The Road to Wrestlemania XXVII: A preview

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

It’s almost here.

I never book anything in advance, so you can imagine my attempt at acclimating to the idea of Wrestlemania 27 only being a handful of days away. I’ve had this ticket for son long, I’ve almost forgotten that I had it at times. But now is not one of those times.

On Friday, I will be leaving for Atlanta. I’ll be there until Monday. In between, I will eat at some locales made famous by one Adam Richman, attend the WWE Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony where I will see my favorite wrestler of all time, Shawn Michaels, cry a lot and most importantly, I will be sitting in section 251 for the Super Bowl of fake sports.

But my personal experiences are another post for a later time. I’m here today to preview the entirety of the card that will fill the four-hour show on Sunday night live in front of 75,000 fans at the Georgia Dome. Plenty to write. Let’s do this.

Rey Mysterios vs. “Dashing” Cody Rhodes

Setting: This is one feud that I wish I had paid more attention to as I rarely get to watch Smackdown. Basically, Rhodes has gone from Randy Orton lackey to this “Dashing” character, an overly self-obsessed and metrosexual gimmick. Except Rey Mysterio broke Rhodes’ nose, sending him into this strange dark whirlwind that’s got hints of Mankind and old school Kane to it.

What I want to happen: This could be a huge chance for Rhodes to get a win and establish himself as a star. I’d like to see WWE let it happen.

What will happen: Rhodes has gotten the best of Mysterio throughout this conflict, so I’m assuming they’re setting up a redeeming Mysterio win at Mania.

The Corre vs. Big Show, Kane, Vladimir Kozlov and Santino Marella

Setting: Uh, The Corre needed an opponent, so the WWE gave them this. Poor Wade Barrett. Oh yeah, and you know that Kane guy that was the most evil dude in WWE a few months ago and buried The Undertaker alive? Well, he’s a happy-go-lucky dancing babyface now. Ugh. This is by far my least favorite match on the card. And Snooki is coming up later in the show.

What I want to happen: Wade Barrett turns on everyone and wins a seven-on-one match.

What will happen: They seem to be moving away from the whole gang thing with the second demise of the Nexus, so I expect the same thing to happen here. Babyfaces win, The Corre starts to hint at a quick breakup.

United States Champion Sheamus vs. Daniel Bryan for the United States Championship

Setting: Not a huge amount of build up for this one. After winning the King of the Ring tournament late last year, Sheamus went on an embarrassing streak where he was literally losing to everyone. So finally, he got mad, dropped the King gimmick and challenged Daniel Bryan to a U.S. title match with the stipulation being that he would quit WWE if he did not win the belt. Sheamus won, Daniel Bryan challenged him to a rematch and boom, Mania.

What I want to happen: It’s a shame that this title doesn’t feel as important as it should be right now, but this could still be an excellent match. These two can both put on excellent matches, but it’s hard to believe they’ll get too much time to do so here. I’d like to see Sheamus win here and further push the desperate chase of Bryan, who would play best when he’s not at the top.

What will happen: Sheamus’ title run is just now getting life, and there’s no way that will change here. Sheamus wins a match that probably isn’t given more than 10 minutes.

John Morrison, Trish Stratus and Snooki vs. Dolph Ziggler and LayCool

Setting: Yes, Snooki. Wrestlemania almost always has the random celebrity match to garner a little extra mainstream attention, and this match is this year’s version of it. Are all the Internet wrestling people bashing it? Absolutely. Do those people matter? Absolutely not. People that take wrestling too seriously drive me nuts. It’s supposed to be fun entertainment, stop crying because your favorite midcarder didn’t make the show. Booing Snooki because Kofi Kingston didn’t make the show doesn’t make you cool. It makes you a tool. This will not be the worst thing you see on Sunday night.

What I want to happen: Morrison and Ziggler have some good exchanges, Trish Stratus gets everybody all 90s nostalgic and Snooki somehow gets the pin.

What will happen: Morrison and Ziggler have some good exchanges, Trish Stratus gets everybody all 90s nostalgic and Snooki somehow gets the pin.

CM Punk vs. Randy Orton

Setting: This really might be my favorite feud coming into Wrestlemania. Punk and Orton are probably my two favorite current performers in WWE, so I was sucked into this automatically. However, what they have done since has taken my interest ridiculously far. They have both played their roles to perfection. Punk is the verbal agitator who carries the crowd like a lunch box, and Orton is the quiet but fierce monster who prefers a punt to the skull over a promo. Their characters complement each other perfectly and this certainly isn’t the last time we’ll see this feud during their careers. The transformation from Punk whining and watching all of his Nexus members get taken out to his current vicious streak has been done well, too.

What I want to happen: All I ask for in this one is that these two get a decent amount of time to work their match. I could care less who wins either way as it won’t hurt the feud either way. I’ll gladly take two of the smaller matches getting squash treatment if it means these guys can go for 15 to 20 minutes.

What will happen: Orton wins, but Punk attacks him afterward to keep the feud going.

Michael Cole (w/ Jack Swagger) vs. Jerry Lawler with Stone Cold Steve Austin as the special guest referee

Setting: This match is all about setting because really this is just a quick and easy way to get Lawler his long-overdue Wrestlemania moment and Stone Cold to pass out some Stunners and drink some damn beer. It has been a little less than a year since Cole started to become a heel announcer and a few months since he and Lawler began trading verbal jabs. Cole is a giant douche. It is the basis of his character and the reason why people have booed him for years. Pro wrestling is built off crowd reactions, so the louder the boos got, the more Cole got pushed. We all know generally what will happen. Lawler deserves his first-ever Mania match and Cole has been built up so much that the crowd is going to freak when he finally takes him out.

