WordPress is screwing with us. Be patient.

It’s currently IMPOSSIBLE to insert photos into posts. Apparently this is a common problem for all WordPress 3.1 users and something worth clicking our donate button to help us rectify. In the meantime, SC appreciates your dearth of bitching. We – and by this I mean “the coding gurus over at WordPress” – should have this fixed in no time. If they don’t, I’m suing their asses for malpractice, loss of income and thwarting my existence.

Thanks for your patience.

Bruise Cruise: 3 Days of Bad Food and Good Music

Turbo Fruits onboard the Carnival Imagination

There are certain things in life with which you cannot argue: a day is made of 24 hours, pigments determine skin color, All Things Must Pass is the greatest solo album from any Beatle, and Robbie Hilson and cruise ships go together like the English and good teeth.

If you’ve never experienced the surrealistic palace of excess that is the Carnival Imagination, I have news for you: it’s a floating celebration of kitsch serving up free soft-serve, expensive booze, FM reggaeton standards and, on this particular voyage, a f*cking Haight-worth of punk rock pilgrims attempting to recreate the Magical Mystery Tour 40 years after the fact and, um, on an over-priced cruiseliner.

Naturally, I came for the first and the last of these offerings. Love my chocolate/vanilla swirl. Doubly love my Ty Segall.

Because I didn’t have access to affordable free wifi (unless, of course, you consider $0.75 a minute “affordable”), I’m writing this piece of hipster nostalgia mostly from memories – many of which have been permanently seared on my cerebral cortex till the very end of time. So first, my qualms: the aforementioned dearth of time-sucking Internet options, the expensive booze (I was seriously under the impression that several hundred dollars for three days buys you more than a dessert bar, cold chicken and all-you-can-use pool towels – I want free beer, dammit!), and the soul-eroding feeling you get from sitting on a sun deck honing a dead-sexy tan when you should be doing things people besides models and retired investment bankers construe as constructive.

You’d probably never guess this from my incessant, rambling bloggings, but I’m incapable of relaxing.

well...

Now, the good - namely, San Fran freak-rockers Thee Oh Sees; San Fran sub-Stripes rockers The Ty Segall Band; Tennessee rockabilly punks Turbo Fruits; Miami’s Guy Harvey-rocking trio Jacuzzi Boys; hotter-on-stage girl-group Vivian Girls and; acclaimed, these-guys-can’t-be-old-enough-to-drink West Palm Beach quintet Surfer Blood.

The invention of the obviously-genius Jonas Stein, whose band Turbo Fruits comes on like an amphetamized sequel to the Velvet Underground as played by a Replacements tribute band, the first annual Bruise Cruise attempted to collide two diametrical opposites in the expanses of a 70,000-ton floating chariot doubling as the embodiment of all things capitalist Americana.

Punk rock, meet Tommy Bahama.

The product, a three-day rock festival for 400 people taking place in the Xanadu-named vicinities inhabited by 2000 other people just looking to drink, burn and get laid, can only be described as “f*cking bizarre”. Still, like I said, the music was great – especially if you’re into lo-fi guitar aesthetics at ear-bleed volumes (which, duh, I am). Here’s a quick run down of the aforementioned acts:

Thee Oh Sees: Imagine a psychedelic version of the Ramones, except with more visceral primitivity, more groove, a bassist straight out of Oi! skinhead England, a brunette vixen on keys, and the vocal stylings of a yipping three-year-old. Yep… They’re a mighty force live and also the brainchild of one John Dwyer, a guy whose name reminds me we’re gonna kick Georgia Tech’s ass next year.

The Ty Segall Band: to say Ty Segall is awesome is a compliment to awesome. I’ve heard few things in my life more bare-bones or primally rocking than a quartet of archaic garage revivalists wailing the sh*t out of their four respective instruments. Segall, the axe-wielding gunslinger at the helm, plays like he’s trying to rewrite the blueprint to rock ‘n roll. His songs are simple, hard, fun, fast and – above all – loud as f*ck. This is three-chord music as it emerged from the primordial ooze.

Turbo Fruits: Jonas Stein sings like Lou Reed if a stroke had knocked out the nerve endings in the VU pioneer’s face and vocal chords. You can’t understand him (at all) when he’s not singing, which just makes his drunken slur of a holler all the more of a glorious curiosity. He’s got three people behind him – a second guitarist who looks like one of the GEICO cavemen, a bassist who takes his style cues from Paul Weller’s Jam, and a time-keeping mass of hair behind the kit. I was enthralled. Obviously.

Jacuzzi Boys: I’m pretty sure my sister’s BFF Kourtnie knows these three young gentlemen intimately, which – in itself – is compliment enough. J-Boys basically play the same tunes as Ty Segall – distorted garage music with riffs aplenty and an innate sense of groove. The drummer was the only black Bruiser. The singer held the bathroom door for me. I’m a fan.

Surfer Blood: The band’s drummer TJ asked my friend and I to come drink with him after I told him he shouldn’t feel bad only 20 people turned out to his show. I kinda meant it. I kinda didn’t. The band sucked live – out of tune, sloppy, aloof, drunk and unprepared. Still, penning “Floating Vibes” buys you at least one lackluster gig on a boat filled with Barry Manilow impersonators, bad sushi and rigged slot machines. No harm, no foul.

