A distressing incident from this afternoon:
Me (walking into the room): So, the White Sox got Griffey today. Kind of scary...
12-year-old brother: Who?
Me (figuring he didn't hear me the first time): Ken Griffey, Junior.
Him: Who the hell is that?
Has it really come to this? Children not knowing who Ken Griffey, Jr. is until they see a picture of him and maybe recognize him as that one good player on the Reds? I don't know, but to me it's eerie: it was just about ten years ago (when I was his age...) that Griffey was the kind of guy that every kid had a poster of. Or at least a video game of. He was pretty much the guy, along with Sosa and McGwire. But now? Now kids under 15 have no idea who he is.
Maybe I'm naive. Ten years doesn't seem like that long ago, does it? I like to think of myself as a young person. But really, that's false. Young people have Ken Griffey Junior posters on their walls, ones that they took from Sports Illustrated for Kids.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Top Ten Songs About You
(Or, Top Ten Songs in Which the Addressee is Mentioned in the Title)
I love songs like these. For no real reason in particular. I mean, it's very true that many (if not most) songs are about someone specific, about some sort of "you." I just like titles that specifically saw it. Most of the time they are only "Baby" or "Darlin" or "Girl" or even just "You," but they're always directed towards said person. Here's a list:
(Apologies to: "You're My Best Friend," "All I Want is You," "It's All Over, Baby Blue," "A Message To You Rudy," "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?", "I Want You" (She's So Heavy AND Dylan), "I Put A Spell On You," "Hang On To Yourself," "I Got You, Babe," "I Believe In You," and the entire Matchbox 20 album "Yourself Or Someone Like You," among many others.)
10. Morrissey - "You're the One for Me, Fatty"
The first Morrissey song here. A more personal twist on "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others."
9. Caleb - "Baby Your Phrasing is Bad"
If I could find a sample of this I would post it. It's from Nuggets, so if you can imagine that then you probably get the gist of it. Great title, though, isn't it? Someone anonymous put this song on Rapidshare. I'm not sure who you are but let me know so I can give you props. Everyone should listen to this song now. Supposedly, this guy was Elton John's guitarist later, and Sir Elton is actually rumored to play on the song. I love the phasing (with the "phrasing"...ha!) and the lyrics, while hard to discern, I think go something like this: "Please try to make yourself clear / So that when you talk to me it doesn't strain my ear." Good stuff or what, eh?
8. Tokyo Police Club - "Your English Is Good"
No direct address, per say, like the previous one, but the spirit is still there. This is sort of the opposite twist on it, I guess.
7. Black Flag - "You Bet We've Got Something Against You"
There's a 30 second sound clip that only has the chorus but luckily, the chorus is the best part of the song. It goes, no joke: "You bet that I've got something personal against you!" He doesn't even really sing it, he just kinda says it. I imagine this would be good fighting music.
6. The Magnetic Fields - "Fido, Your Leash Is Too Long"
Maybe the ultimate diss track about an unnamed person.
5. The Smiths - "William, It Was Really Nothing"
The other Morrissey song on the list. Supposedly about a guy named Billy Mackenzie from another British band called The Associates. They, in turn, recorded a response song called "Stephen, You're Really Something." Kinda lame, really.
4. Led Zeppelin - "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You"
Probably the most famous of all the "Baby, I'm Going To Do Whatever With You" type songs. Also, most assuredly the most cliche title out of all of them. Still iconic, though.
3. The White Stripes - "You're Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)
You can tell he wants her.
2. The Thirteenth Floor Elevators - "You're Gonna Miss Me"
I love how angry this song is, and I often wonder if the person he was singing about knows who she is. Actually, this would have been number one, if not for the fact that the next one exists...
1. Don Caballero - "Let's Face it Pal, You Didn't Need That Eye Surgery"
It doesn't have any lyrics so it's basically just an awesome title, but still, isn't this the greatest title ever?