What I want to happen: Lawler gets his feel-good moment, and Stone Cold finishes everybody off. The two go through more cold Coors Lights than Miguel Cabrera before they depart together.

What will happen: See above.

World Heavyweight Champion Edge (w/ Christian) vs. Alberto Del Rio (w/ Brodus Clay) for the World Heavyweight Championship

Setting: This match has had one of the more classic Wrestlemania main event set-ups. In this case, the blue collar babyface champion is Edge, who is on what is almost certainly his hottest run as a face in a career that’s largely been carried out as a heel. The challenger is Del Rio, a white collar heel who was four months away from even debuting in WWE at this time last year. Del Rio has hit the scene and gotten way over in a ridiculously short amount of time. The feud has stretched over two months without a single match between the two, and each has picked up a corner man along the way. For Edge, it is longtime tag team partner and best friedn Christian. For Del Rio, it is former NXT cast member and former Snoop Dogg bodyguard Brodus Clay.

What I want to happen: Edge is one of my favorite wrestlers of all time, and I have never seen him work in person before. So I am very biased when I say that I would absolutely love to see Edge retain in front of a hugely pro-Edge crowd on the biggest stage of them all. However, I’m a realist, so …

What will happen: Del Rio’s huge push will come to a climax on Sunday night. It really feels like he’s being built for a huge moment, and I expect everything about it to be grand. His entrances are grand on a weekly basis, so one can only imagine what the Mexican aristocrat will have in store for Wrestlemania. I expect him to win a long match, and Edge to continue working against younger heels as he has said that he may be very close to retirement.

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

Setting: Wait, have I really gone this entire time without mentioning THE GREAT ONE? Yes, for some terrible reason, I have. WWE has yet to give us any clue of exactly how The Rock will be involved in this match, but one has to assume that he will play a major role. All signs seem to lead to him going after Cena, but if there’s one thing we know about pro wrestling, the obvious rarely happens. The Miz/Cena feud is rare in today’s age in that it has found a way to go on for well over a year even though teh two have both gone through various feuds in the meantime. It’s a credit to The Miz that it has lasted this long. Just go back to a couple years ago when Miz was wearing glittery shorts, an Anti-Cena shirt, Mizuno gloves and a purple faux-hawk, and imagine that guy headlining Wrestlemania with Cena. It’s truly incredible.

What I want to happen: I’m at a point where I no longer believe that Cena can operate as a face, especially as long as guys like Rock and Austin are anywhere near. You just can’t be promoting a guy as your company’s top babyface when he’s getting the ass of the crowd in his biggest feuds. Yes, I understand the whole kids and merchandise thing, but at a certain point it becomes unrealistic for everyone. My theory is this: Cena wins the WWE title and Rock comes out and attempts to make nice and raise his hand and congratulate him. That’s when Cena flips and beats the living hell out of The Rock. I’m talking a 15-minute beating that puts so much sympathy on Rock that the Georgia Dome is hurling $9 beers at Cena. The seed for the turn in is simple. cena has done everything for the fans and worked harder than anyone, and the second Rock comes back, they turn on him. Hell, he can even keep up his pandering to the kids deal as long as he rips everyone else in the audience. There WWE, it’s the hottest summer storyline you’ve ever had.

What will happen: I hate to gay out here, but I really can’t predict this one. I have no idea what’s going to happen, and that’s a very good thing.

Triple H vs. The Undertaker in a No Holds Barred Match

Setting: Has a single promo ever done more for a match than the one that aired on Raw Monday between Triple H, Undertaker and Shawn Michaels? The 22-minute segment completely sold not only this match but the PPV as a whole. The three veterans put on an absolute microphone clinic, and it took this match to a level that it had been struggling to get to without the two participants coming face to face.  I’m still surprised that they did not go personal over the previous weeks with Take digging into Shawn’s retirement more, but what they did definitely worked. It’s unrealistic to think that Taker will ever lose at Mania, and to an extent, it seems even less in question this year than usual. But they have taken the story from Triple H beating Taker to Triple H crumbling in emotions a bit. Maybe the best quiet line in wrestling in 10 years: “You can’t win. I’m sorry.” – HBK

What I want to happen: It’d be selfish to say that I want Triple H to win just so I can say I’m there when the streak ends, but I might not mind it. I’m really happy either way here. Just seeing this match live will be great.

What will happen: 19-0. It’s that simple. Taker wins a drawn-out brawl after a few upset teases.

I’m like a kid at Christmas, except more excited.

-Bryan

LeBron In Cleveland: Take Two

So... this is still awkward.

I’ve flip-flopped on LeBron James more times than an Obama on unilateral military action. Guilty. I pretend to know where this young man’s career points – presumably to championships and a place in the pantheon, with an eternal footnote attached to both.

But night’s like Tuesday inevitably dissuade me from matter-of-fact assertions.

Night’s like Tuesday, in which the prodigal son returned home to a den of abject hatred and promptly went down, this time, in metaphorical flames, happen staggeringly frequently to a player called “King.”

“Happen” being the operative word. For one reason or another (read “his supporting cast or another”), LeBron cannot consistently corral his world-beating talents with the kind of dictatorial command exerted – with habit – by the men whose company he aspires to keep.

