Hey Frisbee Bros, You Suck

Die already

I’m not against the frisbee, per se. But like with most others that congregate in the stronghold of freak scene and bleeding heart liberalism that is the UF Plaza of the Americas, I am most certainly against the tools who engage in this shameless act of show.

Factory Records founder Tony Wilson once termed jazz the “last refuge of the untalented.” Well frisbee is the last refuge of the unathletic – the “sport” newbies turn to after turning their backs on organized competition for 18 years to pursue science projects and video games.

The funny thing, of course, is that throwing a frisbee is not particularly easy. You can’t just join into a frisbee triangle the way you would in four-square or kickball (the other talent-devoid games of nerdom). And still, these backward hat-toting, plaid shorts-wearing dipsticks fresh off a “Dungeons and Dragons” tourney ALWAYS – without fail – pick the most crowded “open area” in which to fling their disc of death.

Ever see Peter pop his sister Marcia in the schnoz with a football? Well guess what happens when three pop-collared bros give this exercise in precision a first go on a windy lawn lined with Tri Delt pledges: Heavy collateral damage, that’s what.

There are, of course, different kinds of frisbee players. The aforementioned novices – out solely to impress a gaggle of obviously desperate girls – usually flank a “cool,” “alternative” guy who A) makes it a point to run off his Krishna lunch by darting through heavy traffic and B) feels the need to catch everything either behind his back or between his legs. He’s also the kind of guy who flings each 50-yard attempt baseball-sidearmed, as opposed to the traditional backhand, and – in general – causes the most serious injury to innocent bystanders.

He usually rocks a beard, dawns a shirt with a combination of the words “green”, “sustainable,” “community”, and “vote” and never misses an opportunity to flag down some unsuspecting school girl who had the misfortune of choosing this particular day to walk to the library. She doesn’t want a “free lesson”, bud. Maybe if you smelled less like stale bong water… or weren’t such an egotistical aggressor. I mean, you’re selling this frisbee game harder than a gospel-pounding preacher in Turlington.

Maybe tomorrow. After a shower. When you look less like Charles Manson.

The alt bro catches exactly two out of every three throws coming his way. The third he invariably drops while attempting a blind, no-handed scissor kick. Miraculously, he’s never broken anything. But if he did, he’d be the kind of guy who asks girls to sign his cast.

The terrible trio is usually rounded out by either an Asian grad student, somebody from the physics department, or worse, a girl. These people have one specific reason for participation: to make the novice look like Joe Montana by comparison. He or she, usually a hapless he, is to the novice what the novice is to the alt bro – a horribly incompetent understudy who nonetheless partakes with the zeal of a ninja-in-training.

His are the throws that usually go backwards, at times picking off small children or laying waste to entire bake sales.

Combined, the three comprise a Bermuda Triangle of pending cosmetic alteration. There are more loathsome student elements – the barefooted skateboarder, the activist, the compensatory weightlifter – but none more insolently dangerous. I urge: Next time you encounter the frisbee bro, confiscate his circle of disfiguration. Throw it on the roof. And do remember to factor in the wind.

- Robbie

School’s Out, What Did You Expect? (A Post About Pavement)

L to R: Mark, Spiral Stairs, Gary, SM, Bob

Pavement – Grounded

You know when a song makes you swear out loud it’s the greatest thing ever written? Well Pavement has at least 10 of these, one of which is the ringing riff dirge “Grounded” from 1995′s kitchen sink blowout Wowee Zowee.

Per most compositions penned by slacker godhead Stephen Malkmus, the lyrics go everywhere and nowhere in particular – if this tale’s really about a doctor and his estranged daughter chitting the chat in a sauna… well, then it’s a rare kind of brilliant. But such a lavish upchucking of prose most likely symbolizes the purgatory of mid-90′s indie rock – trying to break big with honest-to-goodness tunes when your “real fans” crave more lo-fi wankery…

Or something of the kind.

As with every great Pavement cut, the music inexplicably conveys – in spite of its elusive lyrics - exactly what the song is about: in this case, loss, nostalgia, limbo. “Grounded” proves a thing of formless beauty no more or less than a charmingly nuanced book character existing in the imprecise recesses of one’s mind. Oh, and you can headbang to it.

Wowee Zowee’s opener ”We Dance” follows suit, more probably relating to unwilling label execs than a drunken jig at a wedding. That Malkmus and Co. make this distinction largely irrelevant distinguish them from the greater crop of smirking ironcists. Pavement is a feeling, ya know - an idealized illusion ill suited for shape (like, say, a Don McLean song), but damn near perfect for clenching your teeth in a dark room and wailing away on the air guitar. Not that I’d know…

Describing “Grounded” any further is counterproductive – hell, a Pollock is just a splash of paint until you see it up close. But suffice it to say, you’ll come for the dueling interplay in the verse, and stay for the crushing swell of tone in the chorus. Do play loud.

———–

Pavement Buyer’s Guide

In general, more adventurous listeners (like my sister) should start at the racketous beginning, traditionalists (like my father) from the polished end, though neither camp will go wrong with Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain - arguably the apex of the entire indie rock movement.

Slanted & Enchanted (1992): It’s loud, clanky, defiantly out of tune and seemingly recorded in a tin can. Herein lie the melodies that spawned entire micro genres, Weezer, and the myth that making it look easy and dogging it are the same thing. The only thing slacker about this band is the flannel. The perfect sound forever starts here.

Best Tracks: Summer Babe, Trigger Cut, Zurich Is Stained, Here, Perfume-V

Choice Lyric: “Painted portraits of minions and slaves/crotch mavens and one-night plays/Are they the only ones who laugh/at the jokes when they are so bad?/And the jokes they’re always bad/But they’re not as bad as this/Come join us in a prayer” ~ Here

Watery, Domestic EP (1992): If a hipster yells “sell out!” in a record store, but no one’s around to hear it, does it still make a noise? This is your reward for splurging on the S&E: Luxe & Redux edition. They’d soon lose the acid to drummer. And vice versa.