Vivian Girls: Akin to Bay Area babes The Hot Toddies, only with a slightly skewed doo-wop to punk quotient. They lean more Joey Ramone than Phil Spector and, honestly, look way hotter strapped with Fenders than their plain alt-Jane off-stage personas would suggest. I’m especially partial to the bassist, who you might find starring in a counter-culture remake of Pippi Longstocking.

I’m sure other things happened besides rock, but I have neither the time nor the stamina of memory to recount them. My mom beeped and waved at Ty Segall when she saw him also departing the sea port in a California-tagged Land Cruiser. I was mortified. I think he was intrigued at the prospect of this newfound cougar.

LAY OFF OF MY MOM, TY SEGALL (but let’s still be friends).

- Robbie

I’m not your demographic: Holt’s 2011 Academy Awards review

FIRST OFF, my sincere apologies. My computer has decided to not allow me to post pictures for the moment. I’m not letting that get in the way of me destroying the last bit of culture that this site has while Hilson is away.

So tonight was the somethingth annual Academy Awards live from Hollywwod. As you could guess, I eagerly watched every second of it. Well, except for the end because once you’ve seen one inner-city choir, you’ve seen them all.

Anyways, let’s take a look.

The hosts

Alright was it just me, or was James Franco higher than Willie Nelson and Wiz Khalifa at a midnight showing of “Pineapple Express”? In all honesty, he was a vastly underused aspect of the show who completely carried his co-host. Yes, yes, yes, I know there are like a gabijillion Hathaway lovers out there who are foaming out of their Gyllenhall-envy mouths right now. But I’m sorry, Anne does nothing for me.

I know most actors were once theater nerds, but Hathaway just sticks to that original formula too much. She’s awkward and pale and not even getting naked over and over again in a movie can seem to make her cool. And the “closet bad girl” approach drives me crazy. Hathaway is a closet bad girl in the same way that the girl who plays third clarinet in the high school band is, and neither gets me too excited.

But Franco is kind of the man. He’s a PhD student at Yale but still finds time to make the occasional epic movie and provide the effortless cool that the 2011 Oscars needed. Did I see “127 Hours”? Absolutely not. A movie about a dude cutting his own arm off isn’t exactly my idea of an enjoyable Friday night. But I’m sure it was a great flick for those who like to make their cinema trips a little more meaningful than I do.

Oscars drinking game

This is what we came up with. Drink every time:

• Someone thanks the Academy
• The hosts appear
• The show goes to commercial break
• Someone makes a political statement
• A movie that you haven’t seen wins an award
• A clip from an old movie is shown
• Someone references Anne Hathaway’s nudity
• A black person is on stage during the performance of a nominated original song

Drink twice if:

• You guess the winner of an award wrong

Black people

ZERO black people were nominated for an Academy Award in 2011. Jesse Jackson has to be posted up somewhere ready to bitch about this, right? I mean country music is now a superior equal opportunity awarder in comparison to Hollywood. Liberals gots to be fumin’.

Christian Bale

I realize that I am speaking as the bullshit-proof, cultureless redneck who has no appreciation for fine cinema, but no one’s Oscar victory was more deserving on Sunday night than that of Christian Bale. Simply put, Bale made me think of him as a character instead of an actor more than maybe any performance that I have ever seen on the giant ass silver screen.

This is because I didn’t see Bale when I watched “The Fighter”. I literally saw an over-the-hill crackhead clinging to his smallest form of public respect. And that’s what the movie wanted me to see. It was brilliant. Christian Bale is brilliant, except for the whole not knowing his wife’s name thing.

Jennifer Lawrence

As you can guess about a number of the other nominated movies, I did not see “Winter’s Chub” or whatever that particular movie is called. BUT, holy bloody mouth Batman, I did pick up one thing from the film’s numerous ABC cameos on Sunday night.

Jennifer Lawrence is a year younger than me and stupid hot. A quick Wiki search also tells me that she’s  from Kentucky and got her start on the absolutely awful “Bill Engvall Show”. In short, I believe I have fallen in love.

“The King’s Speech”

Okay, obviously I never watched “The King’s Speech,” but that doesn’t stop me from giving it this piece of advice: GO THE HELL AWAY. No one likes you and your fancy British accents. George Washington led troops across the Delaware to kick some ass so that we would never have a movie like this dominate the Oscars ever, or something like that,

I saw three Best Picture nominees this year: “The Social Network”, “The Fighter” and “Inception”. I am in no way credited to make judgments for or against the Academy. But I will say this: movies about limeys with speech impediments are gay and they suck.

Melissa Leo

I thoroughly respect a lady that can be proper during the day, rowdy during the night and drop a solid F-bomb on live national television. Mrs. Leo, SC salutes you.

Short films

A word to Hollywood: No one watches short films. Not ever. Not unless it’s animated and they’re forced to sit through it before a Pixar movie. Stop awarding these people. It’s amateur and lame and makes me take THREE drinks during my aforementioned Oscars drinking game. Seriously, no one but actors who haven’t learned how to act when they’re not acting and that 12-year-old movie critic doucher that I want to ship to North Korea care about any of this garbage.

