CNBC Fab 5 Pics: Hewlett-Packard/Caruso-Cabrera Edition

Cheer up, Larry.

Haven’t been following the market as closely as I probably should, but you know I can always make room in my schedule for hot babes. “Misery loves hot babes” – that’s my motto! Don’t worry. I’ll spare you the bitchfest.

To be honest with you, though, this post has a lot working against it. For one, it’s a lot harder to get excited for hot TV babes when real-life babes spent the last three days hazing each other two blocks down the street from my apartment off Sorority Row. This is a glorious occurrence that all should have the pleasure of witnessing first hand. That said, I’m sure something illegal’s happened by now and I would bet the rest of my waning bank account that there’s a harassment suit in the works.

Speaking of which, let’s talk about Hewlett-Packard, a company left high and dry by its playboy womanizer, and now ex-CEO, Mark Hurd.

Dipsh*t Mark Hurd

Mark, come on, you can’t make passes at your employees if you’re gonna be a sore sport about rejection. However much I admire your choice of corporate underling…

Hellooo, Ms. Fisher.

… you can’t go  about cutting her workload and compensation should she resist your half-assed advances (all-inclusive trips, embezzled money, yada, yada). Take a page from Don Draper – act like nothing ever happened; deny, deny, deny; give her a huge Christmas bonus; let her collapse under the weight of her own guilt and fragile self-esteem. She never opens her mouth.

Okay, maybe that’s not the best play.

Bottom line, HP announces quarterly earnings Thursday, the fallout from which will probably remind us all that both paper and personal computers (much like the newspaper industry… deep sigh) are on pace to join Betamax and New Coke in the very near future. If you track the market like I do – or have ever stepped foot in a Best Buy – you’re well aware that HP specializes in printing and PCs, the likes of which will soon be wiped from the face of the Earth by the internet and Apple, respectively.

Take a bow, Steve Jobs, you of ruthless monopoly.

Random Gator Nation Plug (which we need, b/c The U just passed us… Go ‘Canes.)

Employed by one-time Florida flagship school.

The other thing working against this post – you may have noticed – is Bond Girl Mandy Drury’s ill-timed late summer vacation. She’s spent this week sunbathing with Liz Hurley in Cancun (in my mind at least), which means the role players have been left to fend without their star guard.

Wait. Stay here.

Remember how Jordan’s sudden retirement temporarily transformed Scottie Pippen into this chip-on-shoulder, take-on-all-comers superforward?

Two words: “The Profile.”

Head-on shots work, too.

But you see why they call her "The Profile."

Yes, Casualtists, Michelle Caruso-Cabrera is back – with a vengeance. “Die Hard” style.

And, per usual, Regan and Burnett turned in all-star caliber performances. Hell, even Melissa Francis is rounding into form (no pun intended)… Which means I don’t have to replace her with Julia Boorstin.

Okay, so last week's "tugboat" comment was a little harsh.

Third thing working against this post: I’m in a remarkably shi*ty mood, as my Thursday night foolishness has been preempted by an early Friday morning interview. FYI, future employers: haven’t seen 7:00 a.m. since 12th grade. Srsly, WTF?

Rick Santelli has my back on this one.

Great American Rick Santelli

Chauvinistic rant over. Tongue out of cheek. Steve Ballmer, you suck at your job. You could use a BlackBerry.

Hint freakin’ hint.

Have an overwhelming Thursday.

- Robbie

There’s the Arcade Fire… and there’s everyone else

Don't want to work in a building downtown.

I’m nine listens through Arcade Fire’s new record The Suburbs, and more than anything, just surprised my speakers haven’t given out or the old stoner man next door hasn’t come knocking. It’s usually at the 10th track, “Month of May,” a screaming punk rocker (with violins, of course), that I start acting foolish – closing the blinds, jacking the volume, stomping up the apartment floors like in tribal rain dance (btw, it’s pouring in Gainesville).

I’ve thought about the levels – how loud or long, at what times, I’d have to play these songs before the girl downstairs – “The Noise Nazi” – takes her broom to the ceiling. Or before the cops show up.

Truth is, that’s what I’m hoping for.  I want somebody to tell – tell them what they’re missing out on, or more probably, what they already know…

That the Arcade Fire is the best band around, by some considerable measure – by a very large sprawl.

That I feel compelled to say so speaks to the septet’s enormously powerful sway. The Suburbs topped the charts in almost every music-buying country this week – my dad knows about this band – and yet fans still proselytize with this ridiculously cultish fervor suggesting, perhaps falsely, some have still not heard.

"The Suburbs" Promo

The Arcade Fire is big enough to change the world and small enough to make you think you’re in on something special. They’re essentially the musical offspring of U2 (the atmosphere, the bombast, the bleeding heart) and Springsteen (the storytelling, the working-class inhabitation, the romanticism), but imbued with a pulsing weirdness and endearing lack of polish absent in their predecessors.

Populism is certainly a common thread, though. And so when I saw them in Berkeley in the summer of ’07, I sat on a hill surrounded by middle-aged college professors, enlightened hipsters, yuppies, sobbing emo girls, burnouts, white-collars. It’s something, too, that a band so firmly entrenched in (and embraced by) the indie buzzosphere can extract such sincerity from such an ironic crowd.

People dance at their shows.

Live, in a place no cars go.

You’d think that a group like this – underground buzzword turned indie icon turned bankable arena act – would lose something in the transition, or at least see turnover in the bandwagon. That the earliest proponents are still on board is a testament to the enduring quality and vitality of the music. The collective, fronted by Win Butler and wife Regine Chassagne, is just as important now as they were before “Wake Up” was the outro on every other sports radio program. And perhaps even more so now that more ears are listening.

Even Pitchfork, that bastion of snarky contrarianism, could only muster enough picked nits to give The Suburbs an 8.6 — which, from where I stand, is about 1.4 off.

Suburbs isn’t a perfect record per se, but it is a masterpiece, and beyond that, an album worth defending.

Case in point: when Jonathan Donaldson of Boston alt weekly The Phoenix published his two-star review – by far the lowest of any critically established publication – the resulting backlash sparked a commenter firestorm that temporarily jeopardized the critic’s job.

