Sports Casualties FAQs: Vol 1

LeBron's ego has company.

The following are real questions from conceivably real people.

What would LeBron have to do in this Finals for you and all the other pseudo-basketballologist to “forgive” him for what he “did to Cleveland”? ~ Bob, Miami, FL

Well he can start with a 37-8-8, but the people who blame him for burning down The Quick and pissing on its ashes would continue to despise LJ if he averaged a 7-game triple double, pawned his MVP trophy on eBay to feed the Sudanese hungry and cured cancer during the third quarter of game four. The issue here is legacy (i.e. can he salvage it?) and, to that point, really has more to do with Flash than the King himself. If Wade is good in this series – not great, but good – LeBron haters can always validly play the sidekick card. It’s probably true that LeBron’s ceiling from a legacy standpoint topped out in Cleveland, but if – say – Wade keels over and dies in Game 1, and LeBron defeats the best player in the League (Dirk) by himself, all bets are off. Of course, it’s a moot point. Dallas in seven.

You’re like that kid from high school who claims EVERY weekend was the craziest weekend of his life. Is all that hyperbole for real? ~ Alicia, Roanoke, VA

I actually genuinely believe the vast majority of things I write when I write them. I feel strongly, for instance, that “Thru The Eyes of Ruby” is the greatest rock song of the last 25 years, just as I genuinely believe the 2001 Miami Hurricanes would’ve beat the hell out of the 2001 Cincinnati Bengals. So, yes. It is for real, provided I’m not obviously joking. Like if I said “Watching this 110-pound black lab strategically end a game of frisbee by shitting all over the disc was the best part of my weekend,” I’d be totally kidding. It was only the best part of my Saturday.

Greatest guitar solo of all-time: “Sweet Child O Mine” or “Stairway to Heaven?” ~ Dana, Bethpage, NY

Neither, though the former is clearly superior, particularly the part directly after Axl’s crooning ‘where do we go now?‘ break. But the overall No. 1 goes to the post-wankery freakout in “Dazed and Confused,” followed closely by the punctured cat calls in “Sympathy For The Devil.”

Come to any grand realizations after 3 1/2 weeks in the real world? ~ Scooter, Boise, ID

Yes. The people who watch baseball must love baseball like I love Pearl Jam or Breyer’s Chocolate Chunk. I mean, I don’t currently have three hours for anything let alone three hours for watching Al Pujols shoot week grounders to San Fran’s middle infielders. In other words, there is no such thing as a fair weather baseball fan. You’re either in or your out. They’re all hardcores. And I kinda admire that.

After an 11 hour day of ass-kissing — I mean, ‘working’ — what’s the best song to play to fire your boy up on the way to gym? ~ Evan, Montpelier, VT

I would’ve told you Misfits “We Are 138” 90 minutes ago, but the correct answer is, indisputably, “Fight Fire With Fire” by Metallica. In fact, the whole Metallica catalog is pretty spot-on in this regard. When you’ve spent your 8 to 6 wearing away at the erosive hands of ‘unforeseen circumstances,’ ‘office politics,’ ‘crashing Firefox tabs,’ and a string of daunting, legalese-engulfed podcast interviews, there’s nothing like a heavy blast of dual Hammett-Hetfield riffing to rekindle your zeal for kicking life’s ass. Plus, Metallica’s albums are notoriously lacking in low-end, so you can play “Creeping Death” at full volume without worrying about the bass blowing out your headphones. On the downside, expect passersby to shoot you dirty looks when you’re spraying them with treadmill sweat while chanting “DIE! DIE! DIE!“

Casual Friday

Meet the new boss

Where I write everything on my mind in the time allotted.

I am in fact dressed casually this morning, or rather, like a bum. Rocking my favorite PJ shirt – the puke green one with the monster you’ve seen if you know me – drawstringless shorts falling from my waist and Alfalfa like flash of hair sprouting from the back of my head. This isn’t exactly NTK information, but I thought I’d tell you anyway, lest I’m kidnapped by employers (like right now).

You’ll be able to spot me faster when I escape from the white van.

I haven’t watched any basketball and the reason for this is simple: there is one TV in the house I’m still in and it’s dedicated, on alternate nights, to either Idol, Curb Your Enthusiasm, or – in a stunning, or should I say, perfectly predictable development – Real Housewives of New Jersey, New York, you name it.