Major League Baseball doesn’t give out the trophy for Florida State League Single-A Champion when the fireworks clear after Game 7 of the World Series, so cut out the idiots who can only act for 12 minutes.

The Academy

I’ve spent a large portion of my opinionated life talking about how gay the Oscars are and how I’ll never watch them and blah, blah, blah. But the truth is, I’ve now watched the show in some capacity for a few years in a row. Has it got me fired up from time to time? Hell yes.

I flipped when Mickey Rourke didn’t win best actor for “The Wrestler”, and Sean Penn preaching to me didn’t make the matter any better.

I’m still completely disgusted by the elitist idea so many have that a movie that sparks mass appeal can’t be an “Oscar-worthy” flick. No, not every garbage summer movie that rakes in $100 mill deserves the black tie treatment, but it’d be nice if more movies that people actually watched got attention than low-budget foreign films. There comes a point where it feels like the Academy is just trying to flash its knowledge of obscure subjects in order to impress.

Not all of us go to the movies to see a world-altering show that makes us cringe and cry and think. Most of us got to the theaters after a few drinks at the closest bar on Fridays with the intention of letting stuff go and enjoying something meaningless for the first time all week. But too many people don’t understand that.

The Academy becomes the kid that stops listening to a band when they make money or stops liking a movie when other people have seen it. It’s the epitome of the liberal ideal that success and popularity is irrelevant in comparison to obscure sentiment.

The Oscars

A quick Google search has told me all I need to know about this year’s Oscars. According to Internet bitch-types, the show sucked. I’m not sure if that’s true or false. I do know that I’m in no position at all to judge.

So from the kid whose favorite part of the night was Jimmy Kimmel’s post-show infomerical. Yes, the same kid who is also kind of looking forward to giving “Hall Pass” a shot this week. Another year has passed, and whether you watched them or not, Hollywood has decided which movies should be remembered forever. Or until next year.

-Bryan

Ronde the Buccaneer

Still running.

Ronde Barber was drafted by the Tampa Bay Buccaneers with the 66th overall pick in the 1997 NFL Draft. Since picking Barber, the Bucs have drafted 80 players who are no longer with the team.

Chris Simms has ruptured his spleen and gone. Dwight Smith has had sex in the stairwell of a two-story McDonald’s and was gone. Al Harris got waived, and he was gone.

Barber’s first season marked the beginning of the Bucs’ late 90s revolution. He started the same year that red and pewter started. He started the same year the Bucs earned their first winning season and playoff appearance since 1982. He wasn’t the star, he was far from it. In fact, he only saw action in one game all season before being named the nickel back for the postseason games against the Lions and the Packers.

Donnie Abraham was the man at corner. He mastered the Tampa 2 style, or so we thought.

In 1998, Barber started nine games. Then he took a prominent role as Abraham’s sidekick during the 1999 NFC Championship Game run, and he never receded. Ever since, he has been a star. He was the first man out of the tunnel every home game when the PA announcer would introduce the starting defensive lineup. He would sprint out as fast as he could before the deep voice even had a chance to overstretch his name and his Virginia origins.

This lasted until the originals began to dissipate, leaving Barber all alone. First it was Lynch, then Sapp and then Brooks. The three-pronged public relations disaster that will have Buc fans shaking their heads for as long as Bucs exist. Ronde had to start coming out last. It was the only thing that made sense.

Dexter Jackson won a Super Bowl MVP and came and went … twice. Kenyatta Walker had three false starts on one down, got booed a lot and was gone. Bruce Gradkowski talked too much and was gone.

Barber had really good years and a really bad year. There were people cursing his name and yelling for retirement in 2009, and people chanting his name and begging him to never leave in 2010.

It turns out the people screaming in 2010 may be the ones getting what they truly want. That’s because Barber signed a one-year contract to remain in the NFL and remain with the Bucs on Tuesday. The Bucs gave him a contract even though players and owners are currently politely rioting over issues that could keep there from even being football in 2011.

They gave him a contract even though, at 35, he is the oldest Buccaneer cornerback by nine years. Barber is coming back for a 15th season on what was the youngest team in the NFL in 2010.

And it’s about damn time.

Only two players have ever had happy endings to complete careers as a Buccaneer. Lee Roy Selmon is one, and some might still complain that Mike Alstott was given a slight push out the door by Jon Gruden and Bruce Allen. But now it seems all but certain that Barber will be No. 3.

The other Dexter Jackson lasted seven games in the NFL and couldn’t stay on the worst team in the NFL’s practice squad in 2010. All the fun “Mike Jones” Mark Jones comments in the world couldn’t keep the kick returner from Rocky Top around town. Raheem Morris publicly blasted Gaines Adams for being out of shape and lazy at training camp in 2009. Adams died five months later due to an enlarged heart.

I only know about the NFL labor disputes what I’ve learned in my sports reporting class. From what I know, the owners are completely in the wrong in a number of ways. They’re trying to handle players for the long term in a league where the average career lasts about three-and-a-half seasons.

Whenever owners are in the wrong, the Glazers are usually at the head of it all. I have wasted far too much time of my life writing negative things about the family in any place that my keyboard could reach.

But for all the negative, this Barber deal defines the word “positive.”