Best Tracks: Texas Never Whispers, Frontwards, Shoot The Singer (1 Sick Verse)

Choice Lyric: “I’ve got style/for miles and miles/So much style that it’s wasted” ~ Frontwards

Westing (By Musket And Sextant) (1993): Issued in ’93 after the proper debut’s success, this pulls together all their formative EPs under one, giant, clamorous noise-pop umbrella. If you have to ask, “Spizzle Trunk” plays exactly how it sounds, but there are some relatively straight-ahead rockers to be had as well, the best of which is “Debris Slide” (unless it’s “From Now On”). “Home” is inferior to its live incarnations and “You’re Killing Me” ain’t no great shakes, but you should probably hear “Box Elder” before you die.

Best Tracks: Box Elder, Heckler Spray, From Now On, Debris Slide, Summer Baby, Mercy Snack: The Laundromat

Choice Lyric: “It was the way that you smiled/made me know at once/that I had to get the f*ck out of this town/’Cause I’ve decided to make a stand/and I’m not gonna take your hand/I’m taking the next bus outta here/I’m gonna head for Box Elder, M.O.” ~ Box Elder

Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain (1994): Miles away from S&E in terms of production and form. Sure, there’s a false coda or two and a free-jazz interlude. But for the most part, the Pavements have shelved their prankery for exquisite pop composites hellbent for Lolla. The push for the mainstream came up short (because MTV’s for assholes), but you can rest assured the likes of “Range Life” will find deferent mixtapes long after the video form has passed.

Best Tracks: Silence Kit, Elevate Me Later, Unfair, Gold Soundz, Range Life, Filmore Jive

Choice Lyric: “So drunk in the August sun/and you’re the kind of girl I like/’cause your empty and I’m empty/and you can never quarantine the past.” ~ Gold Soundz

Wowee Zowee (1995): The “f*ck it, we’re going for it” album. Even more fun than it sounds and heralded by cooler people than I as their best. Less about thinking outside the box than dispelling the myth of shape.

Best Tracks: Rattled By The Rush, Grounded, Father To A Sister of Thought, At & T, Kennel District, Pueblo, Half A Canyon

Choice Lyric: “Getting off on the candelabra/We call her ‘Barbara’/breeding like larva/She rabble rousin’/dental surf combat/Get out those hard hats/and sing us some skat” ~ Rattled By The Rush

Brighten The Corners (1997): Infrastructure rotting in this wiggle-walking pig? Surely not, but the rolling around in slop’s getting old. Geddy Lee gets his. There’s conventional and there’s conventional for Pavement.

Best Tracks: Stereo, Shady Lane, Date With IKEA, We Are Underused, Starlings of The Slipstream, Fin

Choice Lyric: “Simply put, I want to grow old/Dying does not meet my expectations.” ~ We Are Underused

Terror Twilight (1999): Like reluctant punk kids entering the workforce only to find their really f*cking good at these tedious jobs. This is an ill-fitting, if sickeningly gorgeous, swan song for a group who cranked out “Best Friend’s Arm” just four years prior. The melodies are more perfect than you remember, “The Hexx” keeper of life’s great secret.

Best Tracks: Spit On A Stranger, You Are A Light, Cream of Gold, Major Leagues, Speak See Remember, The Hexx

Choice Lyric: “Architecture students are like virgins with an itch they cannot scratch/Never build a building till your 50?/What kind of life is that?” ~ The Hexx

You’ve Been Had, Baseball Fan

RIP, 1927-1994

It’s fitting my first baseball post of the young season has nothing to do with actual baseball – the conceptual institution, perhaps, but not the tangible sport.

Both, at this point, are dead to me. Just as the Rolling Stones after 1978 are dead to me. Just as LeBron James, Cleveland’s gold-hearted basketball savior, is dead to me. Earlier incarnations still – and will always – exist in the overly-romanticized auspices of my childhood memories.

But the modern game? Count me out. Forever. For good.

The totally predictable self-combustion of Manny Ramirez has little to do with it. This man is a cheat, a liar, a f~ck-up and a clown. His eulogizers, though, are even more pathetic – lamenting the “tainted legacy of baseball” all while pitying Manram’s devolution from perceived mashing savant or, worse, heralding him as a genius who didn’t need the juice in the first place.

So before I bow out – or at least until I get bored enough to watch again – I’d like to say this on behalf of Manny, Roger, A-Rod, Barry, Brady Anderson, Luis Gonzalez and all the other modern charlatans whose mythologies turned mortal: the real losers here are you.

According to Baseball Reference, Manny Ramirez pocketed $204,807,769 over the course of his career, or – put in terms of the average beer-guzzling schlub – roughly $203 million more than the median U.S. household will earn over the course of an entire lifetime.

Keep these figures in mind as you read the lede to Jayson Stark’s melodramatic perspective piece published Friday night on ESPN.com.

We all know what Manny Ramirez‘s legacy should have been.

One of the greatest right-handed hitters who ever lived. … MVP of the universe-altering World Series in which the 2004 Boston Red Sox slayed The Curse. … Hall of Famer.

OK, well, so much for that.

Now Manny will head off into the horizon to spend the rest of his life on Planet Manny with a whole different legacy:

The only knucklehead ever to get caught twice by baseball’s PED police force.

Well Stark is wrong. And in espousing his wrongness, he makes me, the now-detached baseball observer, want to throw up. Ramirez will not be remembered for getting caught twice any more than John Lennon will be remembered for his solo career, Robert De Niro for Meet The Fockers, or Charles Manson for his folk recordings. Shame on Stark if he needed a “vague, one-paragraph” news release for closure.

And more, this Planet Manny – with its wealth, early retirement, two World Series rings, utter lack of self-awareness and inevitable sympathetic reassessment… well it sounds like a damn oasis. Manny Ramirez – liar, thief, cheat – is living the American Dream. And five years from now, you won’t think of him for his 17 at-bat Rays career. Five years from now, like with Rafael Palmeiro and Juan Gonzalez and Jason Giambi, you won’t think of him at all.

Manny Being... Rich

Perhaps the biggest take away from the still ongoing Steroids Era deals with the growing divide between baseball’s nauseatingly self-important mythos and the game’s economics-driven actuality. Surely people with common sense recognize Manny gave little heed to such trivialities as “legacy.” If he did, he wouldn’t have risked his shrinking balls to meet a few underwhelming performance incentives, nor would he have ever quit on Boston or peed in The Monster between innings.