Via The Phoenix:

To each their own – your “own” sucks but enjoy it none the less. ~ Kalelrob

You’re gonna have to live this review down for a long time, my friend. ~ Mickwildcat

Go wash your hands and mouth with antiseptic as penance for this monstrous piece of “journalism”. ~ Donaldson Duck

This seems to have been written with the intention of bringing the album’s Metacritic score down… The only thing worse than hyperbolic salivating is a review like this. ~ Collectionpoint

What use is hyperbolic salivating if not for records like this? The Suburbs is, in short, a wonder – perfectly paced, thematically incisive, brutally poignant.

It’s the aural equivalent of Yate’s “Revolutionary Road,” essentially a concept album about the death of a dream, about growing old in a suffocating comfort zone.

One of eight covers

Granted, there’s no doubt a Holden Caulfield out there crying phony – how can a world-renown rock band possibly relate to the trappings of vanilla suburbia?

Because these feelings and fears are universal.

The occasionally preachy turns in Neon Bible yield to tempered meditations laced with affecting honesty.

They heard me singing and they told me to stop/
Quit these pretentious things and just punch the clock/
These days my life, I feel it has no purpose/
But late at night the feelings swim to the surface

So floats Chassagne’s nymphetic voice over flickering new-wave keys in triumphant climax “Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains).” Should you think to yourself, yeah, I know that feeling, that makes two of us.

On “We Used Wait,” Butler – who’s noticeably toned down his theatric delivery – laments the onset of digital alienation, as sparse chopsticks piano lines build to a clattering groove of pinging electric guitar, synths and dissonant low ends. “Hope that something pure can last,” goes the pre-chorus, but against a steadily rising tide of tension that cast doubt on the refrain.

We Used To Wait

If the The Suburbs reads on paper like an emotional gauntlet, that’s because it is. It wouldn’t be an Arcade Fire album, though, without a hugely cathartic payoff. So for all the longing and mourning and requiems of wasted youth, there’s bubbling under a throbbing, life-affirming optimism of those who made their escape.

The final twin-peaked finale of “Sprawl I”/”Sprawl II,” then, is a microcosm for the record as a whole – the former swells with heartstrings-tugging sorrow rescued only by the big, triumphant glow of its sister track.

More so than its predecessors, Suburbs plays as one fully coherent work. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts… but, wow, are the parts spectacular.

That the album works on a level apart from its conceptual theme speaks to the immediacy of the individual songs. “Half Light II (No Celebration),” “Suburban War” – with its towering final break –  and particularly the startlingly powerful “Sprawl II” ring with all the stirring grandiosity of “Power Out” and “No Cars Go.”

Suburban War

The propulsive, fuzzed trio of “Ready To Start,” “Empty Room” and “Month of May” balance the beautifully loping ballads, whereas cuts like “City With No Children” – all pure hooky groove – carve out their own unique niche in the band’s now impressively expansive palette.

City With No Children

Not one of these 63 minutes drags. There are no clunkers. No wasted moments. No reasons to hit skip. Only seamless narrative and masterful song craft.

On “Ready To Start,” Butler turns a [black?] mirror on the effusive praise that’s enveloped his band:

All the kids have always known/
That the emperor wears new clothes/
But they bow down to him anyway/
‘Cause it’s better than being alone

Fine. But I can only speak to what I see.

What clothes.

- Robbie

UM receiver LaRon Byrd out 0 to 12 games with leg injury

Randy Shannon before his interrogators.

The 13th-ranked Miami Hurricanes suffered a setback to their receiving corps earlier this month when explosive junior slot man Thearon Collier left school due to “personal issues.” Collier, the team’s best punt returner, will likely transfer to USC to sit under the tutelage of head coach Lane Kiffin and, God willing, an English teacher.

Wrote Collier on Facebook, “THS MY LAST WEEK IN MIA B4 I HEAD OFF TO CALI TO PERSUIT MY FOOTBALL CAREER …”

Departures of this kind are nothing new for the Hurricanes, a team that regularly sees top talent leave to persuit football careers at once-inferior programs. Collier’s West Coast swing does, however, shake up a depth chart that got even thinner Monday when second-leading receiver LaRon Byrd missed practice with a leg injury.

Byrd, a junior, was seen on campus walking with a brace and crutches, but the severity of the injury is still unclear. When accosted by local reporters, head coach Randy Shannon shed some light on the situation.

(Note: word-for-word answers via the Miami Herald in grey)

Coach, how is LaRon doing?

“He’s doing fine. I told you guys the other day some guys are nicked — we’re going to sit them out.”

Hopefully, it’s serious. But we don’t think it is…

“You want it to be serious, though, huh? You go around that corner, you’re going to see about five guys riding [exercise] bikes; they didn’t practice today.”

We’re just trying to do our job, coach. You mad at us?

“You guys try hard. I’m not mad. I’m just joking around with you.”

Wait… so LaRon will be back for afternoon practice?

“Nope.”

Let’s say a player is out for [week two's game against] Ohio State. Would you tell us?

“I keep telling you guys [and] you keep trying. I’m telling you, I will let all you guys know when a guy is going to be done for the season, like I always do.”

Byrd will have an MRI later this week to determine whether or not the leg needs to be amputated.

- Robbie

You did good, K-Rod. I would’ve kicked Carlos Pena’s ass, too.

Hero Francisco Rodriguez

This is a post about father-in-law beater Francisco Rodriguez, colored admittedly by my abject hatred for the New York Mets and their playpen of underachievers passed off euphemistically as an “organization.”

That said, I got Frankie’s back on this one. Let’s discuss.

Wednesday night brings K-Rod to the deflating realization that his team truly sucks – sucks in that way one can only suck by spending $132 million on profoundly mediocre talent and much more on a cavernous, half-empty stadium named after a failed financial institution.

And financed by this guy.

He’s watching a 2-2, eighth-inning game from the bullpen. He’s feelin’ antsy. Feelin’ like, “You should put me in coach, so Manny doesn’t give up a grand slam to the corpse of Melvin Mora.”