It’s about being a person instead of a businessman. It’s about learning from the backlashes of the Allen era and letting Mark Dominik do what is right. It’s about remembering that early evening when you could hear Barber’s feet clank across the turf at a silent and stunned Veteran’s Stadium as Tampa broke into tears of joy after 26 long years.

As sure as Barber’s name will one day grace the walls of Raymond James Stadium, he deserves to be a Buc for as long as he cares to be. They’ve messed up too many times to not make this one right.

-Bryan

Stuff one writes about on 30 minutes of sleep: Russians, Housewives, Haircuts

Neighbors

I don’t know where this post is going. I’m on 30 minutes of sleep. Shaking with the EssBux caffes. More wired than the Greyhound in Speed. Disoriented like a toad-licking retriever.

This post could seriously end at any

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(nah, just kidding)

moment. But as you know, I’m never one to let a wrestling diary take the coveted stickied spot for more than 24 hours lest someone confuse us as a front for lucrative crystal meth trading.

Also, Tiger just teed off, so we need these good blogging vibes to offset his futile attempt at par on 1 and the impending onslaught of Accenture suckitude.

It’s time to right this ship, Tiger. I can’t vouch for your sorry ass forever.

Like I was saying, I’m not sure how I missed the premier of Bravo’s smash-trash hit “Real Houseswives of Miami” given its prominent placement on my media consumption calendar. But you can rest assured the pilot’s now queued up on the parents’ DVR and, when I finish my day in the MIA laying in the sun, working out and – in general – prepping for a weekend of buffoonery upon the Carnival Imagination, I will have some sort of prodigious recap of the plasticified awesomess that is The Women of Miami Beach.

SC Abroad: Pt. 2

As I recently texted Bryan, “This blogging thing is really working out.”

Caliente.

I’d like to now transition incoherently to a subject dear to my heart: black people (on cue, Tiger buries a curling par putt on 2… never underestimate the b-vibes, Casualtists). The winners, then, of this week’s omnipresent ‘Melodrama were, in order:

1) ‘Melo Anthony – made sweet bank; avoided Manhattan’s retarded, Springsteen-spawning little sister; appeased his limelight whoring wife LaLa; and, according to ESPN projections, increased his new team’s win total by, mmmmm, two (okay, that last one was a little anticlimactic).

2) Isiah Thomas – You seriously thought a little thing like sexual harassment accusation would deter the most dogged man in the NBA? Please. Isiah’s stubborn enough to misspell his own name for 5 consecutive decades. He allegedly brokered the ‘Melo deal and stands the logical choice to replace the aging Donnie Walsh when Jim Dolan inevitably re-makes the mistake of a lifetime.

3) Mikhail Prohkorov – no truth to the rumor Jerry Sloan retired after finding a bloody horse cranium in his sheets. Russian mobsters know restraint… After whiffing on ‘Melo, the Nets’ owner made off like a bandit, landing the league’s best point guard for a package of poo and potpourri featuring none other than Devin “People Thought I Was Good Once” Harris and Derrick “I Have Huge Upside… As A Daytrader” Favors.

Mikhail Prohkorov

4) Deron Williams – If you’re this dude, moving from Salt Lake City, Utah to the Five Boroughs with Jay-Z is like going from 7-Eleven shoplifting to insider trading with Martha Stewart. You’re ultimately a loser either way. But at least now people are watching.

5) Jason Sudeikis – because guys who trade up from January Jones to Scarlett Johansson are winners period.

In other sports news, I may or may not have placed $2500 on the Magic 5 to 1 to win it all. And by “may or may not have”, I of course mean, “didn’t”.

Before I fall asleep in my bowl full of keyboard, I’d just like to reiterate that the girl who chopped off the back of my hair two nights ago did a fantastic job. If you’re seeing impaired or do not have any recent photographs of me laying around your house, just picture Matthew McConaughey in Two For The Money except, you know, with bigger triceps and more charm.

Thus brings to a tidy conclusion the most clusterf—ed post in SC history. Please, hold your applause.

Thine hammer is Jan Hammer.

Be good,

Hilson

The Road to Wrestlemania XXVII: “Monday Night Raw” 2-21-11

The commercial that sparked a million curious nerds (including myself).

With the conclusion of the Elimination Chamber PPV behind us, pro wrestling fans are officially on the home stretch of the Road to Wrestlemania XXVII, which will take place April 3 at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta. Since my fascination with fake bloodsport is well documented around here, and since I will be attending the aforementioned Wrestlemania, I will be documenting, following and obviously making smart-ass comments about key shows leading up to the Super Bowl of scripted fighting right here on this very site. First up is the 2-21-11 edition of “Monday Night Raw” which has been hyped for weeks as the curious return of The Undertaker. Let’s do this.

Show opens with John Cena promo

… And it’s time to address all the mean things The Rock said about him last week. For those of you who need a refresher, THE ROCK SAID:

• That it’s sad how WWE has gone from the powerful “Austin 3:16″ to the dominant “Do you smell what The Rock is cookin’?” to [cue girl/Bieber voice] “You can’t shee me.”
• That a blindfolded Stevie Wonder sleeping in a basement could see Cena’s “monkey ass.”
• That Cena looks like something that got shot out of Barney the Dinosaur’s anus.
• That Cena looks like “a big fat bowl of fruity pebbles.”

