Plagerism

Reebok's new sneaker commercial sounds awfully familiar, no?

Unfortunately, this is not the first time a sneaker company has ripped off aspects of rock and roll culture to sell its wares.

Reflections on my job

Gary Cartwright, 1969 in Harper's:

Still, ethics is a nebulous question to a profession that has never really defined its purpose. To report? To expose? To speculate? To entertain? To criticize? To subsist and endure? A good sportswriter does it all. I do not know a sportswriter who would accept, say, one hundred dollars to print something he did not believe.

Also:

Many times I put out the paper alone. All the sportswriters did. We staggered in, tore the night’s run of copy from the United Press machine, selected the stories according to the page dummies supplied by the advertising department, assigned headlines and wrote them, clipped box scores and other trivia from the morning Star Telegram, selected pictures and sent them to the engravers, made up the cutlines, then hurried to the composing room where a printer named Max would be waiting to change everything. Like Charley, Max was a professional. All he ever said was, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

We survived on the assumption that no one read our paper anyhow. It is the same feeling you get on a college newspaper or on mind-expanding drugs. There are no shackles on the imagination; there is no retreat, only attack. One of my jobs was to make up little “brights” or boxes:

John Doughs made a hole-in-one yesterday at Glen Lakes Country Club when a snake swallowed his tee shot, a dog swallowed the snake, and an eagle carried off the dog, dropping him in the cup after colliding head on with a private plane flown by Doughs’s maternal twin.

We went heavy on the irony. Under these circumstances you might think we. got a lot of letters to the editor, but I don’t remember any.

-from "Confessions of a Washed-Up Sportswriter" by Gary Cartwright. Required reading for all sportswriters (and journalists, for that matter). In this book, which is well worth getting.

No Love Lost

The description to this video says simply "smoking is cool." And, really, I must agree. Only Don Draper makes smoking look cooler.

Composure

More photos here.

Dear Yo La Tengo...

Dear Yo La Tengo,

Please record an album filled with nothing but wordless instrumental noise jams like this one. I will listen to it every day.

Love,

Jack

Say You Miss Me?

Quickly, relating a dream I had last night:

First, in Hillsdale. Sunny. I think I was in art class. Not sure why. So this is going on normally enough.

Then, cyborgs. And lasers. No idea where they come from, or why, but good old Hillsdale College melts away to reveal a dystopian nightmare of steel, machinery and holograms. Some sort of combination of Blade Runner and TRON.

At one point, I shoot a double-barreled laser gun at some ominous television screen, nicking a Big Brother robot through both its eyes and somehow frying its circuits through the screen.

I woke up at some point after this.

Playing on continuous repeat through this whole ordeal— through Hillsdale, during the great cyborg/ android rebellion, and right up to the point where I killed the Big Brother stand-in robot— was "Say You Miss Me" by Wilco.

I would try and deconstruct this but I really have no answers. Mostly just a question: Does Wilco support or reject the pending android rebellion?

Zen?