The bloated oratory surrounding Manny rings particularly hollow because, as the previous examples and a host of others surely illuminate, the man is an idiot – a childlike hambone of a figure out only for himself. So this is quite a role reversal, no? Remember when the adults played and the kids watched?

Yet here we go again, trying to piece Ramirez into a coherent historical tapestry that includes the fabled likes of Babe Ruth, an 80-year-old ghost who A) got a dutiful plug in the Stark requiem and B) possesses absolutely zero connection to the current game. Joe Posnanski, in a bloated piece for Sports Illustrated, briefly compared Manny to Lou Gehrig, which – considering both men’s lives in and out of baseball – should properly make you squirm. Again, baseball in 2011 has no clear ties to the sport that helped raise a nation. This – the severing of historical ties – is the Era’s biggest offense.

Steroids did not kill baseball. But they most certainly slayed the National Pastime.

The former is real, the other a folklore steeped in called shots and Abner Doubledays. If the two could ever coexist, they can no longer – unless, of course, we’re comfortable filling the history books with romantic tales of ass pimples and orchidometers.

So there. I’m out on baseball. And if Greg Maddux, Tom Glavine, John Smoltz and all my other childhood heroes came out of the chemical closet tomorrow, I could not be any more disillusioned with this phony establishment than I am today.

Manny’s a clown, yes. But if you still buy into the myth of baseball, the joke, my gullible friend, is on you.

- Robbie

The BK Stacker: A Special Investigative Report, Ya’ll

i might b '2 late'

I used 2 feel like Burger King ‘got me’ -

giving me ‘more’ for ‘less’,

filling my belly with tasty flamed-broiled meat product,

all while keeping ‘more coin’ in my skinny jeans

and providing good jobs for ‘illegal’ immigrants.

Burger King – ‘The King’/'The Royal One’/'The Man In Purple’ -

used 2 make me feel happy to be alive and proud 2 ‘be an American,’

proud 2 live in a country where i could order by numbers, mix Diet Coke with Sprite,

and converse with the ‘hard working’ individuals behind the counter.

Burger King was a place where I could ‘be myself’.

It was a place where I could ‘have it my way’ -

not my mom’s way, not my sister’s way, not my ‘abusive girlfriend’s’ way.

But my way.

In this sense, Burger King was the 1st ‘truly alt’ establishment -

crushing it with ‘individualism’,

with ‘authenticity’,

with ‘legitness’,

with ‘me-wave’.

Burger King was a beacon of ‘indie’ in a mainstreamer’s world.

It introduced me 2 ‘angus’ and

‘whopper juniors’ – mini whoppers for the lil ‘alt bro’ in me.

When i walked in2 a BK, I knew I was in 4 quality over quantity.

No ‘McDLTs‘.

No ‘McLobsters‘.

No ‘McRibs‘.

No ‘McLeans‘.

No ‘McAfricas‘.

No ‘Arch Deluxes‘.

Just flamed-broiled patty and nutritional seafood <via the Big Fish>

As the years went by, Burger King began to go the way of the profitstreamer,

exposing its kingdom 2 the ‘disease of more’ -

more flame-broiled patties

more bacon

more ‘thousand island dressing variant’

more ‘bun’

Suddenly the fatwave had arrived, yall

replacing the seeds of economic prosperity

with the seeds of sesame

and creepy commercials that pushed u away from fast food

in2 the arms of surrealistic psychological thrillers <via Donnie Darko>

King of the Beach (tehehehehehe <via Wavves>)

Healthy options like the BK Breafast Hoagie

had been sacrificed at the alter of obesitywave

(which is the intersection of profitwave

and exploit-the-underprivileged-inner-city-minority-wave).

The regular-sized Whopper was a thing of the past,

displaced by the ‘extra-thick’ Steakburger, the Tendercrisp and other

sandwiches euphemizing the male peen.

Burger King even started ripping off povertycore chains like Taco Bell

- compromising its delish beef with ’jalapenos’/'cheddar cheese’/

‘corn dust’/'spicy pablano sauce’

and other low class ingredients

designed 2 appeal to landscapers.

‘The Diabeetas’ was upon us, yall.

And we were helpless to its addictive combo of

sodium/cholesterol/trans fats/barbeque sauce.

We still ‘had it our way’ – but only nominally, only ‘in name’, yall.

We were being manipulated by cravings,

and ‘corporate buzz’,

sucking helplessly at the teet of convenience.

The King was an imperialistic monarchy, yall.

The Oreo BK Sundae Shake was his gospel.

We were his ignorant ‘savages’.

Or in more ‘alt’ terms,

The King was James Murphy.

The Hershey’s Sundae Pie was his ‘fake retirement’ show.

We were the suckers paying ‘mad bank’ to c him ’1 last time’.

Now the Royal One has taken the final logical step

in making us a nation of

‘fatfucks’,

introducing the BK Stacker 2 the ‘value menu’.

From a distance, the Stacker looks ‘legit’.

1 patty

1 slice of cheese

2 half-slices of bacon (via 1 full slice of bacon)

1 sesame seed bun

some pink shit

allbeefwave. all delish. all low-cal-core.

But the King knows u can’t just ‘stop at 1′, y’all

He’s seen a Pringles commersh.

He sees all,

knows your ‘inner being’

knows that deep down

yr willing to trade ‘Levis 550s’

4 backfat.

So the single Stacker becomes the double.

The double becomes the triple.

The triple becomes the quad.

The quad becomes a ‘Zocor’ prescription

and 2 seats on yr next Southwest flight.

That sh*t is real.

That sh*t is scary.

That sh*t is ‘yr future’.

That shit is on the ‘value meal’.

it's a frankenburger, yall

But is it a real ‘value’, ya’ll?

I did a little research (via youtube+wikipedia)

and it looks like the answer is a resounding

‘maybe, but prolly not’

Let’s go deeper, yall.

Real deep.

Even deeper.

Let’s ‘take this shit 2 the next level’

of deep.

What do we find?

