tears show – which is a pretty bold statement coming from a guy who once saw Johnny Cash play in a barn. That has to be a big reason why I hold Child is Father to the Man in such high regard – in spite of it being just so… goofy.

I mean, there’s the cover - the strangeness of which is pretty easy to ignore nowadays, especially if you like reddit or Awkward Family Photos. And when you actually listen to it, you never go far without hearing some kind of bizarre flourish – be it cartoon character, farm animal, or otherwise.

You get a good idea of what’s to come on this record from the intro. A nice string arrangement plays while maniacal laughter echoes in the background, and just as you’re starting to wonder if perhaps this isn’t for you, the first few notes of I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know step into your eardrums.

I have a theory that the band formed just so this song could be made. It’s incredible – one of my favorite songs ever. I even like to picture myself walking around while the beginning of it plays behind me. Back in college, my friend Oneal and I would listen to this track and laugh hysterically at how cool it is – and how funny the lyrics are. Actually, our giggling pretty much synced up with what you hear in the intro. I just like how at one point Al Kooper belts out, “I’m trying to be somebody you can love, trust, and understand.” What the hell is there to understand about any of this?

The rest of the record swings erratically from cool, crisp, ironic jazz-rock and Haight-Ashbury psychedelia. I wonder if it might have been better if they’d left the weird bits in the studio – but it probably wouldn’t have been quite as memorable. In any case, Kooper was kicked out of the group soon after, and the rest of Blood, Sweat & Tears began the long march towards irrelevance which lasts to this day.

It’s pointless to speculate whether Child is Father to the Man would have been any better or any worse with this or that. After all, the answer itself comes mockingly in that one special song: “I’m only flesh and blood, but I could be everything you demand. I could be president of General Motors baby, or just a tiny little grain of sand.”

You can even hear the tiniest echo on his chuckle.

JOHNNY WHITE'S AND PARALLEL UNIVERSES

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 12:45:00 -0400

There exists a hypothetical theory that out in the furthest reaches of space are universes entirely separate from our own. In these fantastical places, the very laws of nature we hold dear to our sanity may be turned completely upside down.

Anyone who has ever spent even a short amount of time in New Orleans knows there is nothing hypothetical about this theory, and you don’t have to go deep-spacing it to find your alternate reality, either. All you have to do is wander down Bourbon Street.

There you’ll find public urination, public nudity, public everything, all the seven deadly sins, and even the vomit is neon. On Bourbon, nothing is sacred. A Britney Spears song blares out of a digital jukebox in one of the oldest bars in the country, once owned by a pirate. Spring breakers down multi-colored shooters in another bar where Louis Armstrong used to play. It’s best not to think of these ironies as you wade through the garbage and smelly water in the street.

Somewhere in the middle of all this cacophony sits Johnny White’s Sports Bar. Float your way from the abyss into White’s and you’ll rediscover the ordinary laws of nature. The bar is laid back, populated by locals, the beer is just beer - and cheap. It’s best not to think how impossible Bourbon would be without this oasis of sanity.

Johnny White’s actually made national news in the wake of Katrina, when it some how managed to stay open during the storm. With the power still out all over the city, people from the neighborhood gathered here to share news, and the bar became a de facto distribution center for food and water.

Now, however, the doors of Johnny White’s are finally shutting and the bar is closing. It’s best not to think about the kind of establishment that will pop up in its place.

But if parallel universes really do exist, then this must simply be part of their nature. After all, a being who breathes oxygen could never survive amongst lead-sucking creatures. And who’s to say the concepts we know of as beauty and charm are even universal?

BOB AT THE BAR

Thu, 17 May 2012 11:34:00 -0400

Bob did not sit at the end of the bar, where he would have no hope of being heard by anyone trapped in the icy orbit of Big Buck Hunter.

“So I walk in to dis oysta bah down Bedfuhd. Real nice place, ya know da one I’m talkin’ about?”

Bob never waits for answers to his questions. It isn’t because he’s impatient or rude or anything like that. It’s because he talks to people in the same way a desperate man might speak with God, unsure of how long he’ll have His attention, and not really expecting an answer anyway.

“I belly up to da bah and orduh a dozen oystas. And ya can’t have oystas without havin’ a coupla beers, ya know? So I have my lunch and a few drinks. Couldn’t a been there more den, oh I dunno, 25 minutes? Da bahtenda brings me my check, and it says 44 dollars!”

A smile then crawls from one end of Bob’s face to the other, and his eyes lower in a knowing way as he nods his understanding.