Knowing that trying to talk would only magnify what Rock had said, Cena did what any 33-year-old white man wearing jorts, a purple shirt and matching hat would do, he started freestyling.  Over the course of his Slim Shadyesque rage, Cena bashed Rock for leaving the fans to make movies like “The Toothfairy” and “The Game Plan.” He also managed to say that Rock can kiss his candy ass, provide him with a certain Lewinsky-inspired sexual favor and star in the sequel to “Brokeback Mountain” (one can only assume he’d make a fine Heath Ledger fill-in).

Overall, it was probably Cena’s best way to respond, but this remains to be one of the more open-ended angles heading into Wrestlemania. We really don’t know what The Rock’s official role is going to be in the Cena match at Mania. It’s also a little dangerous for WWE to build so heavily around Cena-Rock when the actual match in Atlanta will be Cena-Miz. Regardless, this was a solid opener and it was interesting how Cena was booed and overrun by “Rocky” chants during his introduction but won the crowd back slightly during his freestyle.

Note: through the entire show, a countdown is running for the big 2-21-11 reveal which everyone knows is The Undertaker returning from being buried alive … again.

C.M. Punk defeats John Morrison

Both guys sold the effects of the previous night’s Elimination Chamber match pretty strong, but Morrison especially sold it hard giving him an excuse to lose clean to Punk, as the true point of this match was to escalate the Punk/Randy Orton feud.

After the match, Punk grabbed a mic, which is a very good thing because he’s probably the best promo in WWE today. What followed was the epicness of what most are expecting out of this feud. Punk swears that he is going to hurt Orton badly next week and warns him to “just walk away.” Orton of course responds by pounding fake punches into the back of Punk’s head, Punk retreats and we have the next advance in their march to Mania.

Alberto Del Rio tries to kill Kofi Kingston … But you already know that.

Just filler to keep people hating Del Rio as he prepares for his big title shot against Edge at Mania.

Alberto

The Miz cuts a promo

Now it’s time for The Miz to respond to the not nice things that Rock said about him. In case you haven’t noticed, The Rock is not in the building tonight, so WWE is just saying his name as much as possible to make it sound like he is. Typical Miz promo reminding everyone that all Rock can do is talk about being at Wrestlemania because unlike Cena and himself, he does not have the privilege of main-eventing the spectacle.

Anonymous GM (Yes, they still don’t know who he is) chimes in and announces that Miz and Cena will be teaming up to face The Corre in tonight’s main event with the WWE Tag Team Championships on the line. Miz promises to win the belts and leaves.

The Bella Twins defeats Gail Kim and Eve

GIRL FIGHT! Moving on…

The Bella Twins will waste your time, and you'll like it.

IT’s TIME! 25 … 24 … 23 … Okay, this is taking way too damn long … 3 … 2 … 1 …

The Johnny Cash song has become something of a secondary song for Taker, and it confirmed that the Dead Man lives. Taker came out of the cabin that had been in the weekly commercials and made his way to the ring. Typical Taker entrance until … He’s interrupted by a returning Triple H who is on our television screens for the first time since April 25.

Not one word is said during the confrontation between the two. Taker offers his trademark throat slash, Hunter his trademark crotch chop. They stare each other down and look up at the Wrestlemania sign to a huge pop from the crowd. While there are no words, the message is clear to anyone who has watched wrestling over the past year. Undertaker retired Shawn Michaels at last year’s Wrestlemania. Triple H and Michaels are both real-life and on-screen besties. Triple H is here for revenge, Taker is looking to extend his Wrestlemania undefeated streak to 19-0.

Some rumors say that HBK might be the guest referee for this match. Others say this will be a retirement match. No matter what, this one is going to be special. It really has to go on last at Mania. Sorry, title matches.

Mark Henry defeats Sheamus

Not much here as the poor guys had to follow an iconic stare-down. The storyline here is that Sheamus is frustrated by a string of recent losses, and after the match, he takes it out on United States Champion Daniel Bryan. Here’s to hoping that’s a Mania feud.

Hacksaw Jim Duggan is getting inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame

Hey ohhh.

Michael Cole interviews Jerry Lawler

Cole is the hardcore heel announcer that rubs everyone wrong. Jerry Lawler lost a WWE title match the night before (yes, you read that correctly). All signs point to them having a match in some capacity at Wrestlemania. This would be a special deal for Lawler as he has been in WWE almost 20 years and never competed at Wrestlemania.

All-in-all, this cold interview-turned-confrontation between the two did an excellent job of making viewers want to see Lawler both get his hands on Cole and finally get his Wrestlemania moment.

However, even though I’m a person who almost never thinks anything is over the top, there was a portion where Cole referred to Lawler’s mother who actually died last week to get some heat from the crowd. Obviously, it’s Lawler’s mother, and I have no right to comment, but it really seemed like a little much even if this is just a show.

Old-School Lawler

John Cena and The Miz defeat The Corre to win the WWE Tag Team Championship, then lose on an immediate rematch clause

Uh, strange end to a very strong show. They teased Cena and Miz being champions together for a moment before a rematch was announced, and Miz caused Cena to lose the belts back over to Corre. The point is meant to be that Miz came through on his promise of winning the titles, but still made a statement against Cena.