Michael Jordan was not a product of circumstance. And lest we aim our comparisons too high, neither was Kobe or Larry or Allen Iverson for that matter.

LeBron’s first trip back to Cleveland culminated in a cold-blooded thrashing: 24 points in the third quarter en route to an effortless 38-coulda-been-50; a blowout victory for Miami; the stepping closer of an entire abandoned city to the ledge. James exuded the kind of heartless determination one assumed he’d need for this whole hero-gone-villain turn to succeed.

And succeed, briefly, it did. The Heat ripped off a great number of consecutive wins on the momentum of that civic gutting, while Cleveland – the team and the town – crawled into the closest hole it could find (Indians’ spring training?).

A lot, as you know, has changed since December 2. The Heat has not gelled like the foregone champion misguided experts exulted. LeBron’s team runs its opponent out of the gym on some nights, dismantling the likes of San Antonio and L.A. only to suffer startling demise to… well, Cleveland.

This is the NBA. Each team can, theoretically, beat every other team on any given night. And, to again remind where I stand on this collection of men (3) and boys (9), the Heat doesn’t have the one-through-eight talent to compete for the title that justifies all this wind-bagging overanalysis in the first place.

Still, 50-win teams helmed by LeBron James should not lose to 15-win teams helmed by Dan Gilbert – ever really, but especially not in the final throes of a heated playoff race… Not when presented the opportunity to pass a former champion (Boston) and pace a future champion (L.A).

Discussions as these shouldn’t always come back to Kobe. But they do – because the Mamba has a hand of jewlry, and when his team faces real or imagined adversity, he’s always quick to insist either A) this is not a valid reason for concern or B) it is… and he will fix it. Nothing ever happens to Kobe Bryant. Kobe Bryant happens to the rest of the NBA.

If and when LeBron wins a championship – and these days, maybe the “if” is a legitimate question - it won’t be because he simply stumbled onto one. LeBron James will have to happen. In the meantime, there are Tuesday nights in Cleveland.

- Robbie

What Your Favorite Band Says About You (Redux)

Who is this man and what do we know about him?

This is an idea from John Peck at McSweeney’s. I’m stealing it for my purposes.

The Stooges: You loved the White Stripes until their third album.

Phish: There’s a Grateful Dead sticker on the back of your Jetta.

Talking Heads: You’re an art school dropout who came around to pop music via world music. Clear is your favorite color.

Neil Young: You dabble in model trains when you’re not living off the land.

Black Sabbath: You’re not as evil as you think.

Pearl Jam: You have an inferiority complex and purchase tickets through independent vendors.

The Velvet Underground: You’ve either sworn off the Yule years or been excommunicated by your brethren.

The New Pornographers: You never stopped taking the percoset prescribed for your wisdom teeth surgery.

Eminem: You have a cousin with a bad meth habit.

Bubba Sparks: You have a bad meth habit.

Belle & Sebastian: You take “bookish” as a term of endearment and have never won a fight.

Kanye West: You’re white and only drink Belvedere.

Janelle Monae: You’re white and don’t drink.

Karen O: You’re so over Kim Gordon.

Sleigh Bells: You’re so over Karen O.

Karen O/Love of my life

Smashing Pumpkins: You hate Billy Corgan (and yourself).

Zwan: You’re a Billy Corgan apologist (and hate yourself). You think the new Sleigh Bells record sounds great and probably dabble in crystals.

The Smiths: You’re too goth for New Order, not goth enough for Joy Division.

Joy Division: You’re too goth for The Smiths, not goth enough for The Birthday Party.

The Strokes: You will dance in clubs, not at shows.

Daft Punk: You wish more people had an appreciation for experimental French New Wave films.

Animal Collective: You don’t currently play an instrument, but have thought about picking up the rain stick.

The Arcade Fire: You’re a “cool” dad.

The Beastie Boys: You were in a frat until you learned the meaning of irony.

Beck: You suffer from multiple personality disorder and haven’t been fun to be around since 2002.

Big Star: You haven’t heard the Rasberries.

Silversun Pickups: You haven’t heard Gish.

The album that spawned a thousand mediocre shoegaze bands

The Black Keys: You can name between two and four dead bluesmen.

Brian Eno: The white noise on shoddily produced podcasts doesn’t bother you.

Bruce Springsteen: You maintain that Magic is every bit as good as The River. You have a room in your house exclusively for box sets.

The Sex Pistols: You’re either an entry-level punk or an “ironic” anarchist.

Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley Band: Bright Eyes just wasn’t your thing.

The Darkness: You think the Electric Six has “a lot of good musical ideas”.

Counting Crows: You have a karaoke machine in your house.

Bauhaus: You had a poster of Robert Smith on your wall till ninth grade.

Dead Moon: You DJ at The Top.

Radiohead: You wear collared shirts, only smoke pot for ‘medicinal’ purposes, and have taken at least one online IQ test out of curiosity.

Fugazi: You’ve never tried anything.

Dinosaur Jr: You’ve convinced yourself everybody starts losing their hearing at 30.

Elliot Smith: You’re still debating whether to post your diary anonymously on Live Journal.

The Fall: Pavement was your favorite band until Brighten The Corners.

Pavement: It’s always been your dream to write for Pitchfork, but you wouldn’t say no to Rolling Stone.

Pavement, before they "went all mainstream"

Fleet Foxes: You’ve applied for food stamps to save money and spend one night a week on a total stranger’s couch even though you rent a studio.