“So I says to him, ‘Ok. Let’s staht over.’”

The bartender doesn’t stir as he leans against the bar with his back to Bob, reading a newspaper.

“I says to him, ‘I’m gonna put dis 20 on the bah, you’re gonna take it, and I’m gonna be on my merry way. No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.’”

Just then a disheveled man in his 20s walks into the bar, nearly doubling the current population. “Hey, can you tell me where the L station is?”

“Yeah,” the bartender mutters, and again without moving.

The man waits several awkward seconds before realizing he’s not actually going to get any help, then lightly taps the bar with his hand, and says thanks before leaving.

Bob’s yellowing eyes follow the man out into the sunlight. His thin mustache twitches like the whiskers of a confused dog.

“Anudda Schmidt’s, Jack, when ya got a minute.”

Jack comes to a good stopping point, then folds the newspaper delicately, placing it on the bar as he meanders over to the cooler. Bob wonders how much Jack paid for his jeans as he bends over to grab a beer.

“Did I evah tell ya about da time I went ta Hawaii? Friend a mine who owns Avis, ya know da rent-a-cah company? Anyway, he took me along. Said I gotta pay my own airfare but he’ll take care a everyteeng else.”

A smile spreads across Bob’s face.

“I says, ‘Ok, hold up. Let’s staht dis ovuh.’”

FA CUP FINAL: CHELSEA 2 LIVERPOOL 1

Sat, 05 May 2012 16:54:00 -0400

They say Mussolini’s trains were always right on time, but so usually are Luis Suárez’s crosses.

As well his racial epithets. Earlier this season, Liverpool claimed cultural ignorance in the matter like they were David Brent. In Suárez’s Uruguay, they pleaded, calling someone “negro” isn’t offensive. He only said it 10 times, after all. He probably meant it like anyone else would say “buddy.”

And refusing to shake the same player’s hand, after the suspension passed? Another culture clash, folks. In Bolivia, not leaving both of your hands visible while eating is considered deceptive. So who can really understand the South American ways?

But alas, it’s match time. Too late to talk about racism. It’s the FA Cup Final. Liverpool v Chelsea. We just want to watch a little soccer, and not worry about things like who’s a despicable human being and such. Oh wait, speaking of, there’s John Terry! Sorry, I’m quite ready to talk about the match now. Psst, check out the “controversies” section on Terry’s wiki entry.

11th minute. Chelsea strikes first.

It all starts with Craig Bellamy dribbling out of bounds in ponderous fashion, gifting Chelsea the ball. Another Liverpool player has a chance to reclaim possession after the throw in, but whiffs. Don’t know who it was. Too many precarious defenders in Liverpool’s lineup to differentiate.

Mata then releases Ramires on a through ball, Jose Enrique gets burned, and Pepe Reina is beaten on the near post. 1-0 Chelsea.

Suárez shuts his eyes. It’s not supposed to be like this. Better call that Ramires “mate” a few times tonight.

He’s so deep in this thought that he loses focus on a chance to equalize a few minutes later. Daniel Agger with a clever chip forward. Suárez balloons the header.

Then Didier Drogba extends the lead in the 52nd minute. A left-footed strike from that man who looks to be made of far more durable material than the flesh and bone of everyone else. 2-0 Chelsea.

Again, the sighs of Suárez. But there’s hope yet. A few minutes after entering the game, Andy Carroll finds the ball at his feet 6 yards from the goal. He fakes Terry out, then puts the ball in the back of the net. 2-1 Chelsea.

Liverpool throw everything they have into the last half hour. Petr Cech brilliantly gets a hand to a Carroll header that at first looks to have crossed the line. Suárez was so sure of it from his two-dimensional vantage point he picked up a yellow card in protest. Replays show the linesman was right to allow play to continue.

But it’s all over now. Chelsea win 2-1. And of Suárez, what now is his fate? Will Liverpool next season be able to look past the monstrous behavior to the beauty of his ability? These days, there’s just no telling when the next train will leave.

WAITING FOR GOODELL

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 14:13:00 -0400

I’ve never been to Pamplona, but something about walking down 50th Street outside of Radio City Music Hall the night before the NFL Draft reminded me of the fabled running of the bulls.

The venue had an odd format for lining everyone up who wished to get wristbands to attend round one the following evening. They cordoned people off into many individual groups, surrounding them with barriers - ostensibly to keep others from cutting in line, but it created a weird effect. It seemed as if the beasts would be unleashed into the streets at any moment - except instead of being bulls, they were fat men wearing Dan Marino jerseys.

