Look, it’s The Salbert

The Salbert

This is the Salbert. The Salbert is a dog.

She is known primarily for her ability to A) sleep and B) find comfy places in which to sleep. In this regard, she is like the other women in my family.

The Salbert will eat anything you place in her snout, but she’s particularly fond of Cuban crackers, carrots, and lickable dishes. She used to eat grapes by the handful until we realized grapes cause renal failure in dogs.

She is still alive. This song may describe her.

As a puppy, The Salbert swallowed my friend P.K.’s retainer, which did not sit well with P.K.’s mother, and evidently, not with The Salbert either – the metal contraption surfaced in many a subsequent x-ray well after that fateful chomp.

When she’s not sleeping or consuming corrective dental gear, The Salbert likes to sit on the top steps of the pool, passing away hot Miami days with a chlorine scent and visions of tennis balls.

She goes for her daily DW – code for “doggy walk,” a phrase she responds to as if told The British are coming. She likes DWs and pulls hard even on a choke chain.

The Salbert displays very little practical intelligence. She would not last long in the wild, yet can open any door with her nose. Perhaps, then, she is a savant, because, as my mother would say, “She augh no vauwey smaht.”

She has spawned a new language, marked by an Elmer Fudd-like pronunciation of vowels, verb confusion, a de-emphasis of the hard “r” and the replacement of the soft “r” with a “w”. As my mother would say, “She a wee-taud.”

She’s never known a hard day’s night. She’s never worked, period. She laps water more delicately than other goldens.

The Salbert sticks her nose in your crotch to say, “What’s good?” She’s sits like a whore, but a classy whore.

She’s a creature of habit, scared of bigger or equal sized dogs, doubly scared of raccoons, loves a good car ride, hates the vet, and finds a safe corner when the DustBuster comes out.

Golf is her favorite sport to watch – it usually entails a nap. She’s slept through entire rounds of the British Open.

She is politically apathetic, but loves a good butt rub. She groans when she lays down.

She is an arresting babe magnet and a good wingman despite the tiny scar on her nose. She runs slower now.

She responds to Salbert, Salberto, Salazaar, The Sal, Sallie, Albert, Al, The Allie Cat, Al Pacino, as well as her given name, Allie.

She kicks in her dreams. She’s a good listener. She’s my biggest fan.

So I am dedicating this post to The Salbert. She’s old, I don’t see her often, and as somebody somewhere once said: life is short, but a dog’s life is shorter.

The Salbert

- Robbie

Dwyane Wade, or, The Incredible Disappearing Superstar

Yeah, you need to hear this.

I suppose I watch regular season basketball for the same reason 12-year-old pre-internet horndogs read National Geographic: limited options. Having very recently turned my full, unabated attentions to the NBA, I hesitate to draw any meaningful conclusions from a mid-February affair entailing, at most, nothing more than 48 more minutes of home court and a temporary knock to the ego.

However…

The Miami Heat are now 0-3 against the reigning Easter Conference champs, 1-6 against the league’s top five teams, and, on a Sunday when the Celtics’ primary scoring option soiled the bed to the tune of a single point on 0 for 10 shooting, displayed for a third time in as many chances all the chemistry and late-contest cohesion of an intramural streetball team: you shoot, no YOU shoot, but really I insist…

And so it went Sunday – Dwyane deferring to LeBron. LeBron deferring to Dwyane. Mike Miller jacking threes from the North End.

Chris Bosh, of course, excelled mightily, as all men paid to play basketball should when afforded the luxury of eight uncontested 15-footers. Bosh, after all, was put on this earth for one reason. And that reason was to make uncontested 15-footers and play defense.

If you are a Heat fan (a farcical conceit, I know, but go with me), you take two things from Sunday’s deflating anti-climax in Boston. First, your team lost by three points on the road to a championship-caliber club, and could’ve stolen a seemingly unwinnable game had LeBron’s parents passed on the clutch gene. When he took to the free-throw stripe with 12 seconds left and down by two…

Clank.

Secondly, and more bothersome, your “go-to guy”, Wade, quite conspicuously morphed into a formless mass of tapioca pudding in crunch time. Needless to say, such a phenomena – marked by a striking willingness to dish at the first sign of a double-team – is dishearteningly problematic. And, in fact, Wade’s fourth-quarter no-show made me, jaw agape A) wonder aloud whether he’d also clam up on his hot Valentine’s Day date and B) conclude, Yes, absolutely, but only if she’s a Ten.

(To watch Wade charm the pants off a Seven, see Tuesday’s 41-point “Sunday was just a fluke” outburst against the hapless Pacers)

Quite clearly, this is not the same player who set fire to the Dallas Mavericks in the most astounding Post-Michael Finals display yet – or maybe it is and we should start reevaluating the merits of one 34-year-old Diesel Decoy. Either way, Dwyane Wade – for reasons of injury, age, role ambiguity, lack of confidence or (insert theory here) – shows a tentative aloofness a-typical even for a guy who’s prone to occasional spurts of thumb-twiddling.