Now there are, of course, two points to address here: the first being “why I haven’t moved into an apartment yet” and the second being “Kelly Bensimon over D-Wade? Really, Hilson? Have you lost your balls?” The latter matter is pretty easy to defend. My parents, who increasingly adopt my favorite shows (minus the insufferable Idol) and pass them off as their own, wield full control of the remote at all hours of the night. Add to this A) my 10:30 self-imposed bed time and B) the horror of watching an HBO serial with your Bible teaching mother… I think I’ve made my point.

To the other, more pressing (or less pressing if you were Phil Kates) issue: paper work is a bitch, more so when you’re seemingly inking a security check for EVERY SINGLE SHEET. Much like the Kuwaiti oil fields, I’m getting sucked dry.

Luckily, I’m a straight cash homie. Me and Randy both.

I cross my heart and hope to die with this: if I’m not in One Miami by next Friday… you won’t see me knockin back cold ones at the Clevelander come Saturday happy hour. Admittedly, this is something I’ve never done. But you get the idea. I’m SERIOUS this time.

So wish me luck on the drive to G-Vegas come 6:30 p.m. I-95 North Bound traffic and wish me even greater luck at keeping my eyes open for ’80s Dance Night at the ATL. Nany from Real World is giving Sammi Sweetheart from J-Shore a serious run for “dumbest reality character ever.” Give LeBron my best. Word to your mother.

Closing quote from QbytheU: “Barkley picked Dallas… That’s a good thing. PK and I were trading emails at 11:30.”

In Defense of the Mighty Zep

Who, us?

Texts from last night:

“Dirk is awesome.”

“Better than Bird?”

I realize that coming to the “defense” of Led Zeppelin is like coming to the defense of sex or coming to the defense of chocolate or like beating up a seven-year-old to defend my family’s honor. I guess there are some people who don’t like these things (Hershey’s, Robert Plant), but everybody agrees they’re an essential part of existence. I can – and will – for instance, draw a direct line from Dirk Nowitzki’s game 4 exploits to 1970′s Zeppelin III, and that unequivocal association goes as follows:

“Immigrant Song” prolonged the otherwise defunct utility of both Germanic barbarism and long hair… without which there would be no Dirk Nowitzki… without which there would be no Monday night in Oklahoma City.

Zeppelin changed everything - not just rock music, but the very way in which we consume reality. So when these four divinely loud lads from London take fire from the good folks at Live Oak Blues, I have to take a step back, contemplate the nature of the claims – plagiarism – and say to myself: Yes, Zep pillaged and stole…

Thank God.

Now I’m all for giving credit where credit is due – which puts me at odds with, say, Jimmy Page – but anyone (no offense Chris) who claims Zep I’s “Dazed and Confused” is a “note for note” rip of Jake Holmes’ 1967 version is from the same school of hollow contrarianism that’ll have you believe Jeff Beck’s Truth was the originator of heavy metal.

These things are simply not true.

Zeppelin did for rock ‘n roll what the forth wheel did for the auto. Comparing pre-Zep pop music and post-Zep pop music is likening apples to the flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz.

So to the point of plagiarism: I certainly do not endorse slapping one’s name upon retooled blues appropriations without throwing a bone to the legends who articulated those nascent musical exoskeletons. But skeletons are exactly what they are. Just as Kanye West’s “Hell of a Life” has absolutely no relation to Sabbath’s “Iron Man” (though Ozzman gets a writing credit), neither does Anne Bredon’s folky “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” resemble whatsoever the ’69 acousta-metal hybrid that fells tall houses. And while crediting is a noble cause and certainly sounds great in theory, the way people consume music – i.e. via download – ultimately renders the whole concept of liner notes moot to begin.

King Crimson “wrote” part of “Power.” People don’t know this unless they check Wikipedia (which, btw, is the same source validating Zep’s fleecing of “The Lemon Song“).

Zeppelin essentially took an Atari 2600 and turned it into a three-story GameWorks. So they nicked a few riffs along the way. Most people A) already acknowledge and B) subsequently discard this historical footnote for what it is: a fact of life. Rock stars have no moral compass. There’s a crystalline thread between beating the life out of a roadie in Oakland, spending black magic summers in a demonic country castle, pioneering playtime with fish parts… and stealing.

Rock stars, by and large, are not good people. That’s why they’re rock stars. Rock ‘n roll exists BECAUSE people are inherently bad: we’re angry, we’re horny, and we want to do drugs.

All is fair in war and rock ‘n roll. If you don’t like Zeppelin because they’re thieves, you better not like the Stones (because they’re misogynists) or Nirvana (because they’re destructive nihilists) or the Stooges (because they’re f*cking vile) or Queen (because they suck). Popular music is no place to go searching for moral high ground. It’s a dog eat dog world. Bon Scott tells us as much.