I got to the back of the line, and girded my loins for an evening of Bro Fest. I heard an argument between a Browns fan and a Raiders fan over who had drafted the worst quarterback. There was boisterous laughter for stupid jokes. And others shotgunned beers, and talked of bygone days where they also shotgunned beers.

I had expected to see a few other fellow Saints fans hoping to ironically attend a night where they would have no pick, so I was happy to see a guy wearing a Jimmy Graham jersey get in line behind me. “Oh, no, I’m a Browns fan, man. Graham is just my keeper in fantasy.”

He must have sensed my disgust, because he quickly followed that up by saying, “But I like the Saints.” Whatever dude.

Soon we were informed that our group would be the cut off of people getting wristbands - none of us we’re getting in tomorrow night. Saints fans had been getting nothing but bad news lately, so in a weird way this setback gave me some solidarity.

Just then, the commish, Roger Goodell, appeared in the street, glad-handing it up with the rows of people. It was like he was some rancher, checking on his livestock to make sure it was fat enough for slaughter.

A furious yell seeped in an outer-borough accent came from behind me. “HEY, GOODELL.”

The commish turned towards the sound. “YOUR WEBSITE SAID TO LINE UP AT 10. I GOT HERE AT 9:30, AND NOW I CAN’T GET IN. FIX THIS SHIT.”

“You want to talk about it?” Goodell replied cooly.

A man in a Jets jersey knifed through the crowd, and for a moment, I thought I was going to bear witness to the first assassination of a sitting NFL commissioner. But Goodell’s cronies made a bubble, and an intense, but inaudible conversation followed between the two.

I decided to concede defeat, and headed back to the subway. Something had put me in the mood for steak.

AN OPENER IN THE BRONX

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 13:11:00 -0400

It was the afternoon of the Yankees home opener. I left for the Bronx determined to find something nice to say about them. As I boarded the 4 train, I saw an ad for New York Yankees Fragrance. Tag line: Past. Present. Forever.

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

It’s not that I particularly dislike the Yankees, at least not as much as the average baseball fan. I just don’t relish heaping praise on a franchise that has won more championships (27, if you’re not keeping score at home) than any other North American professional sports team.

The defining characteristic of baseball is how challenging it’s meant to be. The best players of any era only get a hit about a third of the time, but the Yankees have appeared in more than a third of all the World Series ever played. Undeniably impressive, but still. It’s gross.

I came of sports-age in the late ’90s, when the Yankees played in 6 of the next 8 Fall Classics, winning 4 of them. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t a perennial nuisance to win it all.

Contrast that with my team, the Astros, who will certainly finish this, their 50th year of existence, without a title. By almost any metric in this category, it qualifies them as a tortured franchise. They’re not Cubs-on-a-desert-island-and-babbling-to-a-volleyball starved, but it is what it is. All they have to show for their time with the living is one steroid-fueled World Series appearance that lasted about as long as a North Korean missile launch, and several promising seasons that seemed to always end with them running into the law firm of Maddox, Glavine, & Smoltz in a 5-game playoff series. Game over.

Those seasons were most likely steroid fueled as well by Jeff Bagwell’s thighs, but whatever, I’m obviously not bitter. But I am rambling. Let’s get back to finding something nice to say about the Yankees.

As I turned from 158th Street on to River Avenue, the stadium came in to view. I hated it. There was a giant digital scoreboard on the outside. The concrete facade looked as if it had been designed to look older than it was, some sort of insufficient apology for tearing down the former stadium. Minute Maid Park (lest we forget Enron Field) isn’t exactly an art deco masterpiece, but no one expects a Houston franchise to place an emphasis on aesthetics. I never got to see the original Yankee Stadium.

I took a few pictures because I felt obligated, also I thought maybe it would look better through the lens. It looked worse.

I stepped into a bar, the Dugout, across the street from the stadium. The doorman spent a few awkward moments searching for the date of birth on my driver’s license. “I never had a Louisiana in here,” he said. I tried to think of something witty to say, but just laughed and walked in.

The Yankees were up 4-0 against the Angels in the 4th and cruising. Kuroda would give up no runs and only 5 hits over 8 innings in his debut with the team. I watched a couple of innings while I drank my PBR, frowning at shots of relaxed fans playing with their phones, even though I’d be doing the same.