Wade spent much of his reclusive 6 for 17 shooting night confined to a beyond-arc corner, possibly mulling over the 28 ill-fated shots he launched in his first two C’s match-ups (6 of which dropped), but more probably just “pulling a Hilson” i.e. admiring LeBron’s sculpted awesomeness.

File under: Adonis

In one of the bigger games of the year, he was the fifth best player on the floor behind Rajon Rondo, Kevin Garnett and a pair of his own teammates. He did not look “old” per se, so much as weary, disinterested and petulant. Still, one suspects this tired routine of faking a gunshot wound at every drive to the basket is not quite the rope-a-dope act it used to be, but instead a conscious preservation mechanism of someone tying to prolong his wellness.

Wade’s now a 29-year-old one awkward fall away from 40. He’s the second banana on his own team. He’s exhausted by cognitive dissonance and uncertainty of role. If he wasn’t a star basketball player, we’d call this a mid-life crisis.

Remember, for all LeBron’s starpower and Bosh’s – um – open jump shots, the idea of Heat-As-Dynasty lies in a given notion that Dwyane Wade, former champion, brings to the table an intangible greatness the others lack in spades. James wears the pants in this relationship, yes, but it’s his elder teammate who bears the ring.

For Miami, then, to reach its dynastic potential, Wade’s pedigree should translate into more than the intermittent 40-point explosion in Memphis. He doesn’t have to be the best player on the floor night-in, night-out. He could start acting like he cares.

- Robbie

Rejected Candy Hearts

Happy V-Day, Casualtists

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology, any social deviant with access to a keypad can now instantaneously publish and permanently archive a long chain of unfiltered quips that will invariably derail in the future some once-promising career.

This is the idea behind #rejectedcandyhearts: a juvenilely crude, hysterically funny Twitter meme that not-so-briefly hijacked Robbie Hilson’s productivity the Sunday before Valentine’s Day. The following is his list of favorite sugar-coated castoffs. Also, disregard his previous post. He didn’t mean a word of it. #upyours

———–

EAT ME #rejectedcandyhearts

PROBABLY SHOULDN’T, YOUR ASS IS GETTING BIG #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU KISS LIKE MY GRANDMOTHER #rejectedcandyhearts

MY FAVORITE GUILTY PLEASURE #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU’RE MY CANDY HEART (TO HER CHOCOLATE TRUFFLE) #rejectedcandyhearts

CAREFUL. DIABETES. #rejectedcandyhearts

CYSTIC FIBROSIS IS A BITCH #rejectedcandyhearts

MY LITTLE PLAN B #rejectedcandyhearts

SAVING UP 4 NEXT YEAR #rejectedcandyhearts

COMPETITION GOT ROSES #rejectedcandyhearts

YOUR PREDECESSOR’S IN MY CLOSET #rejectedcandyhearts

WANT MY KEY BACK #rejectedcandyhearts

CENTURY MARK! #rejectedcandyhearts

HAPPY VD #rejectedcandyhearts

MAYBE IT’S U #rejectedcandyhearts

CRYING ON THE INSIDE #rejectedcandyhearts

THIS SHOULD SUFFICE #rejectedcandyhearts

2 WORDS: BROKEBACK MT #rejectedcandyhearts

LOWERING MY STANDARDS #rejectedcandyhearts

KID TESTED, MOTHER APPROVED #rejectedcandyhearts

OVER/UNDER: 3 WEEKS #rejectedcandyhearts

REJECTED #rejectedcandyhearts

SUCK ON THIS #rejectedcandyhearts

NOPE, SMALLER #rejectedcandyhearts

ONE OF YOUR TOP 10 FANS #rejectedcandyhearts

COULD TALK MYSELF INTO THIS #rejectecandyhearts

NOT CLEVER OR CONCISE ENOUGH TO FIT ON A CANDY HEART #rejectedcandyhearts

I WAS ONLY HALF-SERIOUS #rejectedcandyhearts

YOUR ODOR TURNS ME ON #rejectedcandyhearts

I MAKE ALL MY CHILD PAYMENTS #rejectedcandyhearts

THNX 4 SIGNING THE PRENUP #rejectedcandyhearts

THEY SAY THIRD TIME’S A CHARM #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU MOVE SOMETHING IN MY PANTS #rejectedcandyhearts

OK, WE CAN BUILD ON THIS #rejectedcandyhearts

TRYING MY HARDEST #rejectedcandyhearts

STILL NOT LEAVIN U #rejectedcandyhearts

ALMOST FINISHED #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU COMPLETE ME, SOMETIMES #rejectedcandyhearts

I WASN’T THINKING, BUT THIS TURNED OUT OKAY #rejectedcandyhearts

U LOOK LIKE SOPHIA LOREN WHEN I’M DRUNK #rejectedcandyhearts

WE CAN IF U REALLY WANT 2 #rejectedcandyhearts

U DESERVE THIS CANDY HEART #rejectedcandyhearts

I’M OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE, BUT LACK SELF-CONFIDENCE #rejectedcandyhearts

THEY’RE REAL AND THEY’RE SPECTACULAR #rejectedcandyhearts #seinfeld

THIS WASN’T A TOTAL BUST #rejectedcandyhearts

SHORT AND WHITE. WHAT DID U EXPECT? #rejectedcandyhearts

ENJOY IT WHILE IT LASTS #rejectedcandyhearts

OPERATION WAS A SUCCESS #rejectedcandyhearts

MI CASA ES SU CASA #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU’RE MY NICOLE BROWN #rejectedcandyhearts