Sure enough, Mora takes Manny Acosta yard. Game over. K-Rod, like his teammates, is pissed. He says “R.A. Dickey” a couple times, but even that doesn’t make the last year and a half feel anything other than a total failure of near everything constituting good baseball.

Shoulda stayed in SoCal. What the hell was I thinking? Daian’s old man better watch his mouth tonight.

Of course, girlfriend Daian’s old man Carlos does not watch his mouth, but rather tells his not-son K-Rod to “Stop acting like a baby. Man up and play better.”

He swallows it. Takes it like a man. But momma K-Rod tells this a-hole/d-bag to keep his mouth shut, igniting a Spanish-language only war-of-words that would turn the cheeks of Ozzie Guillen.

We both know you can’t talk to Momma-Rod like that, and we know for sure that you can’t throw the first punch at a 28-year-old professional athlete and not expect a memorable beatdown for your troubles.

Can opened. Wupp ass out. A barrage of inspired haymakers say what cool heads cannot:

Carlos Pena, you sir, picked the wrong night to f*ck with Frankie Rodriguez.

Six-foot, 195 pounds of disgruntled Mets closer descends on his partner’s 53-year-old father, pinning him – justifiably – to the wall like a Rag Doll Susie before, as the New York Daily News described, “raining blows on his head and face.”

Carlos "The Instigator" Pena

This all goes down in Citi Field’s designated family quarters. Mistresses look on in horror, as teammates moved by this impressive display of overhand rights wonder why K-Rod doesn’t have more on his fastball.

Says one familial onlooker, “He just stone-cold decked the guy.”

Satisfied with his performance, Rodriguez points to the sky victoriously like so…

"VICTORIA!"

… probably fist-bumps Jose Reyes, and high-tales it out of Flushing Meadows in his cheddar-yellow Lambo.

But not before really doing a number on David Wright’s post-game groupie buzz.

Two or so stop lights into his Escape from New York, Frankie feels a small twinge of remorse at using a man twice his age as his own personal speed bag. This feeling is driven home by the text he receives from a lowly Mets employee, reading something to the effect of, “Who’s yr speedbag?! LOL! Come back to CField!”

After a phone call, K-Rod admirably whips a U and guns it back to the scene of the “crime” – where the authorities were waiting to bring him into custody for beating a (potentially dangerous) old man into a throbbing heap of black and blue.

NYPD judged the confrontation one-sided enough to charge the four-time all-star with third-degree assault, second-degree harassment.

And first-degree mojo recovery.

Said ex-Anaheim teammate Chone Figgins of the one-sided confrontation, “It’s like it was 2008 all over again.”

Others likened the fracas to past K-Rod showdowns – namely, June ’09′s shouting match with Yankees scrub Brian Bruney, July ’09′s shouting match with assistant GM Tony Bernazard, and May 2010′s shouting match with bullpen coach Randy Niemann.

Added one source, “Those were a little different. No ass was kicked.”

While the Queens Criminal Court arraigned Frankie for doing pretty much nothing – aside from giving a 53-year-old loudmouth what was coming to him – the Mets, who you’d think would openly embrace this kind of competitive fervor, suspended Rodriguez for two games without pay.

Lookin' sharp, Frankie

Said chief operating officer Jeff Wilpon, “Ownership and the organization are very disappointed in Francisco’s inappropriate behavior.”

Disappointed? Inappropriate?!

This is the same kind of sans-cojones, limp-willed attitude that choked up two straight death-grip division leads. Maybe if Mets brass had embraced inter-generational ass-kicking two years ago, we wouldn’t be on the cusp of three consecutive Phils Series.

GM Omar Minaya has shown a notable lack of spine in the whole saga – maybe because, being an old Latin man himself, he can empathize with Carlos, who also wants to destroy the Mets.

Minaya told the Daily News, “No, look, I do not,” to which the question was probably Do you have a spine? or Do you expect to have a job in two years? or Do you think the Braves have a ceiling? But definitely NOT Do you regret bringing Francisco to New York?

As for Pena – who spent his night in the comfy confines of a hospital bed recovering from nothing more than a scraped face, knock to the head and bruised ego – he says he’s still befuddled by what went down (i.e. him). He says he had to “take an aspirin” to fall asleep – probably ’cause he had to suffer through a Mets game that night.

He says, “I don’t want to say anything because I still don’t know what happened.”

Well let me remind you, Mr. Pena! You flew into town from Venezuela to tell your future son-in-law he’s a “baby,” you poisoned his future wife against him, you called his mother names (probably a whore), then you took a swing at him.

And so he put you in your place. Then again. And again. And again. And again.

And now you’re staying at his house! Which he can’t visit!

Cuz of the restraining order!

Who do you think you are, Betty Draper?

This is bullsh*t.

Daughter Daian’s apple obviously doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’d think that after her boyfriend pummeled the life out her father, she’d say, “Thank you.”

Instead she told the Daily News, “I can’t talk to him right now. I have to take care of the babies.”

Okay, Kourtney Kardashian.

Over-reactor/bad apple/girlfriend

Can’t a man handle his business these days?

I’m in your corner, Frankie. Think of me as your cut man. Violence is the only way.

- Robbie

Tuesday addendum: K-Rod out for year with injured karma.

PGA to Dustin Johnson: “Screw You”

The scene of the crime.

Martin Kaymer won the PGA Championship late Sunday afternoon, but we’re not going to talk about him.

I’m instead going to tell you how the PGA of America shafted Dustin Johnson out of a playoff and a shot at his first career major.

Johnson, who you recall choked away the U.S. Open with a final round 82, came to the 18th tee with a one-shot lead over clubhouse leaders Bubba Watson and eventual champion Kaymer.

To win, he needed nothing more than a par four, a score jeopardized immediately by his gallery-hunting slice twenty yards clear of the fairway’s right edge.

When Johnson got to his ball, it was sitting in a sandy pit – a pit covered half by patches of grass, half by a sea of onlookers eager to get their respective mugs on TV.

Landing place of Johnson's tee shot.

The tournament’s leader caught his next shot clean, clearing the green’s back left edge, but ultimately missing a 12-or-so foot putt to secure the win.