The last text from Monday night’s inbox reads: “Didn’t see Bird but I can’t imagine a better shooting big man.” Bingo. I didn’t see Bird either, just as I didn’t grow up listening to John Lee Hooker or Blind Willie McTell or Willie Dixon. I didn’t need to. I had something that’s bigger, stronger, faster, better.

Magic Tweets

@moreimportantthanyouthink

“So let it be written/so let it be done” ~ Pharaoh/Metallica/ESPN

Earvin “Magic” Johnson keeps a Twitter account. It is, unsurprisingly, of no use to me or you – unless, for instance, you’re MJ’s post-workout oatmeal and protein shake (in which case, you get a namecheck. holla!).

Magic, as with most athletes, is not particularly engaging to begin with. His turns as NBA analyst or, for that matter, his short-lived vanity project The Magic Hour, suggest as much. He is something of a slow-talking oaf, which, admittedly, plays better on TV than “unqualified egomaniac” (Matt Hasselbeck, Trent Dilfer), “self-parodying Beastie Boy wannabe” (Stuart Scott, Neil Everett), “invalid” (Lee Corso), “dipshit” (Jon Barry) or  ”blowhard” (everybody else, minus the transcendent Barry Melrose).

Confining a man like Magic to 140 characters does not strike me as a particularly wise idea. After all, concision is not his strong suit. Nor is humor. Nor, really, is anything not involving running a fastbreak with James Worthy and Byron Scott.

Still, Magic tweets. It is what is.

What’s fascinating to me deals not with the content of said log of transience, but how the Worldwide Leader employs it to fuel its cottage industry of sports nougat.

On Wednesday, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar – a dude who makes Andre Dawson look like a glitter-flecked teddy bear by comparison – caused a minor dust-up in La La Land upon picking a fight with Lakers management over his absence, in cast bronze form, outside the Staples Center.

In short, Magic has a statue. Kareem doesn’t. Somebody’s jealy.

But this is neither – as I’m beginning to realize with the entirety of this post – here nor there. The here and there is this: SportsCenter dedicated an entire segment to Magic Johnson’s tweet… when he was already miked for NBA Countdown. In other words, the likes of Linda Cohn could’ve just panned over to MJ for his thought’s on Kareem’s statue. He was, unlike the majority of the profiled Tweeters, in-studio.

The horse’s mouth was ready to go all Mr. Ed. Instead, they read his Tweet.

Why does this matter? Well, because it implies one of three scenarios: A) Magic temporarily lost the ability to speak B) ESPN feels Magic is more effective when limited to nine words or C) Twitter assumes precedence over the recorded, spoken word because it is deemed, consciously or not, a historical log of permanent record.

I vote for C.

Now you can pass ESPN’s social media fetish off as a transparent ploy to connect with a younger audience (which it is). Or you can argue that this is just part and parcel with the superficialities it passes off, euphemistically, as “analysis” (which it is). But this is also an instance in which the 9,000-pound gorilla in the newsroom emphasizes a written modicum – no matter how seemingly ephemeral, abridged, or inconsequential – over a gasbag’s worth of hot air.

As a journalist, I feel both horrified and oddly heartened; as an impulsive keyboard junky, just plain horrified. For good or bad (bad), this is public record. Forever. ESPN doesn’t have to say so… And that’s kinda the point.

Casual Friday

still here

In which I write everything on my mind in the time alottted.

Once again, I totally forgot it was casual Friday. I’m in one of those cycles where I’m always 24-hours behind, which is great when you’re burning your days sitting around scratching yourself whilst playing Raymond Bowling on your go-phone. But not so great when you arrive to a jeans-n-Polo infiltrated office looking like you stepped off a Calvin Klein runway.

It need be said: CK Ultra Slim Fit FTW.

vanity much?

So I started on this post a little late in the AM because I had to fend off my father and his caffeinated yapper. Moving day got delayed. Obviously. More on this in a second.

Anyways, I roll out of bed, groggily. Get dressed. And stumble like a blind goat into the family room to find QbyTheU partaking in “Morning Joe” – his 9th cup of coffee as far as I can tell. I ask innocently enough ‘how was Charlotte?’ – which, predictably, morphs into this talky mcgee’s opportunity to name-drop a legendary Hurricane. Namely, 1992 Heisman Trophy winner Gino Torretta.