George Harrison: You maintain that the other two were “just holding him back.” Alfred, the butler, is your favorite super hero.

The Hold Steady: You have a vintage PBR sign hanging above your 7-inch collection.

Kings of Leon: “New Year’s Day” live at Red Rocks is your favorite YouTube video. You really like how Interpol has evolved.

Lou Reed: You’ve recited entire passages of “The Raven” at open mic nights.

The MC5: You buy American.

Metallica: You’re always quick to remind newer fans of how louder and faster they used to be.

Megadeth: Your favorite Metallica line-up was the original line-up.

Spiritualized: You’ve tried heroin enough to know it’s not for you.

Blur: You have a healthy respect for Oasis.

Oasis: You have an irrational hatred for Blur.

Pulp: You’re always the third wheel.

Jarvis Cocker, odd man out

Slayer: The smell of formaldehyde turns you on.

Minor Threat: You liked Black Flag until they got soft.

Sleater-Kinney: You’re unsure whether to adopt or find a surrogate.

Sonic Youth: You have to talk yourself into liking your favorite band.

Against Me!: You drank Natty until you fell into money. Now you drink Busch.

Le Tigre: You hate Cassavetes. No, you love him. No, you hate him. No, you love him.

The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion: Anthony Bourdain is your favorite celebrity chef.

Van Halen: You either only drink Cabo Wabo or boycott any establishment that serves it.

Foo Fighters: You think the case for Scottie Pippen has been understated.

Sugar: You weren’t sure how to feel about Bob Mould coming out of the closet. Until you realized you were gay.

Mudhoney: Bleach is the only Nirvana record you own.

Nirvana: You’ve hidden your copy of Ten in a sock drawer. You point to your Mudhoney collection when friends accuse you of “selling out”.

Sufjan Steven: You really dug Belle & Sebastian until they started playing heavy guitar rock.

<3 u, soofy doofy

REM: You prefer The Kids Are All Right the movie over “The Kids Are Alright” the song.

My Bloody Valentine: You’ve scared away at least one girlfriend by giving her a cassette of Isn’t Anything for Valentine’s Day. You still don’t understand the fuss over Ok Computer.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: You always list the Jesus & Mary Chain in your top five bands, though you’ve never actually heard them. You think the guy from the Brian Jonestown Massacre is an asshole. Marlon Brando is your favorite actor.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre: You think the guy from the Dandy Warhols is an asshole.

Silver Apples: You were among the first to purchase a Commodore 64.

Audioslave: You mix catchup with mayonaise and maintain that the resulting glop of pink is better than either.

Les Savy Fav: Even your “alternative” friends think you’re trying too hard.

The Olivia Tremor Control: Same as Les Savy Fav, but you have nicer friends.

Weezer: You thought the last season of The Office was just as good as the first.

Deerhunter: You work at Pitchfork.

Dead Boys: Your night doesn’t really get going until somebody falls asleep in their own vomit.

Your old stomping ground.

The White Stripes: You can name between five and seven dead bluesmen. Dutch minimalism is your minimalism of choice. You feel Maureen Tucker is underrated.

Tapes ‘n Tapes: You started a music blog in 2004, ran it for a month, got hit by a buss and promptly fell into a coma. You’ve yet to wake up.

Tenacious D: The Beasties are a tad mature for your liking.

Creed: You dismiss Nickelback as “derivative”/own a Bible.

U2: You voted for Obama… and at least one Bush.

The Mars Volta: Your ADD is so bad that you can’t actually get through an entire Mars Volta record. You own a Sparta t-shirt.

Son Volt: You think Paul was the Alpha Beatle.

The Dwarves: You’ve taken Chris Brown’s side.

Sunn )))): Ironically, you go days at a time without seeing the sun.

Phoenix: You’re either a 22-year-old female law student, a Strokes fan living in Europe, or both.

My Morning Jacket: There’s very little organic matter growing on the forest floor you haven’t stuck in your mouth attempting to get high.

Nick Drake: Your closet is half cardigans and a quarter each wool sweaters and Sufjan Stevens concert tees.

Sourpuss Nick Drake

Rage Against The Machine: You’re a 17-year-old self-proclaimed anarchist working at Target.

The Shins: You tell people you liked the Shins before Garden State.

The Black Crowes: You have a special map designating all the local piano bars with Jack Daniel’s icons.

- Robbie

Dear, UF Parking Situation…

Parking at UF

This isn’t very good and I’ll probably end up deleting it tomorrow. But I feel like both a lazy ass and deadbeat blogger when I don’t post on Mondays. I think I have OCD.

Also, this is an anonymous guest submission.

I’m gonna miss a lot about the University of Florida: the hot girls and the… uh…

(*blanking*)

No, but really. Gonna miss the circuitous academic discussions pertaining to nothing in particular. Gonna miss the sleepless all-nighters and the four-dollar Starbucks coffee raping my wallet at five different on-campus location. Gonna miss the tuition hikes. Gonna miss the plummeting quality of education and the budget cuts.

I’m gonna miss the cliquey third floor of Westie, the pop-collared d-bags infesting Midtown, the 30-page lit reviews, and the muted satisfaction that comes from completing the fourth and fifth drafts of the 30-page lit reviews.

But of all the things I’m sincerely gonna miss, none can rival the nostalgia I’ll inevitably feel for UF parking.