Johnson, dejected after a weak stroke, shook his playing partner’s hand and quickly turned his attention to the task at hand: redemption, a three-way, three-hole playoff for the Wanamaker Trophy.

The rules, unfortunately, had other plans – a not-so-minor detail that struck Johnson like a bulldozer the moment his walking official David Price confronted him on the 18th green.

Apparently – or rather, not apparently at all – the sand pit Johnson played his second shot out of was in fact a bunker, in which rules stipulate that a player may not ground his club.

Johnson quickly copped to having done just this – grounding his club, and in the process, inadvertently coughing up another chance to place his name among the greats.

He was assessed a two-shot penalty on top of his carded bogey. He finished in fifth at -9.

It’s hard to adequately convey the circumstances of the sandy lie in question to those who didn’t watch it unfold, but suffice it to say that this patch of dirt looked nothing more or nothing less than precisely that… A patch of dirt. It had little semblance of a lip, no rake lines, no demarcating paint, footprints aplenty.

And, oh yeah, was filled with patrons. Playing partner Nick Watney said later he’d never seen such a thing.

Johnson's second on 18

“It never once crossed my mind that I was in a sand trap,” a stunned Johnson told CBS reporter David Feherty afterward.

Didn’t cross my mind either, not for a second, and that Jim Nantz and crew said nothing while it was happening suggests that the only people actually aware of the situation were the rules officials themselves.

Coming to its own defense, the PGA of America cited the rules with the profuse resolve and repetitive explanation you only hear from those who know they’ve really stepped in it this time.

At the heart of the PGA’s exonerating justification is a local rules sheet that reads as follows:

Bunkers: All areas of the course that were designed and built as sand bunkers will be played as bunkers whether or not they have been raked. This will mean that many bunkers positioned outside of the ropes and some inside the ropes, close to the rope line, will likely include numerous footprints, have tire tracks during the play of the Championship. Such irregularities of surface are a part of the game.

What I don’t understand, and what I have yet to hear questioned or explained, is how exactly one’s supposed to distinguish an eroded patch of grass from an honest-to-goodness bunker. The above rule also includes the following caveat:

Where necessary, blue dots define the margin of a bunker.

Wide view of approach on 18.

There’s no question that 1) Johnson grounded his club and 2) grounding a club in a bunker is against the rules. Actually identifying a tiny dune masquerading as a hangout for spectators as a bunker is a different matter entirely.

No such blue dots were present. The rogue sand trap was one of 1,200. You can see how this could get confusing.

Amazingly, the PGA assessed this exact penalty at the same course during the same championship in 2004. Stuart Appleby grounded his club on Saturday in similar terrain, surrendering four shots for his efforts.

To let this happen again is both inexplicable and unacceptable, especially on Sunday in the final group.

Rule makers counter that they explicitly warned players that bunker confusion could come into play, posting the stipulations atop the rule sheet and even going so far as to post warnings on locker room mirrors.

To this, Watney repsonds, “Honestly, I don’t think anyone reads the sheets. We’ve played in hundreds of tournaments. You get a sheet every week.”

But the physical sheet is beside the point. That the PGA actually prepared for such a scenario makes Johnson’s situation on 18 all the more baffling.

Mark Wilson, co-chairman of the PGA of America Rules Committee, told the Golf Channel Sunday night that walking officials have the authority to preemptively caution players should they find themselves in an uncertain lie. In other words, it was well within David Price’s bounds to clarify Johnson’s circumstances.

Wilson said that he doesn’t want officials to impede the flow of the round. That’s fine. But when a kid’s about to hit the biggest shot of his life, it might be a good time to say, “Just so you know, you’re in a bunker.”

It’s all enough to make you wonder if David Price even knew what was going on.

Johnson’s high finish solidified a prestigious Ryder Cup position and his classy demeanor in handling the whole debacle no doubt won him new fans and the sympathy vote for several tournaments to come. Neither of these lesser triumphs, however, make up for the fact that this guy deserved much better, or that he was robbed of a once in a lifetime opportunity.

- Robbie

Sunday Funday: The Summerslam Edition

Arguably the second biggest pay-per-view event that World Wrestling Entertainment has to offer, Summerslam takes place tonight live from the Staples Center in the City of Angels.

As SC’s white trash aficionado, I will take on the task of previewing and predicting tonight’s event for the reading pleasure of you, the fan of scripted sport. If all goes as planned, I’m going to take you through the card, talk about the build-up to each match, issue my expert predictions and then take you out to dinner and a movie and never call you again.

Sounds like a great Sunday to me. Let’s do this.

Intercontinental Champion Dolph Ziggler vs. Kofi Kingston, Intercontinental Title Match

The build-up: Ziggler has been been lost in the midcard for awhile, but finally seems to be getting a push as he won the title from Kingston a couple of weeks ago on Smackdown. The match itself hasn’t had much of a build. It was just announced on television Friday night as this feud is likely only in its early stages, and that’s a very good thing if these two are given time to put on excellent matches.

What will happen: Everything about this screams Ziggler retaining here. Kofi has been playing the “frustrated face” role lately, and by that I mean that he has been losing to Ziggler in dirty finishes and then playing crazy man and beating the hell out of him after the match to the joy of the fans. This can be a good feud, but I think they should go with making Kofi chase to get his title back for awhile. He loses over and over again for a couple months worth of PPVs, draws suspense and then finally cashes in, takes the title and everybody cheers. Booking 101. BOOM!

Divas Champion Alicia Fox vs Melina, Divas Title Match

The build-up: Using the terms “build-up” and “WWE Divas” in the same sentence is an oxymoron. The division has dropped off so much since they began aiming the product more at younger audiences (read: Linda McMahon started her senate campaign) that they basically just throw matches up with little storyline or anything. Alicia Fox feels unappreciated as champion and that only got worse when Melina returned from injury to take away even more spotlight.

What will happen: Fox should probably win, but she kind of sucks as a champion, so I see this as an opportunity for WWE to throw the belt back on Melina as soon as possible. Melina will win a short match that will be used by most as a beer and bathroom break.