“I said, ‘I think I’m gonna introduce you to a Heisman Trophy winner!’” goes the first line of an admittedly engaging story that starts with The Pops flagging down a national champion in an airport and ends with… a pile of Doobie Brothers Original Master Recordings spread out before my Special K.

My father has severe ADD. There’s no getting around this.

He’s pretty sufferable, though – if that’s the word – and my 6-to-7:30 slot will be a lot less interesting without him whenever I finally move off to that land of Latina starlets and $300-sandal-rocking European tweebs I affectionately refer to as “Brickell”. It seems as though my landlord has absconded to some Columbian shangri-la as part of an indefinite vacational hiatus, leaving me without a lease co-signee for the next 4 or so days as tweedledee’s off scoring blow.

I didn’t say that.

Once I actually move in, I’d like company. If you’re reading, you’re invited, provided you bring your best unruly behavior (and Belvedere).

Props to LeBron for Wednesday’s late-game dagger. Extra props to the three Gators on the floor in crunch time (minus Mike Miller, who, by all accounts, died 8 months ago). And most props ever to me, who has to an endure the blowharded ramblings of a bleeding heart Buckeye just a desk over. Yesterday, I admitted crying after the ’03 Fiasco Bowl… before recounting a little postseason beatdown in Tempe some four years later.

Urban Legend says SUCK ON THAT.

Go find yourself a super hot girlfriend. If you’re not Dirk Nowitzki, it sucks to be you. Happy weekend, Casualtists.

Inflammatory, Entirely True, Music Statements

I am right. You are wrong.

I submit the following for your small-minded consideration:

If Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness had been released 7 years prior on SST, it would be properly hailed as the greatest rock record of the last 43 years. Billy Corgan would be remembered not as “an asshole,” but an “ironic iconoclast” in the mold of Lou Reed and Henry Rollins.

Hello Nasty is the Beastie Boys’ second best album. “Intergalactic” is the premier hip-hop track of the ’90s.

The first three cuts off the New Pornographers’ Challengers is the best trio of soft-rock songs ever strung together.

“Challengers,” the song, is the only recorded instance in which Neko Case doesn’t sound a little like a helium-pumped chipmunk.

R.E.M.’s best ‘90s album is New Adventures in Hi-Fi

If the Stones had switched the releases of Tattoo You and Goats Head Soup, both would’ve received 5-star All Music Guide reviews. Black and Blue released today would tear a seam in the fabric of the universe.

Elliot Smith is a poor man’s Nick Drake who was a rich man’s Donovan. Therefore, Elliot Smith sucks.

Jimmy Page has recorded more memorable solos than Jimi Hendrix and Eddie Van Halen combined. Billy Corgan has recorded more memorable solos than Jimmy Page.

Rock ‘n roll peaked during the midway point of Zeppelin’s 7th ever recorded track. It was downhill from there.

Of all the artists with mangled late-career legacies, Bruce Springsteen would’ve benefitted most from a late-‘80s plane crash – even more so than the Stones and Black Flag.

Sonic Youth has made exactly two entirely listenable albums. Their best effort is a collection of pop songs.

The Ramones’ first album is the best punk offering of all-time, though it does not include their best song (“Glad To See You Go”).

If Pearl Jam had released their studio albums in reverse order, they would’ve moved 45 million fewer units. Pearl Jam would’ve been their biggest seller.

If aliens were real – and knew nothing of popular music but possessed an innate sense of art – forced to choose cold between “After The Gold Rush” and “Highway 61 Revisited,” they’d choose the former every time.

The Beatles are responsible for 7 of the 10 best pop songs in history. The others are, in no particular order, “Good Vibrations“, “Be My Baby” and “Let’s Spend The Night Together” (though Bowie’s version of the latter is the worst pop song in history).

Every day is yours to win

I think I might’ve inadvertently dumped a half spoonful of salt in my coffee this morning, making for an inauspicious but by no means insurmountable start to a day I will otherwise grab by the balls and make my bitch.

This is how I see it happening, anyway – which would mean I don’t bungle my interview with the former prez of the ABA, I crank out a 2000-word e-zine by 6, and I drive more traffic to this well-researched, though generally narrowly defined piece of semi-genius I wrote about  the decryption of Osama bin Laden’s confiscated digital cache.

Uphill climb, no doubt. But I’m immediately reminded of R.E.M.’s expository piece of triumphant fluff “Every Day Is Yours To Win“… a by-and-large terrible excuse for a rallying cry that points me instead to any number of ass-kicking, name-taking Pearl Jam rave-ups (the best of which is, inarguably, “Given To Fly“).