I “LOVE” YOU #rejectedcandyhearts

“I” LOVE YOU #rejectedcandyhearts

I LOVE “YOU” #rejectedcandyhearts

MAYBE IF U PLAY YOUR CARDS RIGHT #rejectedcandyhearts

I’D SHOWER 4 U #rejectedcandyhearts

THE AD DOES U JUSTICE #rejectedcandyhearts

IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE #rejectedcandyhearts

BEST. REBOUND. EVER. #rejectedcandyhearts

LOOKS LIKE U LOST WEIGHT #rejectedcandyhearts

THE PAYMENT WAS JUST A BONUS #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU’RE THE ROBERTS TO MY GERE #rejectedcandyhearts

I’VE HAD WORSE #rejectedcandyhearts

HUNG LIKE GREG ODEN #rejectedcandyhearts

WE CAN WORRY ABOUT THIS TOMORROW #rejectedcandyhearts

THINK IT OVER #rejectedcandyhearts

NO HABLO INGLES #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU COULD BE A PLUS-SIZE MODEL #rejectedcandyhearts

LOVE WILL TEAR US APART #rejectedcandyhearts #joydivision

MY LITTLE KOOKENHAKEN #rejectedcandyhearts #modernlovers

I’D PROBABLY DRESS UP IN U #rejectedcandyhearts #belle&sebastian

YOU’RE PRETTY GOOD LOOKING (FOR A GIRL) #rejectedcandyhearts #whitestripes

A MAN NEEDS A MAID #rejectedcandyhearts #neilyoung

DOLL STEAK #rejectedcandyhearts #nirvana

I’D RATHER BE WITH AN ANIMAL #rejectedcandyhearts #pearljam

YOUR SEX IS ON FIRE #rejectedcandyhearts #kingsofleon

I FANTASIZED BOUT THIS BACK IN CHICAGO #rejectedcandyhearts #yeezy

SQUEEZE MY LEMON #rejectedcandyhearts #ledzeppelin

<3 U FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY PEEN #rejectedcandyhearts

CAN YOU WALK FROM HERE? #rejectedcandyhearts

THERE’S SOMETHING I NEED TO TELL YOU #rejectedcandyhearts

SHE’S ALMOST OUT OF THE PICTURE #rejectedcandyhearts

YOU’RE THE CURRY PASTE TO MY CHICKEN ‘N WAFFLES #rejectedcandyhearts

TEN CALORIES = 64 CRUNCHES #rejectedcandyhearts

THINK ABOUT THE KIDS #rejectedcandyhearts

PLEASE ACCEPT THIS ACT OF DESPERATION #rejectedcandyhearts

YOUR SURGEON’S A MIRACLE WORKER #rejectedcandyhearts

NO MEANS NO #rejectedcandyhearts

FIRST COMES SUGAR, THEN COMES CRABS #rejectedcandyhearts

LET ME BE YOUR CHRIS BROWN #rejectedcandyhearts

LOOK OUT HIPS, HERE SHE COMES! #rejectedcandyhearts

Guest Submissions

Kyle Rancourt via Facebook:

THE DOCTOR SAID IT’S NOT CONTAGIOUS #rejectedcandyhearts

I MET SOMEONE. ON CRAIGSLIST. #rejectedcandyhearts

Rob LaVohn via Facebook:

YOU’LL DO #rejectedcandyhearts

[SCREENED IMAGE OF FAVRE'S PRIVATES] #rejectedcandyhearts

Love,

Sports Casualties

A Friday Night Clearinghouse: Sincere Contrition Ed.

A visual pun

In the time between flicking off the “photographer” obstructing traffic in the middle of Main and succumbing to the pummeling sonic guilt trip that is Matthew Sweet’s “Sick of Myself”… I grew a conscience. Not enough of a conscience to not crush Bryan’s first post in a week with a meaningless rant, but a conscience nonetheless.

I’ve spent the last week ripping everyone. Really, everyone – from semi-deserving public figures to random kids in the Lib Westie that had the misfortune of sitting in my line of sight during a potent case of the sh*t moods. I had actually even slotted disgraced Craigslist-enthusiast Chris Lee for this very cyber-space and only backed off last minute when I couldn’t think of a clever second-paragraph followup to the admittedly trite “Pants On The Ground” lede. I am out of control.

Congressman from District P90X

Here’s the thing: the last seven days did not deserve the ill-tempered campaign-de-bitch I launched in its general direction, and since I’m now catching myself obnoxiously head-bobbing through an impossibly loud playlist just like the guys I called out for improper bus etiquette the other day, it’s time to issue the following totally non-ironic, totally-not-yankin-your-chain, totally I-mean-it-this-time-really-I-do apology.

To Everyone Except Jerry Sloan, I am sorry.