The Big Show vs. The Straight-Edge Society (CM Punk, Luke Gallows, Joey Mercury), 3-on-1 Handicap Match

The build-up: The Big Show has unmasked the two previously masked members of the Straight-Edge Society, the heel faction that is run like a religious cult by real life straight-edge practitioner CM Punk. They’ve traded back-and-forth getting the better of each other. The Society has even teased breaking up at times during this angle which is disappointing as they draw as much heat as anyone in WWE, and I really think that they have been misused and not put in enough quality feuds.

What will happen: This looks like a stage to show further signs of an SES break-up, but once again, I really don’t want that to happen. I’m going to pretend that WWE cares what I want to see and have SES team up to take out The Big Show. It seems like the only logical route to take at this time as none of the lesser members of SES have really developed as characters enough to go their own way.

World Heavyweight Champion Kane vs. Rey Mysterio, World Heavyweight Title Match

The build-up: Kane has been carrying a storyline all summer of revenge against whoever is responsible for attacking The Undertaker who has supposedly been in a vegetative state since Memorial Day weekend (Yes, really). Kane has run through the Smackdown roster, taking out anyone he thinks might be the cause of his brother’s condition. During this time, he also won a Money in the Bank briefcase and cashed it in against Rey Mysterio to win the World Heavyweight Championship.

Kane is now claiming that The Undertaker has named Mysterio as his attacker, a rather large feat for a man that stands 5-foot-6. Everybody pretty much knows that this will end in Kane being the actual villain, ‘Taker returning and another “Brothers of Destruction” feud.

What will happen: Kane wins here as Mysterio is nothing more than a holdover feud for him until Undertaker returns. Kane has promised to put Mysterio in a casket after the match, and any time there are caskets present, there’s a very good chance that it means another dramatic Undertaker return. Also, Mysterio is about one year overdue for knee surgery, so sooner or later they have to write him off of television for a few months, right? I’m expecting a pretty gruesome beat-down of Mysterio followed by the return of The Undertaker.

WWE Champion Sheamus vs. Randy Orton, WWE Title Match

The build-up: Sheamus’ feud with John Cena was interrupted when Cena turned his attention to defeating Nexus. Therefore, Randy Orton took the opportunity to step forward and receive a title shot when he beat Chris Jericho and Edge in a No.1 contenders match. Sheamus has won his past two title matches with the help of interference when Nexus attacked Cena on both occasions. Therefore, it has been announced that anyone who interferes in this match will be suspended indefinitely.

Orton has never lost to Sheamus, but a “last chance” stipulation has also been added to this match. If Orton doesn’t win, he will not get another title shot as long as Sheamus is champion. Throw in the fact that Orton may be the most entertaining and over act in WWE right now with his recent face turn, and you have a highly anticipated title match.

What will happen: I expect Orton to win here, although he may not leave the Staples Center with the belt. What do I mean by that? The Miz still holds Raw’s version of the Money in the Bank briefcase that he can cash in at any time for a title shot. There’s a very good chance that Sheamus and Orton could be given plenty of time to put on a great, tiring match which Orton wins to a big pop from the crowd only to have The Miz sweep in and pick up an easy victory to even further boost his heel run. Regardless, this should be a very good match.

Team WWE (John Cena, John Morrison, R-Truth, Bret Hart, Edge, Chris Jericho and a mystery partner) vs. Nexus (Wade Barrett, David Otunga, Justin Gabriel, Heath Slater, Darren Young, Skip Sheffield, Michael Tarver), 7-on-7 Elimination Tag Team Match

The build-up: Hands down, this is the biggest storyline in all of wrestling this summer. After competing in the first season of NXT, the entire cast felt embarrassed and mistreated by the things they were forced to do and decided to fight back. They teamed together to become the most destructive, badass heel faction since the original NWO. Their mass beat-downs have become an institution on Raw, none bigger than the ones they have given to Cena.

Cena teased joining the group that now calls itself Nexus before assembling a team to defeat them at Summerslam. Chemistry is hardly the forte of Cena’s team as they have fought and bickered constantly. Jericho and Edge only decided that they would accept their spots on the team this past Monday night and Nexus took out former member, The Great Khali, the same night. That leaves the one open “mystery” spot which hasn’t been hyped to an extreme level, so it may be rather uneventful.

Regardless, this angle is beyond hot and the crowds go absolutely nuts anytime these two teams get in the ring together. This match should almost certainly go on last and receive marquee treatment.

What will happen: I cannot even begin to explain how awful of a creative team decision it would be to have anything other than a Nexus win here. This storyline shouldn’t be anywhere close to ending, and a victory over some of WWE’s premier stars in an official match would be huge for them. A victory would allow this angle to go to the next level. Nexus could take over Raw as their show like the NWO used to do with Monday Nitro. They could also move onto singles action, win some titles and use others to help rebuild the tag team division. The possibilities are endless if Nexus is allowed to flourish.

Another angle that could come out of this is a possible leader that is larger than Nexus themselves. Could somebody on Cena’s own team be scheming with Nexus? Could this be the return of Triple-H with the heel run that he has been pushing for? Barrett has repeatedly talked about a “bigger purpose” that he has yet to elaborate on. I expect Summerslam to give us our first real glimpse at this bigger purpose.

-Bryan

Mr. Derrick Brooks: An Unfocused Look at the Past Week in the World

Memories

Part Derrick Brooks, part other stuff. Robbie is already here. Goodbye seems to be the theme of the week.

Derrick Brooks deserves his own post, but it’s still the latter parts of the dog days of summer, so I’ll do whatever it takes to make my Week in Review hit 1,000 words. To insure there is separation between the two segments of this post, I will start out wearing the shirt before the shirt.

No. 55 officially acknowledged his retirement as a Tampa Bay Buccaneer on Thursday in a ceremony held at the posh Bucs training facility. The same training facility that teams led by Brooks helped build. Teams that trained in the original One Buc Place, a run-down trailer by the airport adorned with an outdoor gym.