We find The King is exploiting u,

sticking his greasy fingers in2 the pockets of the

skinnies u can no longer ‘fit in2′

and pillaging yr pennies 4 his fat coffers.

A single Stacker costs 1 dollar, yall.

But a Double Stacker costs 2?

A Triple Stacker costs 3?

So now BK is making me a ‘lil fatty rolly polly bro

AND charging progressively more 4 each subsequent patty?

Feel like my ‘personal brand’ has been violated, ya’ll.

Let’s break this down with ‘economics’.

Want 2 ‘make Rush’ proud, yall.

Single Stack = 1 x patty/ 1 x cheese/ 2 x bacon/ 1 x bun/ 1 x pink shit = $1

Double Stack = 2 x patty/ 1 x cheese/ 3 x bacon/ 1 x bun/ 1 x pink shit = $2

Triple Stack = 3 x patty/ 2 x cheese/ 3 x bacon/ 1 x bun/ 1 x pink shit = $3

WTF?

That ain’t right, yall.

When u buy the 1 gallon tub of Miracle Whip

via Costco/Sam’s Club/’diversified’ ice cream truck,

u expect 2 pay less per ounce than when u buy the cute whittle Meerywhippy.

Think this might b a fraud ‘perpetrated on the American consumer bro’.

Feel like this could be illegal.

So confused, yall.

Might as well just buy three separate Stackers and

‘crush’ them together via ‘budgetcore’.

But no savings will make up 4

the way I feel in the morning

after pounding an Octostack.

Congestion.

Heavy breathing.

Back pimples.

The sweats.

The runs.

Feel like i’m part of a whole generation of skinny hipsters

who walked in2 a Burger King looking 4 a Whopper

but ended up with a Multistacker/congestive heart failure/early death.

Don’t wanna miss my kids’ weddings, yall.

Don’t wanna ‘die young’.

Don’t wanna have to ‘unzip’ my jeans 2 get in2 them.

Prolly should just give in now.

Just ‘let myself go’

Just ‘take advantage of free healthcare’

Barack knew this day was coming.

Thanks Barack.

<3 a system where the fat poor peeps ride the deep-pocketswave

of the peeps with money.

Cuz lord knows I need it.

U may think The Stacker is just a ‘sandwich’.

But it’s not ‘just a sandwich’.

It’s a symbol,

A lifestyle,

An epidemic,

Threatening the skinny-jeaned alt bro

with luv handles.

More like h8 handles, yall.

Simply A Matter of Time

Forward steps

With due respect to Charl Schwartzel, the take home from Sunday afternoon is not his first and – you can be reasonably assured - only green jacket. The takeaway is this: Tiger Woods almost won the Masters.

Tiger Woods is, almost, back.

There is no other matter of significance – none more deserving of this space – and nothing else to cull from a Sunday afternoon in which, decked in that familiar blood red, Tiger erased a 7-stroke lead in nine holes, sending youngster Rory McIlroy shooting off like a dud bottlerocket into some forest on 10 and announcing to all: the rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

Tiger’s comet flamed out, yes, but he had a short putt on the Par-5 15 to take the outright lead on day four at Augusta, and – several holes earlier – my father and I in full-on wake-the-f*cking-neighbors mode. The list of people who could’ve evoked said reaction is a list of one.

Win or lose, a Sunday afternoon on CBS hasn’t been that exciting in a long while – and it wasn’t because of the four-way ties or Bill Macatee’s riveting post-round interviews.

The putts will drop at some point. The swing will find its rhythm. And the likes of McIlroy – an entire generation soon to be laid to waste – will kick themselves for not capitalizing on this fleeting opportunity to squelch a sleeping giant. At 35, Tiger Woods is much younger than his naysayers would have you believe and, should your lying eyes suggest otherwise, built like a mythical Greek warrior to boot.

In honesty, I had no great desire to peck away at a keyboard on this devastating (because I knew he’d win) weekend night. But I will not look like a fool for letting the 2011 Masters – the tipping point, as you will recall it – pass. A month from now, or six months from now, or a year from now, or whenever it is Tiger invariably finds his form, I’ll point you back to April 10 – the final round of this coulda-been fifth jacket – and say, simply, “told ya so.”

Only Tiger Woods could’ve done what Tiger Woods did on Sunday. Geoff Ogilvy and Adam Scott, among others, posted similar scores, but neither with the force of will or swell of significance. After all that’s passed, there is still no louder ovation in sport than the roar of a Tiger gallery.

As Tiger goes, golf goes, and at one point in the early afternoon, I asked my father rhetorically, “Do you realize we could be witnessing the recasting of history?” Something was said about a “grand slam” and something of “his greatest victory” and other things of similar Tiger-induced delirium. For a half hour we felt as Napoleon’s troops when their great leader marched back to Paris.

You will not remember Sunday, as some will suggest, as a moral victory. Tiger Woods once did golf better than anyone else did anything. There are no moral victories for men with fourteen major championships. Only steps in the unmistakably, inescapably, inevitably right direction.

Let’s also save the sappy redemption tale you can bet your life Jim Nantz is penning as we speak. Tiger is not about redemption. He is about perfection. About being the greatest ever.

I’ll stop short of guaranteeing both Opens and the PGA. But I will guarantee this: the Golden Bear sleeps uneasy tonight. And so, too, does a restless Tiger Woods, because there are better things in his future than fourth place at Augusta.

- Robbie

Who doesn’t love a good train wreck?

Only the beginning.

Exit positivity. Enter your first Rays bitch fest of the new season.

Don’t pay attention to the above picture or the Manny overtone that I’m sure will run through your head every time you come across a Rays post for the next few days.

This post isn’t about Manny. He’s only a small part in what looks like it could be the most embarrassing season for a franchise that spent ten years giving people plenty of laughable moments to choose from. The Rays are seven games in, and it already feels like nothing matters.

That guy that they spent the entire spring drooling over? He’s gone. The most anemic bats in baseball at the end of last season? They’re still here. Those pitchers coming off breakout seasons? It’s time to underachieve, baby!

Bathroom stalls at college bars don’t have as many bad writings on the wall as the Rays have right now. It isn’t the fact that Manny went away this afternoon that Rays fans (er, bad term) should be afraid of. It’s the responses from players when they were asked about his departure that should have people cringing at the site of $9 party deck seats.