I love songs like these. For no real reason in particular. I mean, it's very true that many (if not most) songs are about someone specific, about some sort of "you." I just like titles that specifically saw it. Most of the time they are only "Baby" or "Darlin" or "Girl" or even just "You," but they're always directed towards said person. Here's a list:
(Apologies to: "You're My Best Friend," "All I Want is You," "It's All Over, Baby Blue," "A Message To You Rudy," "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?", "I Want You" (She's So Heavy AND Dylan), "I Put A Spell On You," "Hang On To Yourself," "I Got You, Babe," "I Believe In You," and the entire Matchbox 20 album "Yourself Or Someone Like You," among many others.)
10. Morrissey - "You're the One for Me, Fatty"
The first Morrissey song here. A more personal twist on "Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others."
9. Caleb - "Baby Your Phrasing is Bad"
8. Tokyo Police Club - "Your English Is Good"
No direct address, per say, like the previous one, but the spirit is still there. This is sort of the opposite twist on it, I guess.
7. Black Flag - "You Bet We've Got Something Against You"
There's a 30 second sound clip that only has the chorus but luckily, the chorus is the best part of the song. It goes, no joke: "You bet that I've got something personal against you!" He doesn't even really sing it, he just kinda says it. I imagine this would be good fighting music.
6. The Magnetic Fields - "Fido, Your Leash Is Too Long"
Maybe the ultimate diss track about an unnamed person.
5. The Smiths - "William, It Was Really Nothing"
The other Morrissey song on the list. Supposedly about a guy named Billy Mackenzie from another British band called The Associates. They, in turn, recorded a response song called "Stephen, You're Really Something." Kinda lame, really.
4. Led Zeppelin - "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You"
Probably the most famous of all the "Baby, I'm Going To Do Whatever With You" type songs. Also, most assuredly the most cliche title out of all of them. Still iconic, though.
3. The White Stripes - "You're Pretty Good Looking (For A Girl)
You can tell he wants her.
2. The Thirteenth Floor Elevators - "You're Gonna Miss Me"
I love how angry this song is, and I often wonder if the person he was singing about knows who she is. Actually, this would have been number one, if not for the fact that the next one exists...
1. Don Caballero - "Let's Face it Pal, You Didn't Need That Eye Surgery"
It doesn't have any lyrics so it's basically just an awesome title, but still, isn't this the greatest title ever?
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Mr. C Montgomory Burns; net worth $8.4 million
I have no idea how they calculate this, but somehow Forbes Magazine has come up with the top 15 richest fictional characters ever. My question: why is Mario even on this list (at least, he has been before) and not someone like Lex Luther is beyond me. And who the fuck is Ming the Merciless?
Monday, June 23, 2008
"...missile launchers hover in glowing light"
...ask yourself a few straightforward questions: Do you want to go outside and steal a car? Do you feel the need to obtain a missile launcher? Do you feel like having sex with a stripper? Or, to more accurately represent the sort of reasoning involved in media-effects claims, do you feel that having sex with a stripper is now a real possibility for you?
You need to be honest with yourself. Go outside and find a locked car — or go to the back alley where missile launchers hover in a glowing light waiting for you to pick them up, or go drive down that street in your town where all the strippers hang out waiting for you to pick them up — and see if you're tempted.
The Chronicle has a great article today on Grand Theft Auto and the effects of other "explicit media" on our society.
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Side of the Barn, at Midnight
"None of them knew the color of the sky."
-S. Crane, 'The Open Boat' (1894)
It's funny, living with light. You don't notice it when you're in them, but cities take a toll on the sky. Hillsdale might be a "hick town" but at least you can see the lights, however faintly, on the horizon. Jackson, Michigan. Hoo, boy. Sure, it's no Detroit or even Ann Arbor but it's comforting, those lights on the horizon. The only problem is, they taint the color of the sky.
Up North, you can actually see the color of the sky, and all the constellations. But suburban kids usually can't tell Orion's Belt from the Gemini Twins or the Sundlandic Twins or the Odd Couple, so it doesn't quite matter.
But hey, still. Stars. Natural light. No streetlights even. Can't see much of anything (but nothing to see anyway). You can hear dogs barking aimlessly and wonder why they bark. The only movement is the sound of your footsteps walking out the front door. The dogs are out back.