Brooks was unceremoniously released from the team that he fought for for 14 years on Feb. 25, 2009. A Buccaneer great, a defensive legend, a future hall-of-famer, he became just another casualty of an era in which the Bucs completely separated themselves from their fanbase and made plenty of enemies along the way.

When Brooks met with the media shortly after his release, he made sure that all Buccaneer logos in the room were covered. Typically a low-key, mild-mannered guy, Brooks was noticeable angry with the only franchise that he had ever played for.

But on Thursday, he cited his faith as his reason for forgiving the Bucs and formally announcing his retirement at the only place he saw fit.

He was part of a group that will be eternally immortalized in Tampa sports. The guys that came in during the final few years of creamsicle uniforms and transformed the franchise into one of the league’s elite. He was amongst men named Sapp, Lynch, Barber, Abraham and Alstott.

Brooks became part of the smaller subgroup of Sapp and Lynch as players openly disrespected by the Bucs and ushered away without any notice or dignity. The result was a dwindling organization that now finishes at the bottom, has chased legions of fans away and plays to an overwhelming number of empty red seats.

But because of Brooks’ forgiveness, Thursday was a brief distraction away from how ugly things have been. There were smiles and honor and respect.

As Brooks talked, I could pay little attention to his words as I instead focused on the memories flashing through my head.

The young linebacker in orange and red taking the league by storm.

“And at weakside linebacker…” [Crowd explodes]

The 11 Pro Bowl appearances.

The way that he could make Michael Vick look like he was running in sand, and how he was always positioned as his personal spy.

All of the work in the community, one of Tampa’s most charitable citizens.

The “Mr. Derrick Brooks” commercial.

The way that he had his best season the same year that the Bucs won their first and only Super Bowl. Five defensive touchdowns, a record for a linebacker.

Returning an interception for a touchdown on a Monday night against the Rams with Sapp leading the way and leveling Kurt Warner.

Breaking his typical silence to tell the Eagles that ”We’ll be back” in the waning moments of a regular season loss at The Vet.

His pick-six against Oakland to seal the fate of Super Bowl XXXVII and the tears running down his face after he made the 44-yard trek into the end zone.

The throngs of “Seriously, I’m not a Bucs fan anymore” texts and calls that circulated throughout the Tampa Bay area in the minutes following Brooks’ release from the team.

Brooks was a special player, and in my mind, deserves to be a first ballot hall-of-famer. Maybe a spot in the Bucs’ new “Ring of Honor” would be a nice start.

Apparently other things happened this week, too. Let’s do this.

IT’S OFFICIALLY PREMIER LEAGUE SEASON IN ENGLAND!

Okay, I’ll try this again.

The HBO series “Hard Knocks,” which this season will follow the New York jets debuted this week. It’s already fairly obvious that this year’s edition will serve as little more than an attempt by HBO to kill all college viewers who try to make drinking games out of TV shows. Take a drink everytime Rex Ryan drops an F-bomb. I dare you.

It also drew great light on my latest (read: first) Darrelle Revis theory.

Revis will get everything that he wants and he will play this year. In fact, he might have already gotten everything he wants and is just getting an awesome paid vacation. The truth is that Revis is not truly any kind of holdout story but is rather just playing the obligatory role of “will he or won’t he show up” “Hard Knocks” cast member.

The Jets are required by Home Box Office law to have some kind of ongoing national storyline to keep viewers watching throughout the season. Because Rex Ryan can’t keep us entertained by saying “this f***ing season” over and over again for more than two weeks.

Revis is the Angelina of Jets training camp.

It all makes so much sense.

Recently retired pro wrestling great Shawn Michaels was the guest on today’s “B.S. Report” podcast. I’ll take this as further proof that it is socially acceptable to write about wrestling. Like say, maybe a Sunday Funday previewing the upcoming Summerslam pay-per-view.

Yes, I can turn anything into a shameless self-promotion.

If you were flipping through the channels on Thursday and ran across what looked like an inmate slowpitch softball game, don’t panic. It was just the Pittsburgh Pirates busting out their throwbacks for a game gainst the Padres. Oh, who am I kidding? The Pirates aren’t on television.

Trendy

In case you were wondering, the guy at the Astros game who dodged a foul ball only to let it hit his girlfriend in the arm is now shockingly single. Easy ladies, don’t all jump at once.

(Your welcome in advance. If it wasn’t for me telling you that, you would have had to watch the CBS “Early Show” to find out.)

The wife of the now dark-visored Peyton Manning typically stays out of the public eye. That is until the “Indianapolis Woman” magazine did a recent feature on her. Yes, she’s way too hot for him.

From L to R: Wife, goon

Chipper Jones is out for the season and likely his career after tearing his ACL. For now, the injury looks legitimate, but if Adam LaRoche also comes up with a season-ending injury in the near future, something might be up.

Jeremy Hellickson is a future ace. That’s all.

Have a good weekend.

-Bryan

“Chipper Jones” and Other Google Trends: The Week in Review

The ATL's new motto: "Win one for The Chipper."

Raise your hand if you’ve been kicked in the face by Johnny Cueto!

Or if your portfolio is tanking.

Everyone?

No worries, good Casualtists. I have great news for you.

But first some bad news: walking hammy-waiting-to-blow Chipper Jones decided to switch things up and instead blew out his knee Tuesday. As Al Michaels would say, “He’s out with an ACL.”

Out for the year, to be precise. Probably, too, out for his career – CJ flirted with retirement earlier this season. And he’s made it clear that Bobby Cox was pretty much the only reason he was sticking around.

As you can imagine, Thursday was a pretty bittersweet morning for me: bitter because a childhood mainstay crumbled under his own tired body, sweet because I put too much sugar in my coffee. And because I was feelin’ a double shot of Gratuitous Regan.

Gratuitous Regan

More Gratuitous Regan

I might go out of my way to commemorate the man at some point – he’s a surefire Hall of Famer, Atlanta great, deer hunting extraordinaire – but truth is I’ve never felt the same about Chipper as I do about Glavine, Maddux, Smoltz or Graffanino (kidding).

Might have something to do with his “new guy” status on the Braves’ title team. Might have something to do with the Hooters girl.