There wasn’t any “We’re going to push forward” or “We’ll be alright.” It was words like “disappointed” and “heartbreaking.” Not exactly words to live by with 155 games left on the slate. People might have expected a sub-par season in which Ramirez eventually flipped out and went AWOL. Remember when he said Johnny Damon could play 100 games, and he’d play 62? What are your thoughts on 157, Johnny?

But like I said, it’s certainly not just Manny. The Rays are without their best player for a couple weeks. They’re starting a man at first base who is not a major league player in any extended stretch of the term. Frustration dominates the faces of their starting pitchers. I’d like to say something about the bullpen, but that might require to name names, and quite honestly, I can’t do that.

What if this is the year that B.J. Upton properly explodes? It certainly wouldn’t surprise anyone. Last season proved that regular season attendance at Tropicana Field will never be good. That was true with a first-place team, and it will be even more true now. The attendance is going to dive low, real low. And don’t expect typical targets like Upton to be very cheerful when the 8,000 that do show up start expressing their frustrations.

There will be outbursts and fights within and lots and lots of ugly baseball. If you enjoy batters sleeping to 0-2 counts, nameless bullpens or lineups that are so unconventional that they become conventional, this is your team.

If you like opposing team home runs, James Shields is your pitcher. Lackluster right-side defense? Dan Johnson is your first baseman. A quirky manager that casts empty promises? Joe Maddon is your manager.

Oh yeah, and don’t forget your new left fielder, Sam Fuld.

Usually, I’d take this space of the post to counter with a “Well, actually they might be alright” stance. Not this time. Let me assure you of one thing: I’m not overreacting this time.

I love the Rays, but they’re not good. Evan Longoria can’t carry eight other batters when he comes back.

Look on the bright side. It’s more exciting than going .500.

-Bryan

On Rodman, Advanced Statistics and Dogma

I don’t know Mike Pesca. He seems like an alright enough guy. I look forward to his turns as affable contrarian on NPR and as a contributor with Slate.

Mike Pesca is okay by me. But he is insane.

On Tuesday’s “Hang Up and Listen,” Slate’s generally on-point sports podcast, Pesca made the case for Reggie Miller’s Hall of Fame candidacy, couching it in terms of the undeserving Dennis Rodman. His words. Not mine.

Pesca said, for him, Miller vs. Rodman (which is a false choice, by the way) comes down to this: Miller and Rodman played at the same time; no GM would’ve ever taken the latter over the former.

I cannot judge the accuracy of said statement, nor can I vouch for his assertion that, if Jordan’s Bulls had Reg instead of Worm, they would’ve simply morphed into a “130-point” per night offensive juggernaut. This, of course, is the Miami Heat argument, and perhaps prompts the question, “So who guards Kemp and Malone?”

But again, we’re not here to discuss Rodman/Miller, as we’re not here to discuss fried rice/Tootsie Pops. They’re both delicious.

Instead, I want to share the following exchange:

And that’s where it ended. Except not…

(*my head explodes*)

Now I’m of the opinion that citing Rodman’s general body of work – seven time NBA All-Defensive First Team, twice Defensive Player of the Year, seven consecutive rebounding titles and five NBA championships – does not a terribly incongruous argument make. That looks, on its face, like a Hall-worthy resume (and now, it is).

However, I’m perfectly willing to concede my ignorance of advanced statistical analytics – one of which, John Hollinger’s Player Efficiency Rating (PER), dubiously ranks Dennis Rodman as the seventh most valuable player on the ’95-’96 Bulls… behind Jud Buechler.

The Jud Buechler.

PER more laughably values Rodman as the 12th best player on the ’97-’98 Bulls, wedging him in between Steve Kerr and Dickey Simpkins, a full 3 points behind Scott Burrell. Win shares – another advanced stat estimating the number of wins contributed by a player – ranks Rodman second. Behind Jordan. Still, playoff win shares per 48 minutes pits him eighth on the ’97-’98 squad – again behind Buechler and Burrell.

Rodman owns by a large margin the highest career rebounding rate, a metric he dominated more thoroughly than Jordan did scoring. But now I’m admittedly out of my element. Smarter people than me or Pesca have hashed out the Rodman debate, and if you fashion yourself one of these, I’d direct you to this labyrythian minefield of numbers.

I take issue with two more general principles. The first is the shortcoming of advanced basketball statistics and the simultaneous zeal with which sabermetricians decree their highbrow equations law of the land. NBA stats notoriously undervalue defense. And no metric can possibly quantify or fully take into account the concept of team. Player interaction – on and off the court, with each other and with the crowd – cannot be measured. Not fully, anyway. Not yet.

The second is a matter of dogma. Pesca talks, as my last Tweet hopefully indicates, out of both sides of his mouth – alleging at once Rodman v. Miller boils down to GM logic and a bunch of hand-picked statistics valuing a now-Hall of Famer similarly to the likes of Buechler, Burrell and Ron Harper.

Carry out his line of reasoning: Dennis Rodman is good, but not as good as Jud Buechler, who no general manager would trade straight up for Rodman.

What was once a semi-informed matter of opinion turned quickly into a kitchen sink-dumping to prove an “objective truth”. Sorry, but the only objective truth is Johnny Ramone. Exulting Rodman solely based on my intuitive recollections of his defensive prowess would be no more shortsighted.

In the end, I think we’re both guilty of missing the mark. The more pertinent debate, after all, is Miller v. Beuchler.

- Robbie

Buzz Is Golden

That's Canesville to you.

I just sent my father this text: “The entire laundromat is talking about Al Golden.”

This is true. The entire Coin & Laundry off SW 6th and 2nd Ave in Gainesville, FL is talking about the new coach of the Miami Hurricanes. Granted, there are only three of us here, but we are talking – shouting, really – about a team 300 miles from the multi-national champions down the street.

Such occasions are A) awesome and B) not as infrequent as you may think.

Surely it’s happenstance to some degree – a case study, if you will. But that I walk into the Heart of Darkness (again, I’m still in Gainesville) and spot first a thirty-something from the 305 dawning a loud-colored “MIAMI” sweatshirt on the most crisp of spring mornings in enemy territory puts both a hop in my step and a knowing smirk on my face.