To the boob-jobbed telecom anchor on the 127: I wish you the best of luck as you navigate the perilous seas of the intersex-relationship. If you ever need a shoulder and a comfortably plush couch to cry on, I’m here. Tell your surgeon I say nice work. Same goes for the Zeta pledge whose bellbottoms I silently derided while awaiting my venti Americano. Your choice of pant is no more or less valid than my own, and since only one of us is still drinking coffee, I imagine you’ve since landed your very own Peter Frampton for the night. Well played.

To the people I forgot to text, I’m sorry. To the people I forgot to call, I’m sorry. To the people I called and shouldn’t have, I’m sorry. To the people who mistook my jokes for genuine douchebaggery, I’m sorry. To the people whose T-shirts I just hours ago shipped to the Bay, I’m sorry. And to the 37 people whose toes I disfigured weaving in out of the ATL’s drunken mass last night, I’m doubly sorry (though I strongly advise against sandals next time).

Truth is, I’m only perfect 23 days of the month. So to the guy whose criticism of this post was met with a sarcastic, up-yours quip, you caught me on a bad day. We’re still boys. Next drink’s on me. And in the meantime, I’ll try harder to mine that ambiguously precarious middle ground between good-natured ribbing and snarky hypocrisy.

A weight has been lifted, Casualtists. And now, to make up for hijacking his prime weekend spot… A big congrats to resident blowhard Bryan Holt for landing a job at ESPN affiliate GatorCountry.com. You do us proud, sir. Long hair don’t care.

Merry weekend. Happy everything.

- Robbie

How the NCAA Tournament is trying to make itself suck

Because no one wants to see this guy play for two hours.

The NCAA has more news about its sparkling television deal that it wants to share with you. Yes, the folks out of Indianapolis have been churning away in their mad laboratory determined to improve one of the only aspects of college athletics that most people view as perfect.

Perfect really is the only way to describe the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. It’s the perfect blend of perfection (catch where I’m going with this). There are the dominant teams and the surging teams and the chilling stories. It’s like what the Olympics try to be (still love you, Olympics).

But somewhere in some field house basement, there is a man who has watched years of these perfect tournaments and thought “eh, i can make it better.”

His strategy?

“Hey! Everybody loves all those Cinderella schools. Let’s get more of them!”

That was the general concept behind the original revamp plan which had the tournament expanding from 65 to 96 teams to largely accommodate more adorable underdogs. It’s the Charlie Sheen porn star model of athletics: quantity over quality. Thankfully, the NCAA settled at 68 teams when the rest of America gave it a collective “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.”

Except it’s still the NCAA, so nothing ever really settled.

The main focus of this new deal is killing what made watching the opening rounds the best television experience in sports. As you know, there are 32 games played on the first two days of the NCAA Tournament (I never recognized McNeese State vs. FAMU where the winner plays Duke as part of the tournament), and each year a handful of these games are particularly memorable.

But that’s not how it feels.

The NCAA Tournament feels electric because of CBS’ rapid fire game rotation that slings you out of games that don’t matter into games that do. The transitions are largely seamless and provide a spectator heaven for the lazy sports fan. No channel-changing, no confusion, just pure college basketball awesomeness.

And this works because there is not one person on Earth besides Doug Gottlieb that cares about every single game played in the NCAA Tournament. The casual basketball fan (aka TV’s target audience) wants to see the top few seeds, his or her favorite team and a few wild finishes.

Nothing else.

But there is a train of thought that we actually care about every game. That the tournament needs to be spread out over three channels (one of which will probably feature a murder trial re-run lead-in). And that the start times need to be staggered in 30-minute intervals, so that we don’t get overwhelmed.

In the words of Andrea McNulty: NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

As Mitch Hedberg once told turkey, “You’re beautiful the way you are. Stop trying to be a burger.”

The idea that 30-minute intervals are going to do anything but water-down the tournament is mind-boggling. Yes, the  gushing of game endings is overwhelming, but that’s why people love it. This is America: land of Las Vegas, the Playboy Mansion and 12-pound burger challenges. Things that overwhelm are part of our culture.

Is the move to three channels logical? Absolutely, but that doesn’t mean that it’s necessary. College basketball isn’t any kind of raging phenomenon when it’s not March.

Gambling makes March big, but so did the brilliant approach that had people glued to their couches watching CBS for the past several years.

One-half of that formula is going to be tested through 2015. Here’s to hoping it falls flat on all three of its faces.

-Bryan

Remembering Jerry Sloan

An ambassador of the game

The game of basketball sustained a great loss today as the legendary Jerry Sloan resigned after 23 seasons as head coach of the Utah Jazz. Sloan, 68, will best be remembered as a fundamentals-oriented hardliner who was respected by both members of the media and the vast majority of his players, none of whom ever won anything.

That Sloan’s tenure comes to an end as a result of a contentious relationship with star point guard Deron Williams strikes many as counterintuitive. If anything, Sloan was a player’s coach – able to coax the most out of any team by instilling in it the fear of God and the promise of next year.

Over his illustrious Salt Lake career, Sloan endured only a single losing season, a track record that many commentators agree was “just good enough to keep his job.” While some maintain Sloan was the beneficiary of Hall of Fame talents like John Stockton and Karl Malone, long-time NBA veterans are quick to come to the coach’s defense.