Here’s what the tentative card for Wrestlemania XXVII is shaping up to look like after this week’s Raw

WWE Champion The Miz vs. John Cena for the WWE Title

World Heavyweight Champion Edge vs. Alberto Del Rio for the Word Heavyweight Title

The Undertaker vs. Triple H

C.M. Punk vs. Randy Orton

Michael Cole vs. Jerry Lawler (in some capacity)

The road winds on.

-Bryan

Dicking Around With A Proto-Punk Legend

The original modern lover

I’ve been told by people who know such things that Jonathan Richman is still a boy in a man’s body, and one – no less – who spends his latter days prolonging youth with an elemental attraction to college campuses.

Having just spent an hour dicking around with Jonathan Richman, I can say in full faith that both these things are absolutely true, though I would add that he seems to have a healthy appetite for “substances” as well.

He called me “John” and then explained through circuitous alphabet-hopping – they both have an “o”, for instance – how “John” is like “Robbie”.

Whatever. I asked him what a Kookenhaken was… and got an answer. A word he heard when he was six – it has a Dutch tie-in.

Jonathan Richman sings me a song. This happened in a dream once.

Richman is a singer-songwriter who writes stunningly beautiful pieces of pure bullshit. In this way, he is something of a genius. He is also a genius in the way of penning one of the greatest rock ‘n roll albums of all-time, the 1973 proto-punk masterwork, The Modern Lovers.

On Monday, in advance of a gig in Gainesville, he was playing Tommy James and the Shondells records in-studio at Grow Radio… when I was supposed to be prepping for my show. Ten people were listening. I ran into a punk hero. These things happen. I guess.

I wanted to ask him if he’s ever seen Cameron Diaz’s tits. Instead we talked about his tour and kookenhakens. I told him Pitchfork gave his last solo record a really nice review. He seemed more impressed with the kookenhaken question. I think he was tripping.

He has the voice of a hundred Lou Reeds. The Sex Pistols covered one of his songs. He appeared in There’s Something About Mary. His first record changed the course of popular music. The Strokes ape his sound. He wrote one of my favorite songs. And right now – on a warm winter day in Gainesville – Jonathan Richman seems pretty seriously fucked up.

- Robbie

White People Hit and Miss During All-Star Weekend

Too young for SpongeBob

As I sit here waiting for Kevin Love to triumphantly redeem the athletically oppressed Caucasian race and wondering in vain why Kenny Chesney is analyzing Tennessee football on my ESPN, I can’t help but think what a topsy-turvy sports affair this weekend’s been with its [over] emphasis on two such diametrically opposed entities.

And, really, I can’t take my eyes of Chesney. Cognitive dissonance, thy name is Balding Gay Country Music Star Talking SEC Sports on Daytona Sunday.

Now as a matter of principle, I’m generally opposed to auto racing and its penchant for circuitous, um, circles, poor sportsmanship, shameless commercialism, sibling tag-teaming, ridiculous drafting rules, and – speaking of ridiculous drafts – Miller Lite.

But, God bless you, 20-year-old Rugrats-enthusiast Trevor Bayne.

If you were one of the poor souls who missed Daytona’s final enthralling laps Sunday, you passed on one of those so-inspiring-it’s-hokey, glued-to-your-sofa moments of wonder that makes sports the celebration of human achievement other entertainment rarely offers. And if you think I’m blowing smoke up Holt’s ass with my lofty prose… YOU DIDN’T SEE DAYTONA.

Bayne, a stock racing wunderkind from Knoxville (shoutout to SC’s Twitter family!) who was born the same year as my baby sister, held off veteran a-holes Tony Stewart and Carl Edward, among others, to win Nascar’s Super Bowl in only his second career race. The kid didn’t even have a full-time gig going into this year (though I suspect that’s about to change).

What transpired in the minutes after the checkered flag was something akin to a white-ified version of Rod Tidwell’s transcendent Monday Night Football catch: nobody believed what just happened actually happened, including the guy it happened to.

And, of course, Darrell Waltrip made my day by so gleefully crying out the only sports cliche that athletes-turned-announcers-turned-fans can think to utter in these situations:

CINDERELLA’S SLIPPER REALLY DOES FIT!

I’ll begrudgingly admit to goosebumps – a fitting final tribute to my 2011 NASCAR season.

The Rest of NASCAR Season

While the white folks of Great American Race fame really pulled out all the stops to make Sunday an unequivocal success, I can’t say the same thing for their ballin’ counterparts.

Yes, I’m talkin’ bout J-Bieb, the celebrity all-star game MVP, who beat out a jobbed, three-raining Scottie Pippen with his bangs-ian appeal to teenage girls (who evidently watch all-star celebrity basketball). Here’s what I don’t get about Bieber: sure he’s cute, sure he pulls his weight in an overly-sexualized-for-2-tweens music video, sure he can crossover Common. But don’t these teenyboppers realize his future’s at a crossroads: that either he’ll stop growing and be 5’8″ forever OR, more probably, his balls will drop and he’ll be this incredibly awkward former teen-idol with a bulging adam’s apple, receding hairline and the shooting form of Shawn Marion?

Kill me now.

WHAT AM I MISSING!? Cognitive dissonance, thy name is the child star. Seriously, though, <3 u, J-Biebs.