Circling the various on-campus lots has become something of a Monday night right of passage for yours truly. I’ve listened to a lot of good tunes in these wasted hours, called a lot of good people, said a lot of good cuss words.

Describing the UF campus as a ‘shithole’ would be unfair. It has its charms – the aesthetic glories of McCarty Hall, the huge patches of environmentally friendly soil, the slaughterhouse.

Still, its parking locales could use some work.

Don’t get me wrong: I like squeezing my 60-inch-wide Infiniti into the 61-inch-wide spots behind Broward just as much as the next guy, especially when there’s a Suburban parked on either side. I’m all for threading needles.

I don’t, however, trust the freshman driving his F-150 with iPod earbuds in to respect my vehicle’s personal space.

In fact, I fully expect him to methodically f*ck up every square inch of my passenger door… because this is what 18-year-old males jacked up on testosterone, caffeine, Korn and apathy do.

Said kinds of weekly funsies – uh, the property damage – begin to wear on the patience and test the nerves, but I can’t fault the school for this most clustered of f***s. It’s doing the best it can with a $1.1 billion endowment and 10,800 parking spots (for 50,000 students).

So keep up the good work, guys.

Signed,

Your Biggest Fan: A Grad Student With A Car

And this is why I didn’t fill out a bracket…

Killer of Giants, Matt Howard

Your girlfriend is crushing you. She’s blonde. You don’t feel like a man. You haven’t felt like a man for two rounds. You can’t sleep. A single sheet of paper lays waste to your pocketbook. Unless that single sheet is five. Which it is. Because you have no self-control and even less conviction. Guys named ‘Veal’ reach into your chest and rip out your heart. Guys named ‘Heyward’ wish they’d stayed in school. You STILL can’t find Morehead State on a map. You’re an embarrassment, with a sh*t-faced grin. This is brutal. This is awesome. This is tourney time.

A four. A three. An eight. An eleven.

You didn’t see this coming. I didn’t see this coming. Miss Cleo on her best day didn’t see this coming.

Almost six million people filled out NCAA Men’s Tournament brackets this year via ESPN.com’s annual Tournament Challenge. Of these, one – repeat, one – accurately predicted the Final Four, suggesting the nostradamian “JSPearlman” is either the only person in America with relatives at VCU, Kentucky, Connecticut, and Butler, or – more probably – just filled out his bracket drunk.

I understand what you’re going through right now: pain. elation. confusion. clarity. I’ve been there – at the beck and call of destiny, hoping against hope that this five-foot-nine white guy from East Nowhere isn’t sending my champion packing in the early afternoon of day one.

I’ve learned my lesson: filling out the bracket is a fool’s errand – because only fools, or Einsteinian geniuses, succeed in this game of chance. You pick a horse in this race, it inevitably breaks a leg the first quarter mile.

College basketball reminded of its post-season perfection this weekend. It reminded that, try as they might, the forces that conspire to upend this thing of cosmically-ordained purity are helpless against March’s madness.

Sixty-eight teams? Bring it. Multiple networks. Bring it. ESPN’s panel of expertly irrelevance? The Tourney can take you, too, Digger.

Tweaks, tinkers, bursting bubbles and all, the tournament emerged, as it always does, a fully-formed exercise in competitive transcendence, wherein the playing field was laid even by baby-faced newcomers, giant slayers, little-engines-that-could, and the seemingly spectral sway of Gus Johnson, who, to no one’s surprise, presided over another OT thriller as a Pentecostal preacher might a congregational awakening.

Friday night pitted “chalk,” to use a word of little meaning, against paragons of parity. Probability gave us Carolina and Connecticut and Kansas and Florida – superpowers dead set on maintaining the pecking order.

Shaka Can! had other ideas. As did Brad Stevens, the 34-going-on-12 wunderkind bound for back-to-back Final Fours. Butler is in Indianapolis. Now you know.

Even things that should happen didn’t happen as they should. Kentucky heads to its 14th Final Four as a Draft-depleted four seed. The tournament’s highest ranked team hails from the mercilessly derided Big East. Virginia Commonwealth has won enough consecutive games to put any other 11-seed in history into the championship.

Kentucky’s Harrellson trumped Carolina’s Harrison. Of course.

In the end, there’s Cindi – Butler, VCU, defied logic. Girl’s gonna cram her fat foot into the slipper whether it fits or not. She’s gonna turn the tables on any number of declarative gasbags. Sorry, Gregg Doyel. Sorry, Jay Bilas. Sorry, Joe Lunardi. Your common sense is no good here. Your analysis is futile. Your brackets are burning.

- Robbie

Anthony Robles’ Unfair Advantage

Collegiate wrestling champion Anthony Robles

Anthony Robles looks just like you, me, and everyone else except he’s cut like the Statue of David and has one leg.

At 125 pounds, he possesses the sculpted upper body of someone just as dedicated and 40 pounds heavier, a feature you don’t immediately notice because your transfixed by the column of air beneath his right hip.

Robles, now a national champion wrestler at Arizona State, was born this way – not jacked, but without a right leg. That he refused prosthetics at age three is the stuff of legend, and in fact might be just that - his parents likely made the decision, but it was Anthony’s to live with.

Robles impresses with his ability to walk, and his ability to wrestle, and his ability to climb the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum, which he did the day after finishing his senior season at ASU 36-0.

He’s like a real-life Rocky, only his Apollo Creed is his disability – or his super-ability, or whatever it is one calls a condition perhaps disadvantageous, perhaps not.