Maybe Robb Hilson is right.

The first guy asks me, “Are you Spanish?” and proceeds to inquire how he should spell his new girl’s name in the dreaded morning-after text. It either starts with a “y” or with a “u”. Or perhaps it starts with an “eu” and follows with a double-L. She is Latin. We are stumped. Clearly, this man is legit.

So I take him at his word he did indeed used to live in Miami and he does in fact have a friend that works on-campus. Said friend relayed the info that all ‘Canes will start with white helmets this spring. They will have to earn “The U”.

Irrespective of the tip-off’s authenticity, the thought of Ray-Ray Armstrong in an all-white helmet fires both of us up. We respect “The U”. Now Ray-Ray will respect “The U”. Is it September yet?

Now a third party joins in. Golden has turned viral in the laundromat.

The good sir, with the most metallic of grills this side of Weezy, starts in on Randy Shannon. He’s another Coker. He needed to go. No discipline. No motivation. ‘Lil Weez wants a coach who gets in his players’ faces – who “sits their asses on the bench” when the mental mistakes start to mount.

I’m nodding vigorously. Violently, even. We are three different people. Yet we are the same.

Predictably, the BS starts to fly. Somebody undersells home attendance for effect – the takeaway being UM is not a college atmosphere. We need a change of culture. And quick.

From his mouth to God’s ears. Preach it brother. Still vigorously nodding.

Being a Hurricane fan in the now is a lot like being a punk in 1975. We’re on the fringes. But we are cooler than you. And we’re about to break big.

So there. I’m in Gainesville, at a community hangout. We’re talking about Al Golden’s Miami Hurricanes. Just thought you should know.

- Robbie

Take Your Coaches’ Vote and Shove It

"Not so fast, Mr. Walker" - Some D-Bag with a Vote

Maybe it’s just my bullsh*t detector finally short-circuiting after sixty days of thesis/project editing, but I did not act particularly sensibly to Tuesday AM’s news that the national championship-winning UConn Huskies received 30 of thirty-one first-place votes.

That’s right, thirty… of thirty-one. Which means some smartass trying to “make a point” voted for a program other than the one chopping down Houston’s nets to the Nantzified nostalgia of “One Shining Moment”.

Since the National Association of Basketball Coaches ordains from on high the final tally remain secret, we may never know which misguided ballot castor snubbed the Fighting Kembas for Sweet 16 expellee Ohio State. But if we just nixed this godforsaken polling system altogether, we wouldn’t have to deal with such boundless iconoclasts in the first place.

That the Coaches’ Poll operates separately from the rest of college basketball is the same kind of nonsense that kept Babe Ruth off five percent of 1936 Hall of Fame ballots. And in a sport in which Selection Committees and tournaments ultimately determine all outcomes, the idea such a poll even exists speaks to false entitlement and ego gone awry.

In short, the guy on this panel who voted for Ohio State conducted himself like a me-first stooge. He gets to employ his contrarianism at poker games and booster luncheons and recruiting visits and the like, waiving his badge of douchedom at every turn.

Hey, you know, I was the guy who didn’t do what’s expected of me. I’m different. I’m a Maverick.

Settle down, John McCain… You’re a bum, that’s what you are – and one who, unfortunately, will never have to face the justice of public account. You’re the guy at the party who insists Reservoir Dogs was better than Pulp Fiction and that Zeppelin III trumps Zeppelin IV and that “Black Square” is a work of haunted genius. You argue for the sake of arguing because you know, in the end, your opinion doesn’t matter.

In the end, you’re just full of shit.

The problems with the poll itself are many. There are, first, the logistical impossibilities of keeping tabs on over 300 squads whilst coaching a basketball team (“This looks like a job for my teenage son”). In addition to the fact the poll exists an irrelevant symbol of nothing, there’s also the pitfall of culling voters from odd-conference teams incapable of competing at the highest levels… which, if you think about it, is akin to tapping film majors to critique Scorsese.

The Coaches’ Poll obviously, too, sorely lacks accountability and, theoretically, could crown Miami split champions if they so pleased. Say, for instance, half the panel of 31 either conspired to – or independently and coincidentally – reasoned to “act ironically” on the same day.

Now is this a rational concern? Of course not. But a vote a for team that got bounced in the Regional Semis isn’t rational either.

If I had it my way, college basketball polls – hell, polls in general – wouldn’t exist at all. They didn’t do much for VCU. Didn’t do much for Butler – just for the select insiders to this club of selfdom, who for a day, made pretend they weren’t just another drop in the pond of also-rans. I say tear down this cottage industry, but I don’t have a vote.

Then again, neither does Jim Calhoun.

- Robbie

April 6 update: Our mystery man is Northern Arizona coach Mike Adras, who voted Connecticut No. 3.

WrestleMania XXVII: My review of the weekend

Epic

To read an opinion of the show from someone who could actually see the fine points of each match and who wasn’t tainted by $7 beers, check out Kyle Rancourt’s notes on WrestleMania 27.

And so it has come and gone.

The greatest spectacle in sports entertainment, the Super Bowl of fake sports, the mania of wrestle. As an on-and-off, life-long fan of scripted fighing, attending my first WrestleMania was one hell of an experience.