“We vehemently disagree,” said Greg Ostertag and Antoine Carr in a combined statement.

Sloan’s coaching career peaked from 1996 to 1998, when his Jazz twice won the Western Conference en route to lopsided defeats to Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls. Still, it was in the first of these Finals that reigning MVP Karl Malone spawned the classic catchphrase, “The mailman doesn’t deliver on Sundays.”

Sloan, whose 6’5″ frame made him an intimidating presence in the Jazz locker room, always demanded hustle and defense from backcourts who were properly scared sh*tless of him. He was by all accounts an innovator of motivation, paving the way through crossed arms and clinched jaws for a number of body language luminaries, from Vince Carter and LaDainian Tomlinson to Randy Shannon and Jay Cutler.

In an era of black superstars, he was a model of whiteness, both for short-shorts wearing point guards and an entire city that would never seriously entertain the idea of a black coach. Under his decades-spanning reign, a generation of fundamentally-sound, hard-nosed, gritty, scrappy, cerebral, hustlers cemented both their reputations in the NBA and a lasting stereotype for the Caucasian athlete.

Though outwardly exuding a stern, no-nonsense persona, Sloan always drew smiles from his team when calling on now-retired shooting guard Jeff Hornacek, whose completely non-ironic nickname was “Horny.”

“That sh*t was funny,” recalled guard Bryon Russell.

All told, Sloan tallied over 1200 career wins and 19 playoff appearances, but his legacy will always best be measured in warm ‘n fuzzies.

- Robbie

Bus Etiquette: A Treatise On How To Act Like A Civil Human Being

This is not a winning formula. For anyone.

Take it from someone who knows: you don’t have to travel the far ends of the Earth to see all sides of humanity. You don’t have to “look through bent-back tulips to see how the other half lives.”

Just take a ride on the 127 Sorority Row.

I have. I do. And I can tell you this: It’s a veritable 5-ton window into the collective soul – a rolling confluence of every walk of life, from the 20-year-old, boob-jobbed telecomm anchor to the down-on-their-luck dropout en route to St. Jude’s Homeless Shelter.

In the cramped confines of an RTS auto, you can tell who’s who, what’s what and how some people – for lack of a better descriptor – just don’t “get it.”

The tells usually show themselves before you even get on the bus. I swear this is true (though you wouldn’t know it from the crowd of a dozen or so huffing and puffing on the corner of Depot and 9th at 8:17 AM): anxiously leaning over the curb, pacing like a kindergartner in time-out, and tapping your foot as if you’ve just been stood up for a date with Brad Pitt doesn’t make the bus come any faster.

True story.

Take a deep breath, ladies. It’s not the end of the world if you show up five minutes late for Intro To Rocks & Jocks. You still have 45 minutes to flirt with Trey Burton, and I’m almost positive your overworked TA – who’s doing everything in her power to ignore your brash, front-row whispering, by the way – will drop at least two of those attendance ‘pop’ quizzes anyway. Relax.

So now the bus actually arrives, you’re packed together like sardines in a tin can (same smell, too), and everybody onboard is polite enough to carry on quietly amongst themselves or whip out a SparkNotes packet and knock out a week’s worth of studying. This code of common decency, of course, does not apply to Tiffany “OM-EFFING-G!” The Social Butterfly spilling her guts to her ‘bestest friend forevs’ over a shitty cell connection.

We were drinking… (silence)… But he has a girlfriend… (silence)… Is that a big deal? (silence) THAT’S WHAT I SAID! What an ass*ole!

My thoughts exactly. And also, this what hell must be like. Moving on…

Note to riders: the word “douchebag” is cool for blogs. You want to scream it out when you’re scrubbing dishes in the back of a Chili’s? Fine by me. But this isn’t The Jersey Shore. Doris The Civil Rights Activist Turned Arthritic Senior Citizen doesn’t want to hear you mouth off like Kenny from South Park while she’s reading chapter seven of To Kill A Mockingbird. And to be honest, it makes me uncomfortable, too.

If you wouldn’t say it in front of your boss, don’t say it on a bus. NSFW=NSFB. Then again, you probably do work at Chili’s. So unless you have friends nearby, think of this as an elevator at the Ritz. People staring at you too hard? They’ve either confused you for Snooki, or you’ve long fulfilled your quota of four-letter words.

I’d like to now take a moment to address the Girl Whose Great Grandfather Has An Inoperable Brain Tumor: I feel for you. This is a truly horrible tragedy that a) happens to all of us and b) should be discussed IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN FREAKING HOME. Like in your kitchen. So four walls can shield the rest of society from your hysterical sobbing.

But, you know, at least she’s got a reason – besides “dumbfounding ignorance” – for interrupting this serene buzz of white noise. The same cannot be said for the Dr. Dre wannabe head-bobbing his way through the entire auto-tuned chronology of rap five rows behind me. Bro, contrary to popular belief, we can all hear the music pumping out your iPhone, especially WHEN YOU’RE NOT WEARING ANY F*CKING HEADPHONES.

I love Kanye as much as the next guy (more than the next guy, even), but “Runaway” is my jam on a Thursday night after a couple of vodka tonics – not when I’m trying to prep for an hour-long presentation on knowledge gap theory.