Country dogs have better noses, do they?, you mindlessly think to yourself, for some reason wanting to prove to them that they don't.
Getting around back proves more of a chore than you'd think. The grass is separated from the dirt driveway by about 3 inches so you lose your footing but don't quite fall, the dirt (more like sand, really) just engulfs the insides of your ripped sneakers and dirties your socks a little. You've been wearing them for two days already so they stick to your feet as you impossibly attempt to sneak into the backyard.
The dogs are caged in a short chain-link pen, and they seem to notice nothing as you crouch and watch from behind the car. They pant and sniff each other, you can barely make out their figures silhouetted in front of the barn. It casts a long shadow. In the daylight it's a dark crimson, but now it blends to the trees as everything does in total darkness.
You lean on the car, back to the pen, and look up again, vainly trying to find the Big Dipper. It's approaching midnight, you guess. No sense in rushing. There's nothing to do tomorrow. Nothing to do from now on - it's all like the side of that barn at night, blank and black.
Anything, you think, anything could happen. I can do ANYTHING I want tomorrow.
This has been true for weeks, but this "wilderness" makes it more apparent.
You hop up, light the cigarette that you originally came out for, and again try and beat those dogs at their own game. A dumb idea since the beginning, you realize, but invigorating nonetheless. You're doing something, yet doing nothing at the same time. Kind of like seeing something with nothing to see. (Or was it nothing and nothing? - you forget in the heat of the adrenaline rush.)
The dogs have quieted now, and you see your chance. You nimbly run on the tips of your toes to the barn, just around the corner from the pen. They're both sitting, licking at themselves. You take a long last drag and throw the butt into the void, then veer into a crouching run.
No signs of movement from the dogs, they still lie on their back paws, you decide to complete the run with a leap over the fence. An almost perfect execution, except the rip in your jeans snags at the last minute and you fall flat on your face.
By this point the dogs are already over you. They knew what was coming. A few licks and your face dampens.
A humiliating idea, you think. Who would do something this juvenile?
The dogs lick some more, your leg hurts, and there's no place for your pride in the pen.
Why were you allowed even to think about doing that? Why did you think you could win? This is their domain, you think, and I am trespassing. Why was I even allowed to see sand and trees and dogs?
There was no real chance of your success.
After a time - probably seconds, but a dog's tongue is known to distort reality - you dust yourself off and walk back to the house. The kitchen light's still on, and she's reading in the living room.
'Long cigarette?'
'Yeah.'
'You're filthy.'
'Yeah, those dogs are really dumb. They must've thought I was someone else.'
She goes back to her book. You stare into the single reading light, then back outside. You hear the sound of her parents rustling upstairs, music from her brother's room, and then the horns of a semi as it passes the small farmhouse.
Soon, the lights go out and the only thing you can see is Orion's Belt. There's nothing else to see.
-S. Crane, 'The Open Boat' (1894)
It's funny, living with light. You don't notice it when you're in them, but cities take a toll on the sky. Hillsdale might be a "hick town" but at least you can see the lights, however faintly, on the horizon. Jackson, Michigan. Hoo, boy. Sure, it's no Detroit or even Ann Arbor but it's comforting, those lights on the horizon. The only problem is, they taint the color of the sky.
Up North, you can actually see the color of the sky, and all the constellations. But suburban kids usually can't tell Orion's Belt from the Gemini Twins or the Sundlandic Twins or the Odd Couple, so it doesn't quite matter.
But hey, still. Stars. Natural light. No streetlights even. Can't see much of anything (but nothing to see anyway). You can hear dogs barking aimlessly and wonder why they bark. The only movement is the sound of your footsteps walking out the front door. The dogs are out back.
Country dogs have better noses, do they?, you mindlessly think to yourself, for some reason wanting to prove to them that they don't.
Getting around back proves more of a chore than you'd think. The grass is separated from the dirt driveway by about 3 inches so you lose your footing but don't quite fall, the dirt (more like sand, really) just engulfs the insides of your ripped sneakers and dirties your socks a little. You've been wearing them for two days already so they stick to your feet as you impossibly attempt to sneak into the backyard.