Before I go into breaking down the actual event, here are a few bullet-point notes that stood out from the weekend as a whole:

• Sunny getting inducted into the Hall of Fame had to be a nerve-racking experience for any 90s-era wrestler who is currently married. Seriously, it’s almost cruel that they put her in the same class as Shawn Michaels. For those of you who don’t know, Sunny is well-known for being a prostitute in the 90s. And by prostitute, I mean she had sex with pretty much everyone on the WWF roster for free. HBK was one of her more notorious patrons relationships. That was of course before he became a born-again Christian and she became a cocky, over-the-hill, white trash queen of bloviation.
• Road Dogg’s induction of his father, Bullet Bob Armstrong, into the WWE Hall of Fame was awesome. It was certainly nostalgic, and made me wonder how this guy’s verbal skills don’t have him employed right now. Seriously, a “ladies and gentlemen” promo is enough to make me push for the return of managers.
• I could listen to Dusty Rhodes talk for days. The accent, the rambling stories and the curious explanations. Seriously, the upcoming WrestleMania DVD will be worth the cost simply because of The American Dream’s attempt at explaining the Iditarod.
• Stop what you’re doing and go to the Georgia Aquarium right now. Whale sharks are totally boss.
• Apparently the WWE Hall of Fame induction ceremony is a formal occasion for all. Little did I know that cheap suits and cheesy evening gowns were par for the course at pro wrestling’s red carpet occasion. I’ll be ready next time. Don’t you worry.
• Don’t ever drink Beverly soda. It’s from Italy, and it tastes like a combination of flat soda water and cheap vodka. Thanks a lot, World of Coca-Cola.
• The Double Coronary Bypass Burger is a half-pound patty topped with six slices of American cheese, eight pieces of bacon, two fried eggs and it’s all between two grilled cheese sandwiches that serve as the bun. The eggs get you.

Now onto the event.

Just walking into the Georgia Dome was an experience in itself. The build-up of the event is unreal, and you don’t really realize what you’re getting into until you arrive inside. The visual of the stage and ramp in the vast space of a 70,000-seat football stadium is incredible. It really is tough to imagine the work that goes into these four hours. Bonus perk: club seats.

Daniel Bryan vs. Sheamus

Ah, the part where I get to make fun of you, the lazy, stay-at-home PPV orderer, because you didn’t get to see this match, and I did. Except you didn’t miss anything. Really, you missed nothing. The US title match now infamously became the show’s dark match which infamously became a throwaway, get everybody on the show battle royal. Say it with me: Kick, kick, punch, punch, somebody falls over the top rope. Kick, kick, punch, punch, somebody falls over the top rope. Rinse and repeat and repeat and repeat.

The move is getting bashed and will surely be compared to the tag team title unification match that took place as the dark match for WrestleMania XXV. However, there are two key differences here:

• The tag match (between Miz/Morrison and the Colons) had a major build and was appealing to the casual WWE fan. This year’s US title match was barely a discussion point outside of Internet fans.
• The tag match didn’t turn into a giant, cluster battle royal between every tag team in WWE. OK, that’s probably because it already featured the only two tag teams in WWE at the time.

Remember when tag teams cut promos? Me neither.

Don’t worry, folks. Sheamus will be fine.

The Rock’s introductory promo

Nothing revolutionary here, so I know plenty of people at home complained that Rock did nothing new and seemed to be going through his traditional routine. Well, consider this Exhibit A of how much better EVERYTHING is in person. A live Rock promo is, as The Great One would say, electrifying. It jumped the crowd right into the show, and it’s always fun to sing-a-long with Rocky.

Alberto Del Rio vs. Edge

This match going on first shows the unconventional method that wrestling PPVs now operate under. I say this because it’s a theory that I feel most people didn’t understand when they wrote their respective reviews of Mania. There is no longer a traditional definition of the term “main event.” Matches are positioned to balance out the emotion of the crowd, and that’s exactly what was done in Atlanta to some extent. Sure, you could argue that this match didn’t need to go first because of Rock’s promo, but this was still an excellent start. A lot of fun and creative reversals by both guys, and a surprising result with Edge going over.

Del Rio’s arm bar finisher leaves plenty of sick possibilities for surprising twists, and we saw that for the first time on Sunday. It was shocking to see this come on first, but it sure set one hell of a precedent.

Cody Rhodes vs. Rey Mysterio

A match that is getting heavily underrated right now. I really thought this was a solid match, but the fact that the crowd was kinda mum to it did not do it any favors. It simply didn’t feel like a big deal because this is the only feud on the card that wasn’t featured prominently on Raw, which will always be the flagship show of WWE. It really came off as a comic book showdown between Mysterio’s Captain America gear and Rhodes’ over-the-top, self-disgusted villain. The victory was great for Rhodes, and both men got to show off some excellent maneuvers.

It’s too bad most of the crowd was like me and had little exposure to the feud as a whole.

No! Rip Hamilton is beating up Captain America!

Big Show, Kane, Kofi Kingston and Santino Marella vs. The Corre

This match was so bad and irrelevant that it was even more useless than I originally thought it would be. Proof? It didn’t even last long enough to serve as a proper bathroom/beer/merchandise stand break. It was all over before I even made it into the concourse. Dumb.

Randy Orton vs. CM Punk

I had previously said that I hoped this match would get somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes. According to ProWrestling.net, it got 14:45, but it deserved more. Not complaining, the two did an excellent, old school job with what they were given. Later, two veterans would prove that it was probably impossible to steal the show, but Orton/Punk was still very well done. Word is that Orton was particularly not happy backstage with where this match was placed on the card and how much time it was given. While part of me can’t blame him, the other part thinks the time for these two to absolutely star will soon come, and the placement of this match had a lot to do with the aforementioned unconventional card.

The RKO is an excellent move because it makes it feel like a match can end at any time. That was certainly the vibe in the arena when he caught CM Punk’s flying clothesline attempt. The crowd was a bit heel-heavy all night as WrestleMania tends to draw the intense wrestling fans who are older and bitter and blah, blah, blah. This was the first real evidence of this as Punk received heavy cheers from the crowd.

2011 Hall of Fame class introduced

HBK gets his moment and then has to pose for a picture next to, you guessed it, Sunny. Go away, devil woman.

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

You knew this match wasn’t going to be good. Hell, you knew it wasn’t even really going to be a wrestling match. But still, people find ways to complain that Cole didn’t come off like a descendant of Ricky Steamboat (or even Alicia Fox) on Sunday. My major complaint is that A – it went on about nine minutes too long and B – it solved nothing. All we needed was a four-minute blow-off where Lawler beat the hell out of Cole and chased him away forever, but that didn’t happen.

I differ from the crowd a little bit in that I supported Cole’s original heel run because as long as the crowd is being vocal, there’s no reason to ignore it. But what happened on Sunday both turned Cole’s heat from hatred to apathy, and then somehow kept this whole disaster going. Cole’s antics saturated the match to a point where Lawler’s offense wasn’t fully embraced. The crowd was the most enthusiastic in serenading Cole with “You can’t wrestle” chants and embracing Austin’s assorted Stunners.