Robles didn’t pick up wrestling full-time until his freshman year in high school. A then 90-pound mass of motor and inspiration, he’d give up his defensive tackle position on the football team to pursue a sport in which taking a knee did not take him out of play.

Robles’ compensates for his lower body’s immobility by transferring all that would-be strength to his chest, arms and torso, as a blind man might acquire an acute sense of hearing. Power runs in the family – his father, Ron, lifted weights professionally, though would not let his son risk stunted growth as a curious child.

So Robles took to push-ups next to the bench press in his father’s garage. In sixth grade, he broke his school’s push-ups record. He now benches 305 pounds with his 125-pound frame.

Adopting a unique style – obviously – Robles dominated his high school competition. He finished a combined 96-0 over his junior and senior campaigns, capturing two state titles and a scholarship to ASU along the way.

It was when his story attracted national attention, as stories about one-legged wrestling phenoms are wont to do, that debate began over whether or not Robles’ figure gave him, ironically, a leg up on the competition.

It does, in some ways. There’s no denying this. The human leg accounts for roughly 15-25% of one’s total body weight. Wrestlers compete by weight class. At 125 pounds, Robles can, in layman’s terms, redistribute the 30 pounds a second leg might’ve weighed through the rest of his body.

He is bigger and stronger from the waist up than anyone he has ever faced. His competitors cannot practice on three-limbed opponents.

Still, in a sport in which the single-leg takedown exists the primary way to grapple one’s opponent to the mat, the fact that Robles drops to a knee to begin makes his technique uncanny at best and like stepping to a ledge to entice his adversary to jump at worst.

Driving one’s opponent to the floor typically constitutes the first step to a successful match. Shooting a single-leg takedown from the floor and with the forward thrust of only one appendage implies, if only to common sense, some sort of added difficulty.

Given his style, it seems as though this champion always starts from behind. As he did, presumably, in life. Perhaps Anthony Robles’ unfair advantage, then, is not a product of his one leg. Perhaps it is a product of his one heart.

- Robbie

Thank you for existing, Lindsey Buckingham

Underrated.

I know what you’re thinking, “Hilson is just like Lindsey Buckingham.”

And it’s true. We are a lot alike – in our dapper good looks, self-taught artistry, appreciation for a seamless pop hook, and weakness for blondes.

You may or may not have heard of Mr. Buckingham, a musician most notable for whoring his talents to a bunch of uninspired blues hacks in the mid-70s. He brought his girlfriend along for the ride and wrote a crop of anthemic radio staples watered down only by their association with the middle-of-the-road AOR crap they had the misfortune of sharing albums with.

I re-listened to Rumours for the eight gajillionth time the other day on a road trip from Gainesville to Pensacola just to make sure all of the non-Buckingham contributions sucked as much as I remembered them sucking.

They did. Except for “Oh Daddy,” which is kinda haunting in a “wish Christine McVie was as hot as she sounded” kind of way.

She’s not.

So yeah, it’s a real shame that Buckingham had to slum it with the rest of Fleetwood Mac, especially Mick Fleetwood, whose insobriety got him kicked out of John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and into the pantheon of “Luckiest Guys Not Named Stevie Williams, Ringo Starr or Larry Coker.”

I guess he does make for a good album cover, one you’ve no doubt seen thanks, again, to the overlooked Jedi guitar genius who penned “Go Your Own Way“/ “Second Hand News“/”Never Going Back Again“/(*insert Light FM programming mainstay*).

19 million copies and one Simpsons parody later

Imagine for a second if Alfred had taken all the credit for the crime-fighting exploits of Batman. Imagine if we referenced the “Alfred Cave” and the “Alfred Mobile” and the “Alfred Signal.” Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne’s just plugging away – kicking ass, saving Gotham, looking the part all along.

Buckingham is Batman. In a perfect world, he never crosses paths with Stevie Nicks, never lends his services to McVie/Fleetwood, never drives to Los Angeles, never wastes a line like, “Won’t you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff” (gross) on a song that gets smothered to death by the melodramatic date-schlock of “Dreams.”

In a perfect world, Nicks never gets fat. But that’s a topic for another day and another writer (Bryan Holt).

It’s true that I’ve spent the last two hours contemplating Buckingham’s career because I’m trying to put off a 15-page essay on blogging (the one supplementing my 63-page essay on blogging). But it’s also true that I would be in a much better frame of mind if immaculate pop records like Out of the Cradle and Gift of Screws tapped the wells of acclaim and disposable income they so deserve.

Because this is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night, wondering as I drift in and out of the lightest sleep why the average middle-aged son of the seventies doesn’t appreciate “You Do Or You Don’t” as much as “Edge of Seventeen” (because he doesn’t), or why “Tusk“ the song isn’t held in more esteem than Tusk the album (because it isn’t).

Sure is hard out there for a neglected guitar virtuoso. So I want you to know, Lindsey: I see you there. I think “Love Runs Deeper” shoulda been a hit. I think “Countdown” belongs in some how-to riff tome. I think “Holiday Road” is the best part of Vacation.

Keep doing what you do, Lindsey Buckingham. You complete me, bro.

- Robbie

What’s worse, ya’ll: bombing Libya or the Strokes’ Pitchfork score?

OR

used to think that bombing the bajeebs out of Libya was the worst this week could get

thought to myself, why mess with bromarr gadaffi?