The dogs are caged in a short chain-link pen, and they seem to notice nothing as you crouch and watch from behind the car. They pant and sniff each other, you can barely make out their figures silhouetted in front of the barn. It casts a long shadow. In the daylight it's a dark crimson, but now it blends to the trees as everything does in total darkness.
You lean on the car, back to the pen, and look up again, vainly trying to find the Big Dipper. It's approaching midnight, you guess. No sense in rushing. There's nothing to do tomorrow. Nothing to do from now on - it's all like the side of that barn at night, blank and black.
Anything, you think, anything could happen. I can do ANYTHING I want tomorrow.
This has been true for weeks, but this "wilderness" makes it more apparent.
You hop up, light the cigarette that you originally came out for, and again try and beat those dogs at their own game. A dumb idea since the beginning, you realize, but invigorating nonetheless. You're doing something, yet doing nothing at the same time. Kind of like seeing something with nothing to see. (Or was it nothing and nothing? - you forget in the heat of the adrenaline rush.)
The dogs have quieted now, and you see your chance. You nimbly run on the tips of your toes to the barn, just around the corner from the pen. They're both sitting, licking at themselves. You take a long last drag and throw the butt into the void, then veer into a crouching run.
No signs of movement from the dogs, they still lie on their back paws, you decide to complete the run with a leap over the fence. An almost perfect execution, except the rip in your jeans snags at the last minute and you fall flat on your face.
By this point the dogs are already over you. They knew what was coming. A few licks and your face dampens.
A humiliating idea, you think. Who would do something this juvenile?
The dogs lick some more, your leg hurts, and there's no place for your pride in the pen.
Why were you allowed even to think about doing that? Why did you think you could win? This is their domain, you think, and I am trespassing. Why was I even allowed to see sand and trees and dogs?
There was no real chance of your success.
After a time - probably seconds, but a dog's tongue is known to distort reality - you dust yourself off and walk back to the house. The kitchen light's still on, and she's reading in the living room.
'Long cigarette?'
'Yeah.'
'You're filthy.'
'Yeah, those dogs are really dumb. They must've thought I was someone else.'
She goes back to her book. You stare into the single reading light, then back outside. You hear the sound of her parents rustling upstairs, music from her brother's room, and then the horns of a semi as it passes the small farmhouse.
Soon, the lights go out and the only thing you can see is Orion's Belt. There's nothing else to see.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
There can be only one
I enjoy the fact that these commercials for the NBA Playoffs are so good and so popular (according to this article, they're directed by the same guys who directed Little Miss Sunshine) that now Time
has taken to ripping them off.
T-Mac/ Rip:
B-Rock/ H-Rod:
My only problem is, I have yet to see one with a Pistons player on the television. I mean, today I saw one that featured Peja freakin' Stojakavic! The man's first language isn't even English! I wanna see one that shows a split screen of 'Sheed with, say...Ben Wallace. That'd be pretty fucking sweet. It will never happen, seeing as how 'Sheed hates everyone (and the media doesn't like talking about the Pistons...the other day Sportscenter had 15 mins of Lakers/ Jazz coverage and maybe 5 of Pistons/ Magic).
I plan on posting on here more often. More literary things, perhaps. I just keep getting lazy. Sorry.
has taken to ripping them off.
T-Mac/ Rip:
B-Rock/ H-Rod:
My only problem is, I have yet to see one with a Pistons player on the television. I mean, today I saw one that featured Peja freakin' Stojakavic! The man's first language isn't even English! I wanna see one that shows a split screen of 'Sheed with, say...Ben Wallace. That'd be pretty fucking sweet. It will never happen, seeing as how 'Sheed hates everyone (and the media doesn't like talking about the Pistons...the other day Sportscenter had 15 mins of Lakers/ Jazz coverage and maybe 5 of Pistons/ Magic).
I plan on posting on here more often. More literary things, perhaps. I just keep getting lazy. Sorry.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
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