To the hardcore Glee fan practicing for tonight’s recital out loud… I’m just… I mean… Really… Just speechless… Can’t say enough about your lack of self-awareness.

Ever heard of “tragedy of the commons”? Yes? Then for the love of god, pick up your Chick-fil-A bag. And while you’re at it, thank the bus driver as you head off to your better life. It’s bad enough he has a frozen Hungry Man dinner and four channels of network TV waiting for him at home – don’t make him scrape through the seats for an extra half hour to pick up your shit. The guy’s trying to make an honest living. He’s spent the last eight hours absorbing your bitching without so much as a knowing smirk. If you want to take it upon yourself to be His Last Straw and turn this whole shebang into the last 30 minutes of Speed, at least let me get off first.

Speaking of getting off, great job holding the door for the girl behind you, but we don’t need to make this into a freaking Shakespearean production. She’s smiling because she’s nice and she’s in a hurry. Not because she wants to have your child. You’re trying too hard, bro. And just for the record, should you disregard the four “CROSS AT BACK” signs in your general vicinity, I hope for the sake of the human race the driver guns it like you’re the red flag and he’s the bull. If it takes three months in a body cast for you NOT to act like an apathetic clown for the rest of your life, so be it.

Atticus Finch said it best, “Character is how you act when the overly-critical kid with the iPod is taking notes.” Also, as I said it best, grow the f*ck up.

- Hilson

some emo kid writes emo post about being emo in the westie

the westie

Dinosaur Jr – Freak Scene

once had aspirations of “being productive” 2night
but i’ve been sidetracked by a flavor train to emoville
now just chillin in the westie w/ the bros and the ladies

we’re all just sittin here on the 2nd floor wondering about life
wondering about ‘jobs’, ‘quantum mechanics’, ‘girls’
wonderin how it all got this way

speak 2 me with your loud guitars, dino jr.
tell me what is meant by ‘when i need a friend, it’s still u’
because i cannot relate
explain yr ‘freak scene’ 2 me.

wish sometimes that things weren’t so complicated
but they r, now that i’ve spilt burning coffee in my lap
now that evrybody is looking at me
look harder. i dare u. make me unplug my headphones –> share dino jr. with all of westie

do thz six-four, 22o pound balding bros w/ muscles really think
they’re spending the rest of their lives w/ thz tiny, 19-year-old lamestreaming cheerleaders?
seriesss ya’ll?

what say u, ty segall?
what say u, bobby k?
what say u, smart kid w/ pimples?
U r not better than me six-four, 220 pound bald bro w/ muscle

feel like now was not the time to gulp that venti americano
totally buzzing with the caffs
totally sweating like a six-four baldie bro

I will win this battle six-four bros
height i do not have
220 pounds i do not have
‘total-body gym’ i do not have
‘horse steroid cycles’ i do not have

but hair is on my side
alt-ness is on my side
skinny jeans r on my side
iggy pop is on my side

this is a war of attrition
and hair/brains/u ‘shriveling up when the steroids where off’ will prevail
chillwave dance moves will prevail
alts will prevail

u can’t hide in gainesville 4ever
get me out of this blonde-hair, blu-eyed hell
wtf is this? Germany?

just chillin in the library westie
chillin with the bros
chillin with the hoes
listening to ‘girlfriend’ by ty segall
tho kinda thinking the matt sweet version might ‘b superior in a historical context’

just sittin here in a chair covered in feet smell
being a ‘social observer’
but being emo at the same time
wonder if this is all the world has to offer

emo+westie+sbux+bros+hoes=life?

so confused, ya’ll
wonder if thz peeps in front of me r signing b/c they’re really deaf?
or if they just want to show each other ‘i’m not just another person chillin in westie’
‘i am unique’
‘i am different’
‘i can fake a knowledge of sign language’
but also, ‘hoping 2 god no deaf person shows up
lest i b exposed for the signing fraud that i am’

wonder if there’s a world outside grad school/thursday nights/same old shit
every week
over and over and over again

u r living a false existence
w/ ur Ammy Appy parties
and ur drugs
and ur booze
and ur sex
carpe diem, bros, cuz this gravy train won’t last forever

u will work at a desk
u will take calls from angry customers
u will live a lamestream existence
u will luv football/high school buddies/Budweiser because it is all u have
u will get married
your hot wife will leave u
you will beat yr dog
u will retire
u will get old/get some kind of inoperable disease/die

wonder why bobby k is in the library westie?
why are u here, bobby k?
designing some metallic space shit 2 wear?
show @ G-Vegas fashion week?
dare to dream bro
gainesville fashion week is the tits
gville fashion week is the tops
gville fashion week is the New york fashion weeks of new york fashion weeks

u r in the paper bro
u r awesome
u ‘have made it’
the rest of us are just ‘littles who float in and out of your orbit’
thank all that is good for g-ville fashion wk
what would we do without it?

jk, bobbybros(k)ie. don’t know u 4realz. u seem chill.