Seems like such a chill bro when he’s not massacring his own peeps

even kind of dig his face

reminds me of housewives of miami

i asked myself, what did libya ever do to us?

just mindin its own business

giving us cheap oil/cab drivers/ and the changing face of Autocracy (via Bromar’s changing face)

So i thought obama was being an unchill lamestreamer for signing off on this UN resolution

thought maybe he’d spend his time closing brotanamo bay or filling out his NCAA brackets

Never thought he’d wanna start another war, especially this weekend when there’s so much good basketball

Barack, luv u bro. But u remind me of a George Bush – if W was black, not dumb, had a hotter wife.

So disappointed. Thought this weekend couldn’t get any worse.

Spending bank on scud missiles that blow up villages

Spending bank on flashy trip to Chile to maybe try to start a war there/eat spicy flank steak

So sad about the rebel forces, broskees.

But things got worse when i checked my alt rss feed this morning

Saw that Pitchfork gave Angles a 5.9.

Died a little inside.

Thought that record was the jam.

Thought that record would ‘revive the strokes’ career’/make them big in japan/make julian casabroskee less of an asshole

but i was wrong, ya’ll. so wrong. wrong like dropping a 2-ton heat seeking brick of dynamite on some poor muslim bro who just wanted to chill with his family/pray five times a day/not bomb america

sorry, libyan bro. But doubly sorry, strokes.

there’s nothing worse than getting screwed over by the pitchy.

suck it, ryan dombal/dumbell/dumbshit

h8 u bro

Doesn’t bitchfork know that it wouldn’t exist without the strokes?

Doesn’t it know that ‘is this it’ invented pitchfork?

Doesn’t it know that without strokes, there are no entry-level alts/pitchfork festivals/relevant buzzbands?

sorry, julian. really thought you did it this time.

thought your record was worth a 7.1

thought maybe england would re-embrace u (via inviting u 2 b the houseband at the royal wedding)

but no

u got a ‘mediocre’ review from some lamestreamer who still hasn’t forgiven u for ‘first impressions of this record blows’

and honestly, jules, that record did suck pretty hard

but not hard enough for its effects to carry over 5 years latr

thought ur record was ‘the shit’, strokes

thought u guys did a pretty awesome job of h8ing each other, but still making some tight dancefloor hits (via 2 kinds of happiness/taken 4 a fool/gratisfaction)

thought it was cool that u made a record in albert hammond’s barn

still <3 ur hair, albert hammond. jewfroskee 4evr, bro

but just like barack obomz and his insatiable appetite for destruction

pitchfork cannot be appeased by the soothing sounds of ur frisky guitar interplay

what do u have 2 do, dudes? wear more leather? do more drugs? reunite with ugly chicks <via reigniting the flames of alt-passion b/t fab and drew barrymore>?

i would recommend all three

and 2 u, barack…

no words 4 u, bro.

thought u were so much more chill when u weren’t prez

now u just seem like a regular dude who can’t dig his way out of a ditch/crater/canyon

yr fukked, barack

bad economy, still no jobz, unruly middle easterns, unruly bromar qadaffis, unruly republicans

bad weather in the far east, fluctuating stock market, skyrocketing oil, cranky russians

Barack, haven’t u had yr fill of shitsandwich?

isn’t it time to step aside so hills clinton can ‘b the next ronald reagan’?

so want u back, ron ron

so want to un-nationalize medicine/cut the safety net out from the poor peeps/have a feisty crack epidemic/stay up at night worrying about nuclear obliteration

but also have a chill stock market to go along with it

and john hughes movies

Maybe pitchfork and the UN security council should join forces

maybe pitchy could give libya a 5.9/kill all of bromar’s buzz/make him rethink his career as a dictator

then we wouldn’t have to spend a million dollars each on cruise missiles

and submarines that shoot dragons out of their blowholes

feel like pitchfork is the future of war, ya’ll

just killin countries with low scores

helpin’ us save money with their buzzkilling vibes

h8 u pitchfork, unless yr fighting our wars for us

what will happen when the next band i luv gets a bad pitchscore?

first MIA, then radiohead, then lupe fiasco, now the strokes

it’s an epidemic ya’ll – like gonorrhea or american imperialism

i mean, seriouzly ya’ll, is REM really .9 better than the Strokes?

is raekwown ‘i’m famous 4 being in a band that made 1 good record’ wu-tanger really still relevant?

is raekwown meaningful?

is raekwown ‘legit’?

or is bitchfork just trying 2 b ‘ironic’?

Soon only kanye west and simon and garfunks reissues will get good pitchfork scores

Soon we will b at war with the entire continent of the middle east

soon libya will spill into syria, which will spill into iran, which will spill into iceland

it’s a domino effect ya’ll

where have u gone, richie nixon? we need yr trickie dick

things were so much better when we were fighting an enemy we could see (except for the bros in the vietnamese jungles)

really just disappointed with all the events of the last several weeks.

thought maybe this whole ‘global warming’ thing was over

thought maybe everything had gotten better because the dow hit 12 Gs

thought maybe the national debt had magically erased itself cuz nobody talked about it

things were looking up for the ameribro

but now he is taking it from behind by war mongers and negative pitchfork reviews of bands he thought were cool

next thing he knows, he’s going to be paying 3.57 for a gallon of gas

jk, bros, that ship has already sailed.

but, seriously, someday soon all the chill vibes the forefathers accumulated via writing the constitution/listening to chillwave on their iPods/wearing chill white Afghan Whigs will b used up on ‘fighting terrorism’

just want it all 2 go back to how it was

want the strokes to be a buzzband on the cover of NME.