Leaving the bar, I realized I still hadn’t found anything nice to say. The elevated train tracks ran over the bar, between it and the stadium. I liked that. And the bar was next to a 99 Cent and Up store. I liked that as well.

Something made me think of the Astros losing game 4, and the series, in 2005. I had watched that game with my girlfriend at the time. Wait. We had broken up at that point. I watched the Astros lose the only World Series they’d ever been in with an ex-girlfriend. That’s not sad at all.

It is indeed very hard to find something nice to say about the Yankees. But maybe that’s only because it’s so easy for everyone else to fail.

THE THINGS YOU OVERHEAR AT MARDI GRAS

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 14:17:00 -0500

Like a brightly-colored wig fixed insecurely to one’s head, these are the bits of conversation lost to the wind over Mardi Gras. Enjoy.

“You can’t sleep at the bar.”

“Did we bring our son?”

“It used to be a trash can.”

“That dog is eating its own pants.”

“Someone would have said something by now if we couldn’t sit here.”

“That’s not the kind of cop who will help you.”

THE CHART ROOM

Sun, 12 Feb 2012 12:26:00 -0500

Your visit to the Chart Room will not start off well.

As you enter the dingy tavern at the corner of Chartres and Bienville in the French Quarter, you will first be struck by the odor. It is quite smoky. The stench is palpable in spite of the fact the walls on one side are often open to the street, underneath where the faded blue and white awning used to be.

Even when no one inside is smoking, you will still feel yourself breathing in the fumes. It’s as if the decades-long exposure to cigars and cigarettes has caused the furniture, decorum, and the wood-grained bar to adopt the habit as well. And though the bar has plenty of ventilation, the French Quarter can at times certainly make one want to renounce the notion of fresh air.

Take a few steps in. It quickly becomes apparent how difficult it will be to get a drink. If there is no room at the bottom “L” side of the bar, you must brave the narrow corridor up the side. This is no small challenge. You will be flanked on one side by patrons standing at the bar with their backs to you, often swaying like the tops of tall pine trees on a windy day. A few feet from them are the tables. These are wobbly and their real estate is densely packed with the drinks of other patrons. One errant step could send several cocktails to the floor, and several angry drinkers up from their seats.

Maybe you’re thinking at this point a visit to the bathroom is in order. There you might regain your composure. But this is another trip fraught with peril.

Every inch of surface in there is sticky and layered with graffiti. The door to the stall hangs so precariously from its hinge you almost feel sorry for it. And then there’s the urinal. Within its bowl you are likely to find drinks and cigarette butts; an ignominious end to the already short life of these objects.

Journey out of here and fight your way to the bar. You will need that drink now more than ever. But, alas. There is but one beer on tap: High-Life. And the tap is likely covered by a cup; the universal sign that your lips will find no purchase there. Your best bet then is to order a mixed drink. Perhaps the distilled liquor will kill some of the germs already invading your system.

You should have given up hope by now. But then the drink is poured.

It is an incredible drink. A bourbon and coke is translucent with liquor. And you are not to be sobered by the price either; a double is just $3. As you slowly turn around, pleasantly surprised by this turn in fortune, you scan the bar. The patrons you once feared look different when you are holding a stiff and cheap drink. They are a mixture of older locals, service industry workers, and bemused tourists. The open-air wall gives it the feeling of a Parisian cafe seen through the eyes of Dali or Picasso.

Everywhere there is laughter, and the juke box is brilliant. You will find every song you ever wanted to hear while inebriated, at just the right volume.

Stand outside and people-watch to your heart’s content. Stumbling to and from Bourbon Street are many a lost soul.

The feeling you’re left with at the end of the night is difficult to describe. The Chart Room seems like a throwback to when this neighborhood was just a neighborhood, before there were any name-brand hotels or ghost tours. It also seems like it could have been built more recently, filling the need for a low-key drink after dinner or a show.

But in reality, the Chart Room is probably more like a worn-down shed, still full of utility and now also nostalgia, and as the weeds grow in and around it, you’re happy it’s there, even though you’re sad the memory fades as to why it was ever built.

THE DEVOLUTION OF THE HIPSTER

Sun, 22 Jan 2012 13:02:00 -0500

Maybe Darwin got it wrong.

He was definitely on to something, with this evolution theory of his. But after centuries - nay, eons - of progressive human development, I am now certain we have reached a tipping point, and are heading back to where we came from.

I am of course referring to this article from Time. It points out the latest hipster trend - dressing up like the Amish.