Other observations from the all-star celeb dickaround: Our Secretary of Education can ball. Not like, “Oh, sure, I played a little Chi-town pick-up with Rahm Emanuel when I was younger” ball. Like “I was the captain of the Harvard basketball team and I’m seriously thinking about going all ’87 ‘Nique on Michael Rappaport if he doesn’t move his fat, sorry-acting ass out the lane” ball. Arne Duncan’s no-look, behind-the-back pass to a cutting Tamika Catchings was the best thing I saw all weekend (and by a wide margin).

Which brings me to the Wags of My Finger. You know how there’s that one guy in the full-court, five-on-five who’s always trying just a little bit too hard? Two words: Lil’ Romeo. The rapper-turned-USC BBall scholarship recipient (allegedly) made a fool of himself in the only way a 5’10″, over-caffeinated, over-testesteroned career case in nepotism with a superiority complex and MAD HOPZ can.

Miller was the guy calling for alley-oops. In a celeb game. On 10-foot rims.

Watching Pippen’s reaction was priceless. Not only did he continue to drain 3 after 3 in the kids’ grill (come back, Pip!), but he treated Lil’ Miller as would the 70-year-old Polisci professor who knows he’s being bullshitted by the freshman brown-noser who spent his summer reading Jihad vs. McWorld.

Yawn. Child’s play.

Speaking of, let’s get rid of the dunk contest. Like right now. We’ve exhausted every idea and we’ve done so at the expense of the contest’s legacy. Vince Carter didn’t need a car to jump over. The Doctor didn’t need two baskets. MJ and ‘Nique didn’t need three balls.

We’ve traded fluidity for spectacle, creativity for church choirs (true story). The ’80s treated dunking as in-air ballet. This is trench warfare. I’ve seen enough. And in fact, the second best dunk I witnessed all-weekend – behind Demar Derozan’s whirling, reverse-tomahawk 180 – was round-mound DeJaun Blair’s throw-it-to-myself thunder slam that nearly took down the Stapler during the Rookie-Sophomore challenge.

The contest is a joke. The judges are a joke. And the fact that 12-year-old boys – the only people besides me and Bryan that watch this garbage – get to choose the winner is the greatest joke ever told. Blake Griffin could’ve farted in a can for his final dunk and still outpolled Javale McGee among the pre-pubescent X-boxer demo.

I conclude with observations of equal import. First, Kobe displayed ups Sunday night I didn’t know he still had. I’ve read his weekend interviews. He’s not worried about his team in the least, and – lest we forget – he’s a 5-time champion. I like the Lakers to right this ship and have a huge second half.

And finally, white Russian (not the drink) Mikhail Prohkorov made a strong case for “greatest statement these ears have ever heard,” so I will transcribe it in closing.

On his weekend rendezvous with ‘Melo: “It was a fantastic meeting, trust me. No words, live music, excellent atmosphere. We looked into each other’s eyes. Just real man talk.”

Let that simmer.

- Robbie

Sunburnt in February: Chronicles of an absent blogger

It's like Corona and SC made a baby.

Because this place could use a shot of positivity (and/or tequila).

So I returned from my five-night, something-day cruise to Mexico this morning and immediately began thinking of my little bastard child that some of you know better as Sports Casualties.

A few days of 78-degree weather, poolside reggae and fish-bowl margaritas will change a man. Unlike most cruises I had been on, this one wasn’t loaded with 19-year-old eye candy or fellow college kids icing each other at dinner or me yelling “God Bless the U.S.A.” at full blast on karaoke night after 12 hours of beer and whiskey drinks.

No, besides the occasional 60-year-old SC groupie or night at the piano bar with my senior citizen comrades, this was a pretty relaxing endeavor. A weekday cruise in February draws a little older of a demographic. Who knew?

But anyways, if there’s anything worse than someone else going on vacation, it’s listening to that person talk about his or her vacation. So that’s not what I’m here for.

Maybe it was the weather or the abnormally copious hours of sleep or the fact that I’m coming home to an internship that I really look forward to starting. Or maybe it’s my renewed appreciation for the visual of Gainesville coeds after hanging out with Archie and Edith Bunker look-a-likes for a few days.

But whatever it is, life is pretty damn good right now, and I’m excited about it.

When I arrived back at the terminal this morning, I immediately jumped on the iPhone and tweeted this:

Thumbing through SC in the waiting lounge. ANGRY HILSON ON THE LOOSE. #Emo

This wasn’t true. In fact, I actually woke up at 4:30 this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep for about a hour and a half. I went out on my balcony, watched the Radiance of the Seas approach the lights of downtown Tampa, read SC and thought about this very post. [I also checked to see who had been named the host of Wrestlemania 27, but we'll get to that awesome factoid in a moment.]

For some reason, Angry Hilson is slightly difficult to digest when you’re accustomed to the “hey brah, bring me another Sol” way of life. The dog post was a nice touch, though. Sometimes we have to remind our loyal readers that we do have hearts.

So for the first time in the history of SC, the Internet and post-Nixon society, this post is dedicated to all of the positive things that happened in the world of both real sport and fake sport this week. Let’s take a look.