If I was, say, LeBron James – who, btw, still baffles me every time he appears in insurance commercials rocking an oversized Victorian-era sweater on a 90-degree day – I’d probably hit snooze on the alarm clock, pat myself on the back, and trust the AM’s heavy-lifting to my more efficient co-workers (I’d then pound an apple, run over to the far corner of the kitchen and jack the core from 23-feet, in lieu of walking straight to the trash can).

This is not happening. Not today. And since I see no way to transition gracefully from alt-rock to shots at LJ to blog’s end, I’m cutting my losses, cutting my teeth, popping two sticks of Trident, downing these last bitter sips of milk-in-sodium and leaving you, the subject of my self-determined Tony Robbinisms, with this:

A wise man once said, “Do or do not do, there is no try.” And if Yoda (and Lindsey Buckingham) are wrong… I’m going back to bed.

The Baddest White Boy On The Planet

They called me the Round Mound of Puget Sound

Durantula know I’m the baddest white man around.

I’m the white on your rice,

the crimp in your stylo,

the fuzz on ya peach,

the wax on ya ‘cumba

the foil to yo best laid plans.

I’m 6-feet-9-inches of emeffin’ shutdown.

King Kong ain’t got nothin on me.

I got your “blocking foul” right here.

I’m on you like stink on a Gasol.

I went to the school of hard jocks.

I’m in your grill like rhinoplasty on a Jackson sibling.

They don’t pay me to score.

They don’t pay me to be sexy.

They pay me to take your sorry ass da-hown.

da-hown to chinatown.

13 million dollars says I’m the best big man on the floor.

13 million dollars says “cha-effin-ching”.

13 million dollars says 255 pounds of rock-solid charge takin’.

I am gritty.

I am scrappy.

I am  ”fundamentally sound”.

I am “intelligent.”

I am a hustler.

I am the Larry EmEffin’ Flynt of hustle.

I am the the anti-Chris Bosh.

I am the Valvoline in your Go.

Rock chalk this Jayhawk.

I dare ya.

Come thru this lane.

Come thru MY lane.

I own your low block.

I own your power forward.

I am the Surge ‘o Blocka next to

Serge Ibaka.

We are one, you and I.

Except I am bigger.

Badder.

Better.

Bulkier.

I am everything you hope to be.

Everything you dream about

In your worst nightmare.

I am 8 points, 12 boards, 3 blocks of awesome.

The assist is my kryptonite.

And I eat kryptonite for breakfast.

If there’s a wall, you want me on it.

You effin’ NEED me on it.

I bring the wood.

I bring the pain.

I take these white as wonderbread elbows

and plant them in yo mug.

I am the greatest player of all-time

in my own mind.

And my mind is the only mind that matters.

Do you see this finger?

This finger gonna have a big fat diamond ring on it

Gonna say “champion”.

Gonna say “Crazy white boy”.

Gonna say “float like a butterfly”

“Sting like a ME.”

You want KD?

You want Westy?

You go through this boy first.

This rock.

This bad mutha (“watch yo mouth”)

Numba Fo, damn straight.

Now we goin to Tay-haus.

Big D.

You see me, Dirk.

In the sheen of the hardwood.

In your REM.

In your medicine cabinet.

In your Cookie Crisp.

In your fugly jump shot.

In yo grill.

I am your equal but opposite.

I am your opposing force.

I am your antimatter.

I am your black hole.

Or should I say,

Your “white hole”.

I am Nick Collison.

‘Lil Nicky.

Nicky C.

NC Money.

Silk Da Blocka.

Emcee EnCee.

The Baddest

The Boldest

The most Chocolaty White

Mass of basketball playin

Front-court Thunder

You’ve ever seen.

And I am,

Straight up,

No questions asked

The Zee.

Bo.

Stoppa.

Friday Night Sports: A Paradoxical Dilemma

target audience

Or, “How ESPN Is an Attritional Purgatory”

There are two kinds of people and two kinds of people only: those who are willing to sacrifice a Friday night to televised sports viewing and those who are not.

Now it stands to reason that as one ages – and particularly when one reaches the legal drinking age – the prospect of watching Jon Barry and Mike Jones narrate an NBA showcase pitting LaMarcus Aldridge against Monta Ellis loses much of its discretionary appeal and, thus, a significant portion of its young male audience.