take my advice: heroes are made in timez like thz
heroes r made listening to dinosaur jr/being emo in the westie/
the time to do something gr8 is now
the time to trip a 6-4 bro in the stairwell is now
the time to get the eff out of gainesville is now

this place is a dead end
this place is where dreamz go to die
this place is where bo diddley goes to die

gainesville is 4 “academics”/entry level alts/ppl that ‘philosophize’ about ‘bullshit’ 4 a living
theze ppl r near me, but they r not near 2 my heart
they r ‘full of it’
living in their cottage industry
producing ‘bullshit’ 4 consumers of ‘bullshit’
its a f8cking carosel of ‘bullshit’ and false dreamz/hopes

but, s00fy stevens said it best bros, ‘i’m just like them’
i am just like them
they are me
i am them
we are 1 in this merry-go-round of pretensions

in the westie, there is no war
there is no egypt
there is no ‘seattle’s best coffee’
there is just sbux, free wifi, and the stench of fake ppl and false hopes and feet

i don’t believe in krishna
i don’t believe in gators
i don’t believe in beatles
i just believe in me
me and yoko just me

but 4 now, we r all the same
we r all the same in westie, the great equalizer of human kind
u can pretend u ‘have yr shit 2gether’
i can pretend i ‘have my shit 2gether’
we r the same

difference is u r six-four/have a cheerleader girl/will drink urself into oblivion tonight/’work on yr delts’
i am five-ten/have a keyboard/will go 2 sleep early/will ‘not work on my delts’
u cannot keep this up forever, bro
u cannot ride your deltwaves 4evr
u cannot ride yr tri-delts 4 evr

i will win at life
u will see
but 4 now we will just avoid eye contact
u will act like u have it all – the tight shirt, the girl, the hulking forearms, the six-fourness
i will act like i don’t care
i will act like wire/the stooges/dino jr./r.e.m. is enough

but bro, right now, tight shirt + girl + forearms + height is so much more chill than punk music and a blog
u win bro
u win 4 now
i surrender 2 fight another day
2morrow we’ll go again

i will try to ‘outbullshit’ u
u will try to ‘out bullshit me’
u will look down on me
i will wait 4 yr hair to fall out

your days r numbered g-ville
your lattes r running dry
your bands r less buzzworthy
your graduations r near
make thz last days count
b/c they’re the last 1s you have

friends, stay glued 2 yr tv sets
our day is coming
this is not 4ever
we will make our escape
and it will b glorious

Why I’m Right (But Could Be Wrong) About The Miami Hurricanes

Let me give you a hint: it has to do with this guy.

It should’ve by now been made exceedingly clear to anyone who’s read more than a sentence of any of my last 250 posts that I am right approximately… let’s see… all the time.

I get this quality from my father and grandmother, neither of whom have ever been wrong. And I share my correctness with you on a daily basis. So far I’d say this arrangement has worked out pretty well for both of us. I get a boost to my ego; you get to pass off my knowledge as your own at the water cooler, or whatever it is people with paying jobs converse around.

However, I’m also – to the detriment of A) my wallet and B) the ladies I’ve flaked out on – a relatively impulsive, write-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, shoot-first-blame-Randy-later kinda guy. I have two blogs. I like to argue. It comes with the territory.

Backpedaling, naturally, is not part of my makeup. Then again (and here’s where I start backpedaling), it’s not often – ever, really – I come across an account of such monumentally baffling ineptitude that Napoleon’s winter in Russia stands a model of impeccable planning and execution by comparison.

On Sunday, I came across such an account.

Here’s the Reader’s Digest version of the Golden Hurricanes v. Shannon Hurricanes synopsis published in the Miami Herald. And for the record, I’m not making any of this up.

Under Golden, players eat breakfast with assistant coaches. Under Shannon, players did not sit with coaches… because they did not eat breakfast.

Under Shannon, players dogged it in the weight room. Under Golden, they flip tires till they puke. Then they flip tires some more.

Under Golden, players sit in the front row in class, wear hats at the risk of punishment, and always shows up five minutes early. Under Shannon, showing up late banished you to the old women’s basketball locker. Or the laundry room. One or the other.

Suffice it to say the article in question provoked by far this weekend’s biggest double-take. And, yes, I saw Christina Aguilera.

We’re now two months into the Golden Era (Copyright: SC, Everyone 2011) and it’s still hard to process the last five nepotism-driven years of systematic incompetence. Shannon, according to those who’d know (the players), played favorites, clammed-up in tense situations (i.e. games), and never acted toward his team anything other than a stern, cold father figure who hid his genuine love behind a walled-off facade of crossed arms and bulging cranial veins.

Failure, thy name is bad body language

I write this not as a stake for the heart of a dead horse, but instead a recalculation of the opportunity ahead. If Shannon was indeed as bad as we suspect and Golden is the J.J.-like fire-starter ready to take on all comers, maybe The U’s future is a little brighter than the picture of weeping and gnashing of teeth I had originally painted.

Maybe The U… can be The U.

Golden, of course, is only as good as his record. He has not coached a game, so we have only a was-what-it-was recruiting class and mildly-exaggerated accounts of his tenacious foresight by which to judge.

But damn, what a start.