For those of you keeping score at home, it represents yet another giant leap backwards for mankind. Allow me to offer a brief history of events leading up to now.

Roughly ten years ago, the trend of donning 80s New Wave rocker outfits emerged. Lots of black. Guyliner. Think early Depeche Mode.

As the Gregorian Calendar crept forward to 2004, we saw our first instance of Benjamin Button reverse-growth. Hipsters started to mimic Buddy Holly.

And within the past couple of years, it became chic to posture as an early 20th-century newsboy. Are you seeing the trend? This is undoubtedly how we arrived at the mid 19th-century Amish getup.

But will it stop here? I highly doubt it. So where will it go? That’s fun to ponder.

I predict that within the next year or two, the Ben Franklin will emerge as the style du jour. Stockings. Tricorner hats. Monocles? I should think so.

And the devolution will continue, on and on through the ages. Pilgrims. Conquistadors. Ancient Egyptians. These groups all have what the hipster craves most - idiosyncratic hats. Even on to the days of cavemen, they will harken. I tell you Bushwick will become the center of loincloths. Just you wait.

Where can it go from there? Would hipsters actually strip all the way down, move to densely forested areas, and form packs of banana-eating gorillastylists? No, not unless their iPhones can still get reception.

But if you really want to skip to the cutting edge, then you must find the end - which is really where it all began. The primordial pool. Crawl yourself into that, and you will achieve Hipster Nirvana.

And I’m not talking about the band. They’re so overplayed.

PEACE IN THE SECOND LINE

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 13:41:00 -0500

Donald Johnson lay dead on the sidewalk, his “Misunderstood” tattoo clearly visible. ¹

The 21-year-old’s death brought an end to a Hollywood-esque spree of violence that began when Johnson and two accomplices showed up at a home in eastern New Orleans. The trio allegedly opened fire on the occupants. Two in the home died immediately, while two others were wounded. As the shooters fled in a red Pontiac Grand Prix, 60-year-old Reyland Berry, who was also in the home, returned fire - only to be killed in the exchange.

A police chase ensued. The getaway car crashed into a telephone pole, forcing the three passengers to bail out. At this point, the trio began firing at officers, police said. All three would be hit by return fire, with Johnson dying at the scene.

This episode brought the murder count in New Orleans up to 12, through just the first 12 days of the year. ²

Against a bloody backdrop, the Undefeated Divas and Gents Social Aid and Pleasure Club prepared for their annual second line.

The theme for this year’s parade is peace. Written on all the banners is “We’re Still Standing.”

Events like second lines seem to exist in their own parallel universe, apart from the normal laws and reality of a city that already is very far from conforming to what most would deem “normal.”

As the brass band plays, and members of the club strut along to the music, a David Lynch-like dream sets in amongst the parade. The itinerant marchers are a surreal hodgepodge. There are old and young African-Americans, hipsters, and even a few random tourists who must believe standing at a distance is the only way to guarantee preserving their sanity. Budding entrepreneurs sell everything from liquor to toothpaste - the sheer number of them creating a buyer’s market. The air is choked with good marijuana, bad marijuana, and marijuana that smells like poison ivy. Police are present, but not really to enforce laws. They seem to be there mainly to offer a symbolic trail of breadcrumbs back to an ordinary way of life.

The parade winds through the striking yet suffering neighborhoods of Tremé and Central City. It backs up traffic on busy streets, rolling past houses covered in moss and broken sidewalks with concrete spiking up to the sky.

Despite the peaceful theme and joy of everyone parading through this dream world, one’s mind is never much distracted from death.

Everywhere there are airbrushed t-shirts to remember the dead. In their pictures, they hold automatic weapons, and the years of existence next to their names are tragically short. Signs posted on houses discourage loitering, and many more homes than it seems like there should be have been made wheelchair-accessible. A member of the club repeatedly makes pleas against the violence, shouting through his mic, “Stop the goddamn killing!”

Later that evening, the city will learn there was another shooting across town. ³It happened as the parade rolled. But this incident barely makes the news, since fortunately the victim’s wounds are not life-threatening.

One must divorce themselves from the sadness at some point. Otherwise, their mind is likely to slip into perpetual hysteria that mirrors the meandering circus of the second line.

But now’s not the time to worry. The children of the club’s members are dressed up in suits, laughing, running past the car that carries this year’s parade king. He looks down at them, never breaking from the smile he casts on all who wish to have his picture. It’s something so simple, his benevolent smile. But it brings a welcome respite from the struggle, and a measure of hope for peace.