This seems especially true of the second game of a Friday night double-header, wherein the latter program exhausts its marginal utility as would a second bulletproof vest or bowl Corn Flakes. Yet, in addition to age, a number of other life circumstances factor in to whether or not one will pledge this particular allegiance to the 9:15 tip-off of, say, Grizz-Thunder. Work environs are chief among these, as a grueling five-day stretch of clusterf*cks and paper-pushing could very well render the blue-collar knowledge worker a comatose couch potato come game time… Though, lest they be overlooked, friends, fandom, television size, home aesthetics and pizza all play a role as well.

Given said variables, we may reasonably assume that Friday night sports viewing appeals to three select, predominantly-heterosexual male camps: the adolescent sports junkie (i.e. The 6th Grade Me), the wedded breadwinner and, of course, the avowed fans of the teams involved.

And yet, there I was just last night, plugged into 52 high-definition inches of Memphis-OKC – a competitive event I’d liken to, in lesser superhero terms, Sabertooth v. Nightcrawler – whittling away my valuable hours of freedom as my best friend took out his alleged sleepiness on a 14-inch thin crust. I’m subsequently led to believe that all mid-to-late night broadcasts on ESPN and its offshoot networks work simply as exercises in attritional limbo, sustaining themselves ratings-wise by drawing in a fourth group of potential viewers: the weak-willed paralysist who would very much like to spend his night drinking downtown, but has been consumed against his will by a vortex of mitigating factors (contiguous apathy, lazy acquaintances and cheap pseudo-thrills, principally).

Presumably the higher minds at ESPN have already, in their shadowy marketing lairs, pegged this last group as the media behemoth’s bread and butter – that which, from an eyeballs standpoint, sets the Worldwide Leader apart from the hardly consequential likes of Fox SportsNet and Versus. The more interesting question, though – especially from an advertiser’s perspective – relates to the state of the four distinct viewerships. Namely, do Disney executives realize that only two of these, the adolescent and fan contingents, actually retain consciousness through an event’s entirety?

I bowed out after the third quarter. Philip had eaten himself into indifference minutes earlier. And so I ask: Gillette must know sixth graders and shaggy Oklahomans don’t buy razors…

Right?

Casual Friday

hahaha... suck it.

In which I write everything on my mind in the time allotted.

I had no idea Heat-Celtics was for the Larry O’Brien Trophy – that sign of champion LeBron metaphorically waved over his head after dispatching his broken second-round opponent. I bet you Derrick Rose is thinking the same thing. So my question is: when the Bulls drop the Heat in six, will the Angel of Stern honor both teams’ East title? Is Chicago just playing for consolation at this point? How does this work?

I’ll say this for LeBron – if I had zero college education, I’d probably still act like a high school senior as well, and a less dapperly dressed one at that.

On a related note, I fucking put Don Draper to shame this morning. Calvin Klein ultra slim fit FTMFW.

still a little groggy

Speaking of confusing acronyms and their biggest proponents, please read “50 Things You Should Know About Washington State” by internet sensation Kyle Rancourt… and try to ignore the fact that a good two-thirds of them mention the word “rain”. Seriously, though, have you been to Seattle? It has a everything a man like me could ever want and/or need: fresh seafood, grungy hipsters, affordable boutique coffee, a f*ckload of excellent record stores, great beer, and Pearl Jam. On the down side, approximately 1 out of every 3 people hang themselves from a ceiling fan before the age of 22.

As I write, my father is watching a replay of Sharks-Wings. Much like a fair weather soccer fan, he becomes a semi-crazed octopus-waver come every meaningful game 7. Have a heart and don’t tell him what happens.

Last night, my friends went to the ATL without me. Did I die a little inside as I drifted to sleep pre-11 p.m.? Sure. But am I glad they’re still having fun in The GV without me? No, not really.

Moving on, after much deliberation, I’ve concluded that the three best conquer-the-day songs to blast in your car while hauling ass down US1 are, in order, “Hummer” by the Smashing Pumpkins, “The Old Showstoppers” by the New Pornographers, and “Born To Run” by The Boss. The worst is anything by Procol Harum.

And finally, I’m carrying a to-be-delivered large sum of money in my back pocket. I’ve been directed by a higher authority to relay said sum to a prominent banker across the street. The check is for Hurricanes season tickets, but I still feel like a crack dealer: addicted to that which will eventually destroy my heart and shatter my dreams. At least dealers don’t have to trek to fucking Broward to watch a football game.

I love you all. Please donate to my Internet slush fund so I can quit my job and offer consistently excellent, consistently intelligent, deliriously witty SC commentary on the reg. Until then, go ‘Canes.

Robert J. Hilson, Esq. III