want 2 have jobz for lower class bros

want 2 have twin towers

want 2 not fight 3 different wars

want 2 not torture

want to have a clinton in office

want monica lewinsky and oj ‘homer’ simpson on my tv

want 2 have a surpluss

want dennis kucinich not 2 wave a pocket constitution in my face

want 2 not feel like this country might suck

i think this could b a tipping point, ya’ll

feel like this could be the end of something gr8

feel like this world’s days r numbered

feel like maybe we should grab our macs and move to canada/start our own buzzbands in montreal

arcade fire said it best when they said, ‘gonna make a record in the month of may/this world is f*cked’

nailed it, Win

coming 2 see u in montreal, bro.

save a seat on the ice block floating off to sea for me

but not the 1 next 2 ryan dombal of pitchfork

and not the one next to barack obroskee

Protected: Taking it out on the NCAA

Notes to Gainesville

From L to R: UF student, fat guy

Because I can’t just play sports reporter all the time.

It’s 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not going out. Playing phone tag with 17-year-old kids has sucked the life out of me. I mean that in the most non-creepy, non-Mark Sanchez way possible.

Let’s take some time to pass out notes to the people of the lovely center of education and $2 wells that we call Gainesville.

Dear competing runner girls: You know who I’m talking to. I’m talking to you, the two girls on opposite sides of Union Road who are fueling each other’s half-ass attempts to train for what I can only assume would be the sexiest Boston Marathon of all time. You both stop running, but immediately begin scrolling through your respective iPods because you of course slowed down to flip to the new Roscoe Dash song, not because you’re tired.

But then one of you starts again  and the other briefly looks away and misses the challenge, so you can imagine the hectic sprint that follows you turning your head to the right. My message to you is simple: stop it.

No, don’t stop running. That would be a tragedy. There are approximately two things I look forward to when I head to class these days. One of them is you running, and I can’t think of the other. And you know this about the general male populous of the campus. It’s why you run through the chaos of Turlington in a sports bra, and shorts that I can only describe as … gulp.

So stop acting like you really care about competing with the girl across the street. You’re running is for show, not vital cardio. It doesn’t take three miles of jogging to burn off the Waldorf salad from Designer Greens and the granola bar that you are going to stretch out over three meals today. You’re both succeeding by showing up.

Dear Salty Dog Saloon: One of my favorite guilty pleasures in the world is reading the various profanity-laden entries that have been drunkenly scribbled on your walls by generations of college kids who, for some reason, decided to bring a pen/permanent marker to midtown.

“I wish this urinal was Dan Werner’s face.”

“When Phil pees, it burns.”

“Brian Rush pre-ordered ‘Failure to Launch’ on Blu-ray.”

These are obviously the clean ones, but it never get’s old. Except when I walked into your watering hole’s watering hole on Friday night, I noticed something terrible: white paint. Sure, some proud souls bound to restart tradition have scribbled, but too much of my precious obnoxiousness is gone. It’s like somebody painted a Hitler on the Mona Lisa. It’s like someone dumped white paint over Starry Night. It’s like someone photoshopped Brett Favre’s dong pic.

Stop it, Salty. Know your role. You’re the place where people go when they want to dress slightly nicer and black out slightly less than if they go to Balls. But that doesn’t make you the damn Copacabana, either. Embrace your raunchy walls. They build culture.

Salty in short.

Dear Riley Cooper: I’ve noticed a strange amount of animosity toward you from bargoers this semester. They call you a tool, they complain about you cutting in line or never waiting for drinks, they try to fight you.

Let me just say that I couldn’t disagree more. You’re a genius, Riley Cooper.

Are you a good NFL player? Absolutely not, but that doesn’t stop you from reaping every possible benefit that an NFL contract can bring. People dream of the things that come along with a college education: the parties, the girls, the status. But you have remained a college student while also garnering the tag of pro football player. You’re taking a four-year NFL contract to bars where other people are blowing their life savings. You’re walking around a campus where practice squad walk-ons are worshiped in a Philadelphia Eagles shirt. You’re walking up to girls whose boyfriends work part-time at Zaxby’s and saying “really?”

So live it up, Riley. SC salutes you.

Dear girls that complain about Riley Cooper at bars: Stop it. You don’t mean it. And even if you do, nobody cares. No matter what level, pro athletes get a different pass for approaching girls. Blame it on society, blame it on reality, blame it on whatever. It’s not their fault that you refer to their aim as “creeping.” It’s also not their fault that it usually works. The same girls that complain about athletes when they go out are the same girls that end up going home with them. It’s like elementary school when you talked shit about whatever girl you liked.

Just give it up. You’re probably going to be a miserable trophy wife for some baseball player who has mistresses in every major league city one day. Karma’s a bitch.

Dear incredibly large girl on bike: I’m sorry that God and KFC have apparently held a grudge against you throughout your entire life, but the bike lane is not made for people of your stature. The narrow passages that are Gainesville back roads do not allow me to properly pass you without scaring you more than that time you walked into a health food store.

You are already breaking one law of nature by simply fitting on your bike. I should not be forced to run over the median and risk killing a perfectly good homeless person to avoid giving you death-by-side-mirror. As you know if you’ve read my previous rants, I’m not a fan of bike riders of any size. However, you are an entirely new issue.

I’m sorry. I don’t want to be mean, but I don’t want to commit vehicular manslaughter, either.

-Bryan