Apparently he showed up to his interview with a several hundred page how-to on dynasty reclamation (True story). Apparently he approaches house visits with the etiquette of a roving vagabond: taking all he can, responding only to forceable removal.

He sends encouraging emails to his team. He smiles. He dresses well. He busts balls. He Jedi mind-tricked himself into thinking Miami actually has the best brand in the country. And if you’re a player, good luck trying to make it through a day of school without a mid-morning checkup from your position coach.

So, yeah, maybe there’s room for growth. Maybe there’s a lot of room for growth.

Once upon a time, not too long ago, future All-Pro Andre Johnson ran many a go route half-blind because nobody in charge realized he needed contacts. Dre was a stud regardless.

Ten years on, The U does not have the luxury of underutilizing talent. We will not – and cannot hope to – trap lightning in a bottle again. In a post-Dre/Reed/Taylor/Vilma/Vince/Dorsey/Portis world, we are only as good as the least of our coaches. And you know what? For the first time since those guys graduated, this strikes me as – I dare say – a winning proposition.

The circumstances haven’t change, but the mentality certainly has. And since we’re all hoping to hell that Golden’s precursor is in fact James Willie Johnson, I leave you with a little nugget of advice from the balls-out Texan sage himself.

When your opponent’s drowning – when he’s down and gasping for air – jam a hose down his throat and turn it on full blast.

Let’s do this.

- Robbie

Dear Sports Casualties, Big Ben Deserves Better

Picture posted to Robert Hilson's Facebook profile

Dear Sports Casualties,

I am writing in regard to a picture one of your authors posted to his Facebook profile. The photo in question shows Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger posing with a group of young women while visibly intoxicated.

I know Robbie Hilson is trying to be funny, but he’s instead showing himself to be a person of poor taste, a lazy writer, and an immature college student with typically juvenile sensibilities.

Ben Roethlisberger is a changed man, but don’t take it from me. Ask Trent Dilfer, Mark Schlereth or any other employee of the ESPN family of networks. Better yet, take a good look at how Ben warms up on the sidelines this Sunday. He even soft tosses like a changed man.

That I have seen many features this week depicting Ben as a better person and not one describing any instances of sexual misconduct is further proof of his personal turnaround.

I know Ben very well, as he and I spent a night together a few summers ago in Lake Tahoe. Yes, we’ve had our differences, but as his teammates will attest, Ben has rebuilt his life.

He wears a helmet. He wears a condom.

Ben is a leader of men. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be playing in his third Super Bowl. Players do not just get to Super Bowls because they are 6-foot-5, 260 pounds and have rocket arms. They get to Super Bowls because they are good people.

They get to Super Bowls because they are good human beings.

With this in mind, I think it is especially distasteful for a publication such as yours to associate itself with a person like Mr. Hilson. When he tags one of the women in the aforementioned Facebook photo as “James Farrior’s girlfriend,” he is leading Sports Casualties readers to believe that the woman in question is actually James Farrior’s girlfriend.

This is simply not true. For one, James Farrior’s girlfriend does not drink vodka tonics. And secondly, James Farrior’s girlfriend is black. So this is simply not true.

When will your writers take a page out of the Roethlisberger playbook and just grow up? How much longer will you skate by on the same, tired joke? When will you have an original idea that isn’t based on the old “yeah he’s good, but he probably assaulted two women with his penis” trope?

I, for one, have had enough of your unseemly treatment of mine and Jim Nantz’ favorite player.

Ben is a hero to me and, I think it’s fair to say, a hero to women everywhere. Ben is a ray of light in a dark world of uninspired blogging “just to get hits” and “be controversial”.

Ben speaks to redemption of the human spirit. He is not just the sports story of 2011. He is the story of 2011, possibly of the century, possibly of the millennium.

Would I leave my daughter in a room with him late on a Friday night and not think twice about it? Absolutely. I wish for all the parents out there that their daughters can one day find upstanding young men like Ben Roethlisberger.

We all make mistakes. And we all deserve second chances. To hold a mistake, or two or three, against Ben Roethlisberger is un-American, especially in light of his third Super Bowl appearance.

Ben is a champion of football and women’s rights. Robbie Hilson is a loser of clever writing and – god willing – readers. One has respect for feminist interests. The other refers to classy, well-meaning ladies as “Drunky McGees.”

Mr. Hilson might as well just say, “she had it coming.” He is a pig in need of intense emotional counseling, therapy and a good hard look in the mirror to ask himself, “How can I be more like Ben?”

I am disgusted.

Big Ben redeems himself not just with humble remorse and team trips to piano bars, but with Super Bowl rings. Hilson, however, makes him out to be just another Lawrence Taylor, or worse, Michael Vick – a vile criminal who committed an unforgivable sin (killing dogs).

Joe Buck said it best: this Steelers team represents all the qualities of the great city of Pittsburgh. Translation: Ben Roethlisberger has learned his lesson and is a pillar of civic hope.

One day Robbie Hilson will realize that we can’t all be perfect. For his sake, I pray he never publicly slips up two (or three) times. But when he invariably does, I can only hope that bloggers such as yourselves show him more respect and compassion than he’s shown Ben Roethlisberger.

Sincerely,

Andrea McNulty

February 6, 2011