¹http://www.nola.com/crime/index.ssf/2012/01/triple-homicide_suspect_once_c.html

²http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory/18-hour-outbreak-violence-stuns-orleans-15357427#.TxRqk2NWrzd

³http://www.nola.com/crime/index.ssf/2012/01/man_shot_in_side_in_st_claude.html

NEWT THE CONQUEROR

Sat, 17 Dec 2011 18:33:00 -0500

Frank Bruni’s NYT article dissects the monumental hubris of Newt Gingrich.

In a Vanity Fair piece from 1995, Gingrich apparently made it is his intention to one day be known as “Newt the McPherson” (his biological father’s name).

I know that’s supposed to scare me, but I kind of like it.

You just don’t see those types of flourishes in names anymore. Like with Edward the Confessor, or William the Conqueror. So epic.

If someone has lived a mythical life, for better or worse, I think they deserve a sobriquet. Jackie the Robinson comes to mind. Or how about George Bush the Lesser? Well, that doesn’t work - it implies there’s a George Bush the Great. Maybe George Bush the Least? Yeah, let’s go with that.

LETTERS FROM CONWAY: DEAR TICKETMASTER

Mon, 05 Dec 2011 11:32:00 -0500

Dear Ticketmaster,

My heart, most often full of arteries, valves, blood, and indelible courage, has on this day opened its doors to a fifth tenant of a most unwanted nature. This rogue wayfarer is none other than that emotion likely felt in full force by Stonewall Jackson on the despondent night he was gunned down by his own men.

I am speaking, of course, about dismay. Dismay on a scale I would never wish upon a Union man, or even a Confederate deserter.

You see, Ticketmaster, I was in the process of purchasing a single ticket for a concert only a short drive from my hamlet, Freedomsburg. The concert I speak of held much promise to me, as it was to feature an evening of instrumental reenactments of battlefield hymns.

Naturally, I had logged on to your Internet page several hours before tickets were scheduled to go on sale, concerned I understandably was with a show of this stature selling out.

Oh, you can imagine how quickened my spirit became with each passing chime of the grandfather clock! This concert had within it the potential to soar to rarefied heights in my cerebellum, where previously only memories such as my visit to the Lincoln Tomb held court.

Lincoln! How I curse thy name! Please understand me, Ticketmaster, for this diversion away from my excoriation of you. I can assure you that once I lay out the many grievances you have brought upon my sunny disposition, you will forgive me this minor detail.

I visited the Lincoln Tomb not to pay my respects, but rather to ensure that ape-like beast was in fact dead and mercifully buried many feet below the surface of the living world. Unfortunately, I was forced to take the police department’s word for it, owing to the fact that I was handcuffed and frogmarched to the local precinct before I could manage to dig that far down.

Nevertheless, I felt nothing short of pure elation at seeing that despot’s name carved into a gravestone. Ah, this memory sings to my heart like the Sirens must have done to Odysseus. Just thinking about it stirs my loins.

But allow me to return to the diatribe at hand. After I had entered my credit card information, and was all set to secure a randy evening of musical virtuosity, your garrulous Internet page informed me that I should have to pay a “convenience fee” of $1.50.

Not since I visited Gettysburg had I felt such an aching in my heart. I would gladly pay the $5 you posted as the cost for the concert, seeing as much of those proceeds would doubtless go to the talented musicians. But to then tack on another $1.50 simply to line the pockets of your derelict company is too much to ask a man of such sound integrity as myself. I see no convenience in this convenience fee, nor do I see myself doing business with the likes of your consortium ever again, Ticketmaster.

Unless, of course, the honorable John Wilkes Booth somehow becomes reanimated, and promises to play the banjo at the next concert.

With disgust,

Conway Mutterfield

SELF-TITLED?

Sun, 13 Nov 2011 14:20:00 -0500

Some of the best albums of all time are self-titled. But that seems kind of lazy to me.

I mean, you write all these great songs. You spend a lot of time in the studio. And you mix it until it fulfills your vision. Then what? You’re not even going to come up with a freaking name for it?

How come artists in other fields can’t get away with that? Martin Scorsese directed Raging Bull. But he didn’t call it Martin Scorsese. Farewell to Arms isn’t named Ernest Hemingway.

I love the Doors’ first album, but c’mon. Slap a name on it. And what’s with Led Zeppelin? They couldn’t be bothered to name four of their albums? Effort, people. Let’s see it.