It ended up being fun live, but I can only imagine how bad it dragged on television. Stone Cold’s antics in dealing with Cole’s tap-out was hilarious . But then the reversal left everything open. I thought it may lead to the final reveal of the Raw GM, but I’m now sure more than ever that that person doesn’t really exist.

Undertaker vs. Triple H

Equal parts brutal, believable and epic. The Undertaker continues to set an insane bar for WrestleMania performances in defending the latter years of his streak that now stands at 19-0.  Where the matches with HBK were technical and flashy masterpieces, this was a grueling and destructive match that lived up to every bit of its hype and stipulation. As one little kid said walking out of the Georgia Dome: “When they said no holds barred, they really meant no holds barred.”

I’m now completely convinced that Undertaker will wrestle until he can’t walk anymore, which I predict will be WrestleMania XXVIII. I’ve seen devastating hardcore matches, and I’ve seen mind-boggling psychological matches that suspend disbelief. However, I have never seen a match mix the two qualities in such a perfect manner.

This was a spot fest that told a story. A story that made fans cringe and gasp in amazement. It took every young wrestler in the back that might be bitching about veterans owning the card and said, “Well, go do that, and we’ll talk.”

There was a bit of role reversal from the Taker/HBK matches in that it was Triple H frustrated by Taker’s ability to keep getting up. It drove him several Pedigrees, repeated chair shots (including one to the head which we haven’t seen in a very long time) and arguably the most dramatic Tombstone of all time. We’re all supposed to know better, but admit it, you thought the streak was over for a moment when The Game went for the coffin cover. It was the biggest pop of the night in the Georgia Dome.

So cool.

Being the idiot that I am, I do have a minor tweak for one of the best executed matches of all time. I really would have liked to see Triple H pass out a la Stone Cold at WrestleMania 13. It just seems more in line with the whole “win or die trying” theme that Triple H was trying to get across. The reality now is that he quit. Still a crazy and awesome ending.

I feel like it wasn’t too far from reality to have Taker stretchered out of the arena. The man should probably not be wrestling or doing anything physical at this stage, but he continues to destroy his body for the streak. His squirming and general discomfort left an eerie but appreciative feeling in the dome and encouraged a great, polite standing ovation. Taker may never truly break character, but he became a little bit human Sunday night. Don’t expect to see The Last Outlaw for several months as he really sold the idea that he’ll be feeling like hell for a while because of this one night.

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

Attention, douchers. This is what is called a buffer match. It is the match that serves as your letdown from a great match so that another big match isn’t expected to top something that it probably can’t. The placement of this match does not somehow mean that Vince McMahon views Snooki as a main-event attraction.

This was simply a gimmick that served as a transition. Calm down, losers.

From L to R: guidette, midcarder

Attention, douchers No. 2. Booing Snooki doesn’t make you cool or a better wrestling fan or anything more than, well, a doucher. I admitted this last night, and I’ll admit it again. I was kinda proud of Snooki last night. She ran out in front of 71,000 people who all wish they could get paid to party on television, and got her spray-tanned ass completely booed off. She received the second most heel heat on the show, and we’ll get to No. 1 in a moment.

But then she did something crazy. She showed a little bit of athleticism, and everybody either shut up or (gasp) cheered. It was a legitimately cool moment, and you could tell it meant a lot to her.

Ziggler and Morrison will one day get better draws for Mania. But first they both have to prove they have more charisma than they’ve show in their careers. Pushing either one right now would be a rush. They’re simply not polished enough as complete characters.

The Miz vs. John Cena

Let’s talk for a second about the biggest mistake made at WrestleMania 27.

The cool entrances are over and it’s time for the WWE Champion to face a man who is supposed to be the company’s biggest babyface. It should be electric and deafening inside the arena. Except no one cared.

No one cared because they knew not to take the match seriously until they saw The Rock. They knew not to cheer for Miz because he’s an overly pompous heel, but they also knew not to cheer for Cena because Rock has informed the world that it’s not cool to cheer for WWE’s biggest merchandise man.

What we got was an overshadowed heel champion working against a face challenger who received more heel heat than anyone else on the card (even Vickie Guerrero) on Sunday night. It was awkward and went against the grain of pro wrestling 101 in a bad way. I don’t think I’m alone in admitting that I paid little attention to the match until Rock came out and restarted it.

UPDATE: Since I began writing this, it was announced on Raw that Rock will face Cena in a match … In 361 days at WrestleMania 28 in Miami.

So if Rock continues to destroy Cena, what choice does WWE have? Eventually the kids will stop cheering for him because it’s not cool to cheer for Cena at live events. But then again, Cena could gain his face status back by going through some other feuds with intense heels in the mean time.

One last thing with Cena/message to fans: If you boo Cena and tear into him because you truly hate his character, go ahead. But if you’re at an event and doing so simply because he appeals to kids, grow the hell up. Guess who wrestling is made for? Kids, not 45-year-old socially awkward Game Stop managers, you creepy bastard. It only makes you more pathetic and closer to “It’s still real to me, dammit” status to pick on kids at a pro wrestling match. Heels aren’t impressed by the fact that you waited in line for two hours to see them because you read dirt sheets and consider yourself whatever the hell a “smark” is. Cena works his ass off and keeps your favorite company afloat. Tyson Kidd doesn’t.

Do I care for Cena? Not really, but I understand his place in WWE as the company’s most marketable star. However, it is getting very difficult to see the future of that status if Rock continues to blur lines.

For the record, it was very strange hearing Miz get a giant pop for his pinfall.

If you smell...

Overall

As I’ve repeatedly said, I loved everything about attending Mania. It was truly a blast and an experience that I’ll remember forever.

If there’s one thing that really stood out Sunday, it was that WrestleMania 27 defined the idea of sports entertainment over wrestling. It might not be for everyone, but to me the spectacle element beats the hell out of watching two computer geeks go crazy for 45 minutes in a high school gym. If you don’t like it, don’t watch it. WWE won’t miss you.

WrestleMania 27 was far from technical, but it was certainly a spectacle. The countdown to Miami begins now.

-Bryan