FINALLYYY, THE ROCK HAS COME BACK TO ANAHEIM

Seriously, any week that starts with the MOST ELECTRIFYING MAN IN ENTERTAINMENT (yes, I will continue to write like I am making a Rock promo) returning to “Monday Night Raw” is going to be a great week.

Sorry, couldn’t get the link to the first half of this promo to work. Stop reading and look it up now. It’s worth it.

Everything about it was awesome. The just right amount of pre-show hype, the dramatic lights-out introduction, hearing the best wrestling promo of all time for the first time in seven years. At least until Wrestlemania, The Rock is back and its taken the build to April 3 in the Georgia Dome to an unprecedented level.

Is it slightly dangerous from a WWE standpoint? Sure it is. Having The Rock around for a month or so is only going to magnify the fact that they don’t have anyone near his caliber on their roster right now, especially on the mic.

But it definitely turns the “Road to Wrestlemania” in a totally different direction and should draw the best out of everyone. I know I say this all the time, but seriously, if you are ever going to start watching wrestling, this is the time to do it. If you need the cliff-notes to catch up on what’s going on, just let me know. Just don’t expect it to be this good all year long.

It’s spring freakin’ training

Baseball, baseball, baseball. For those of you who read us, you already know that spring training is one of my most favoritest times of the year.

Man Ram is still trying to find the clubhouse, Johnny Damon is pushing 40 with a mohawk and Evan Longoria is a greaser. It’s a great time to be a Rays fan besides, you know, the whole not having a bullpen thing. I can count the days until I’m road tripping to Port Charlotte or heckling A-Rod at Legends Field.

Uh, yeah.

I love spring training so very much. Plus, Miguel Cabrera is still an alcoholic and that’s funny.

NASCAR is back

Daytona is repaved, they changed the cars again and drivers are adopting a drafting pattern that makes them all look like lovebugs. In short, the Great American Race is on ice and ready to be consumed in its finest form.

Plus, Michael Waltrip got a truck race win Friday night ten years after winning his first Daytona race on the same day that his car owner and friend hit the wall in turn four and lost his life. Oh, and Kyle Busch didn’t win the Nationwide race.

America.

NBA Saturday Night

The best thing that the NBA does all season. Hands down.

However, one year they’re going to look back on tapes of this all-star weekend and be like “yeah, Blake Griffin was awesome, but what the hell was up with those shoes everyone was wearing?”

Gator baseball is No. 1

Because Gainesville is thirsty for a title of some kind, any kind.

-Bryan

Breaking: ‘Melo to Nets, Hilson right again, I am the effing man, etc.

My pad forever in t-minus 5 years

I don’t think you all appreciate how hard it is to be two people at once: the jock and the hipster, the apologist and the guy who’s right ALL THE F*CKING TIME.

Seriously, I’m bustin’ my ass straddling two cities, two blogs, two types of music, two types of ladies. I’m avoiding old neighbors (sorry, Sanchez – we stared at each other for like five seconds before I realized who you were and tried to throw myself in front of traffic), spotting Jacory Harris on runs by The U, acing grad school, maintaining this Bolanesque physique, carrying Holts’ fat ass at SC AND trying to land a 50K job or higher so I don’t feel guilty schleping at QbyTheU’s future multiplex on the Beach.

It’s a tough EFFING life, people. And I do it all for you.

A couple things. First, I

<<<BREAKING: SC regrets to inform you that Bryan Holt, student journalist at the University of Florida and writer for GatorCountry.com, has been kidnapped by pirates>>>

Like I was saying, I’m about to be proven right once again: ‘Melo to the Nets is a no-brainer for all parties involved. Mikhail Prokhorov lands a name-brand seat filler in advance of his Russian takeover of NYC; the Nuggets haul four first-rounders, dump Chauncey’s aging ass and pick up Derrick “Do Me A” Favors; Anthony makes coin he’s not getting anywhere else; and of course, I get to wave this whole shebang over Sports Chump’s head while I gloat from the comfort of my high horse.

Moving on, I’d like to direct your attention to NBA.com, where the Propagandist Arm of the Stern Wing has taken to calling celebrity All-Stars Jalen Rose and BJ Armstrong “NBA Legends”… Though, you know, it’s not like I disagree with Armstrong. Not only was he the fifth best player on three MJ title teams, but he was a bang-up ESPN analyst for roughly 12 days to boot.

Tip of my hat to you, NBA.com. Phil Kates knows what I’m talking about.

And finally, lest we not make the 300-word mark, I’d like to say that A) Terence Stansbury is the most underrated dunker of all-time B) I have it from a good source (my conscience) that Blake Griffin will try to grab the top of the backboard tomorrow night C) Jordan will average 10 points and 5 boards in 20 minutes when he comes back at 51 and D) You are all incredibly spoiled for getting to read this incendiary log of brilliance day in and day out.

Going to the beach tonight, ladies. Hit me up. And if you’re curious as to why my writing on this blog has been – as a Brit with bad teeth and pasty skin would say – “total shite”, it’s because I’ve pumped all of my genius into something nobody reads. Shameless plug: join the fanpage.

To Ashley McLain and all her hot friends: Let’s do this. Leave your boyfriends at home.

Jump on this train, people. SC circa 2011 = Nirvana circa 1990.

Yeezy 4 Eva,

Hilson