In any event, if this is indeed the last we see of the best third baseman of his era, I’ll look back with fond nostalgia upon the following:

1) How he terrorized arch-nemesis New York and consistently gave those obnoxious, loudmouth Mets fans exactly what they deserved.

2) How Shea wasn’t so much an “opposing ballpark” as his “personal launching pad.”

In The House That Chipper Closed

3) How he singlehandedly won the 1999 NL pennant.

4) His unparalleled display of pride in capturing the ’08 batting title at 36 on an underachieving team.

5) The LAR-RRRRRRY chants.

6) That he played in the heart of the steroids era, but never under a cloud of suspicion.

7) That he won the MVP in a year when both McGwire and Sosa topped 60 homers and 140 RBI.

8) The nagging injuries.

9) The country-boy drawl, the goatee, the Oakleys

10) The team that never disappointed.

Game 1, Fulton County Stadium

11) The goosebumps.

Champions.

If it’s any consolation – it’s not – at least he went out making one of the best defensive plays of his career. Looking back, we probably should have put him in a bubble 10 years ago.

I promised good news. Here it is: as of Friday morning, you still have a reason to watch golf.

Let’s go, Tiger.

__________

On Saturday during Yankees-Red Sox on Fox, Joe Buck told Tim McCarver of New York’s new outfielder Lance Berkman, “To me, that was a good acquisition for this Yankees team.” To which McCarver replied, “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it.”

Um, recap: Berkman’s hitting .238 with drastically declining power totals in four consecutive years; he was 2 for his first 21 in Pinstripes; and almost killed third baseman Alex Rodriguez with a liner in batting practice.

Man down!

Says Yank’s fan legend John O’Connell: “He’s flailing like a gate in a hurricane.”

So yeah, like Tim said.

No doubt.

Staying in the Big Apple, news broke Friday that Knicks owner James Dolan rehired Isiah Thomas as a team consultant.

As far as I know, Nicole and OJ are still separated.

Thomas announced that he would retain his position as head coach at FIU. Said Golden Panthers fans:

“Sh*t.”

However, in an unfortunate turn of events [for masochists], the NBA blocked the Isiah transaction. Dolan has since contacted Ralph Wiggum and Bozo the Clown.

Knicks consultant Ralph Wiggum

On Sunday, world no. 1 Tiger Woods completed the worst tournament of his professional career, finishing +18 after a final round 77.

World no. 2 Phil Mickelson one-upped Tiger with a final round 78, 82 if you count the four Pepsis on 13.

Mickelson then disclosed Tuesday in the run-up to Glory’s Last Shot (Till Next Year) that he suffers acute soriatic arthritis.

That’s one way to put it – the other being, “excessive doughnut consumption.” Phil also announced that he’s become a vegetarian…

Which really doesn’t help.

On Monday’s episode of “Real Housewives: New Jersey,” Teresa’s husband Joe blamed his drunken car accident on “a deep yawn.”

Joe, with all due respect, show some creativity. You know how many Gators have used the Deep Yawn Defense?

Lazy.

Also on Monday, Braves rightfielder Jason Heyward joined all-time greats Frank Robinson, Alex Rodriguez and Ted Williams as the only players to hit a home run on their 21st birthdays. Afterward, a humble Heyward said he was not offended by the comparisons.

On Tuesday, a North Carolina woman accused American Idol winner Fantasia Barrino of causing her divorce by carrying on an adulterous affair and making a sex tape with her husband.

Better Fantasia than Ruben, am I right, Ms. Cook?

In non sequitur news: Internet sensation Kyle Rancourt of Kylerancourt.com knows that I reward shameless self-promotion.

Be sure to check out Kyle’s list of his 25 favorite films. Or, if you think that RBI is still a legitimate stat, read up on why you’re an idiot. Once again, that’s Kyle Rancourt of Kylerancourt.com.

On Wednesday, SEC coaches Lucifer Nick Saban and Urban Meyer (of “I’m about to die. Just kidding” fame) banned NFL agents from all team practices. On Thursday, parents retaliated by banning SEC coaches from living rooms.

Actually, that last part’s untrue. The coaches did, however, publish a best-selling paperback.

On Tuesday, besmirched NBA superstar LeBron James wrote via Twitter:

“Don’t think for one min that I haven’t been taking mental notes of everyone taking shots at me this summer. And I mean everyone!”

And if that didn’t instill in his opponents the fear of God, James followed up with:

“Does anyone know who the real @littleburger is? Please help me.”

Sticking with LJ, celebrity website TMZ leaked a photo Tuesday of James holding hands with rabbi-to-the-stars Yishayahu Yosef Pinto.

Shalom, homie.

Not surprising at all. If I’m Delonte West, I expect locust in the lawn by Tuesday.

Wednesday brought the troubling news that Mets’ closer Francisco Rodriguez was taken into custody after assaulting a family member.

Interesting… Always thought Santana was the best hitter on the staff.

No truth to the rumor that K-Rod’s father-in-law is Willie Harris.

That's Papa Willie to you.

The Village People will play after Friday’s Rays-Orioles game in Tampa, as team marketers hope to tap Major League Baseball’s…

… um…

… gay, over-50 demo?

Florida sports legend Tim Hardaway is not expected to attend.

I leave you with the immortal words of Ed Norton:

“It’s so foggy over there, I didn’t know where I was.”

- Robbie

CNBC Fab Five Pics: Drury, Drury, Drury Edition

Mandy Drury, market mover.

Really having a hard time focusing this morning. I think we know whose fault that is.

I’m trying to think of all things that you have to actually see to believe, as opposed to to just experiencing through second-hand accounts. Never been a huge fan of “take it from me,” especially with important matters at stake. I’d call Pearl Jam, for instance, an important matter and venture that, however many rave concert reviews you’ve read or soundboard bootlegs you’ve collected, watching them in the flesh offers an entirely enhanced appreciation.

This is the logic behind Fab Five Pics, the once long-running weekly post that was so tragically preempted by my extended, DVR-less stay in The 305.

Sure, I can tell you that Mandy Drury puts the “awe” in Australia. I can tell you that she’s a real-life Bond Girl. I could even slap up some of the best pics that Google has to offer.

But until you see CNBC’s Fab Five in their natural habitat – surrounded by button-downed blowhards and a cratering economy – you cannot even begin to comprehend the extent of Larry Kudlow’s fortune.

In short: he is a very, very lucky man.

Dapper curmudgeon Kudlow with Francis and Regan

It’s been roughly six weeks since the last post of this nature, and unsurprisingly, summer’s dog days brought with them changes for the good and for the bad. Melissa Francis, bless her soul, returned from an extended maternity leave and is currently in the ’09 Trish Regan phase (i.e. a tugboat). Thankfully, Latina superstar Michelle Caruso-Cabrera has counteracted Francis’s relative lack of hotness by upping her own game to heights on par with the all-time greats (Meade, Drury, Chetry). Unfortunately for you, she’s currently on vacation. Probably on South Beach. Probably in a bathing suit.

Even The Profile, however, can’t compensate for a development more startling than China’s manufacturing slowdown: namely, Mandy Drury’s temporary removal from “The Call.” She’s instead been moved over to “The Closing Bell,” thereby removing any impetus I once had to wake up by 11 o’clock.

Drury is holding down the fort for long-in-the-tooth bellwether Maria Bartiromo, who for her part, seemingly goes as the market goes. She was at the peak of her considerable powers just three or four years ago, but has since mustered nothing more than your garden variety bear-market rally. I don’t, metaphorically speaking, see her reaching 14,000 ever again. Not at 42.

What’s happening, then, looks the most obvious case of writing-on-the-wall turnover since Brady replaced Bledsoe at the cusp of New England’s dynastic rise. Or at least, I hope that’s what’s happening, because weeks like this call for a heavy dose of stability.

Now is no time to tinker with anchor lineups – not with the S&P nosediving to 1088 and Prophet of the Apocalypse Simon Hobbs carrying on like an over-caffeinated tweenager.

If AMERICA double dips, the WORLD could double dip!

Worry wort.

Chill out, Simon. I’d take you more seriously if that weak blue tie had any semblance of a dimple…

On the bright side, Wednesday’s tankjob reaffirmed my theory that DOW performance and anchor hotness are inversely correlated. If we do indeed retest Summer ’08 lows, you’re gonna wanna make sure you spend that unemployment check on a hi-def plasma.

So is that where we’re going? Heading for a W-shaped recovery? No telling. At the moment, I’m still guessin’ on future tax rates. Ask me when our government decides to grace us with its presence. Right now, I can’t think over Rick Santelli’s screaming.

Great American Rick Santelli

The dollar’s on fire, y’all. So is my TV. Happy bargain hunting.

- Robbie

Reds-Cardinals: Yes, Please

Let the fun begin.

We interrupt this previously scheduled baseball season to bring you awesomeness.

God bless Brandon Phillips.

With a few biting words and a couple of subtle taps to the shin guard, Phillips succeeded in turning the 2010 baseball season on its head Tuesday night. He turned what was just another division race into a pennant chase death match.

This baseball season has been rather epic. There’s been the pitching dominance, the individual milestones and a smorgasbord of tight division competition.

Entering Wednesday, only the Texas Rangers held more than a 2.5 game lead in their respective division.

But what this season has been missing is a true, emotional grudge match that takes on more of a meaning than simply where two teams are in the standings. A budding rivalry between two teams that genuinely do not like one another. A 1990s Braves-Mets, a pre-2007 Yankees-Red Sox, a 2008 Rays-Red Sox.

Enter the Cincinnati Reds and the St. Louis Cardinals.

While in the large scope of history, these two teams aren’t terribly different, the modern era has brought completely different fortunes to them both. The Cardinals have achieved consistently moderate success since 2000. Meanwhile, the Reds have not made the postseason since 1995.

The Reds have become accustomed to looking up at the Cardinals and Chicago Cubs at the top of the NL Central, a feeling that this particular group seems bound not to tolerate.

What say you, Brandon Phillips?

“I’d play against these guys with one leg. We have to beat these guys. I hate the Cardinals. All they do is bitch and moan about everything, all of them, they’re little bitches, all of ‘em. I really hate the Cardinals. Compared to the Cardinals, I love the Chicago Cubs. Let me make this clear – I hate the Cardinals.”

Thanks, Brandon.

The result.

I don’t know about you, but this fires me up, and I don’t even dislike the Cardinals. Hell, they were one of my favorite teams as a child and I still respect the organization and fans like crazy. But Phillips and his teammates have hit a soft spot with me, and that soft spot is of course the 2008 Tampa Bay Rays.

This Reds team has glaring similarities. The young roster mixed with a couple of guidance-happy vets. The frustration that two division rivals have completely owned them for a number of years. The inclusion of Jonny Gomes, who can go from playful jokester to “Momma Said Knock You Out” in the blink of an eye.

Jonny of old.

Need further similarities? Look at this quote from James Shields after the game where he threw at Coco Crisp sparking the infamous Rays-Sox Royal Rumble of 2008.

“We’ve been getting stomped around the last 10 years, and it’s not going to happen anymore. I had to let him know early and know right away.”

[Shakes off goosebumps, continues.]

The Rays- Red Sox 2008 feud ended in a steel cage match of a 7-game ALCS. It’s not out of the question to think that Reds-Cards could reach a similar fate.

The Reds are far from beating the Cardinals in this series as Phillips said that they had to. As I write this, the Reds are losing a matinee affair 6-0 and on the brink of getting swept. They currently trail the season series 9-5.

But as cliche and “round up the troops” as it sounds, I would almost argue that the Reds can take plenty of positives out of this series. After months of bickering, they finally stood up to the daddy of the NL Central. The Rays got swept in their aforementioned series against the Red Sox, but they dominated Boston the remainder of the year.

The Reds and the Cardinals don’t care for one another. Not the players, not the fans and maybe most prevalent of all, not the managers. How great was it seeing Tony La Russa and Dusty Baker dig into each other last night?

In a league where most rivalries have become watered down, this NL Central race could be refreshing.

Raise hell, Cincinnati. Baseball could use it.

-Bryan