Short Story for the Helluvit

I have a strong disliking for people who wear baseball caps backwards.

Not that I, myself, haven’t at some point turned an otherwise normal cap and spun it backwards, of course. That’d just be silly. No, some drastic situations can call for the brim to be forced in this unnatural directon. For example, wearing a baseball cap the way it was intended while hammering a small nail in the dark would be immensely more difficult than hammering the same nail with the cap flipped around, therefore not blocking your vision anymore than the aforementioned dark you’d be standing in while hammering. Of course, why you’d hammer in the dark I haven’t the foggiest of ideas. But if you had a backwards cap on then, I wouldn’t call you on it.

So, maybe just by chance, the asshole wearing the backwards Philadelphia Phillies cap sitting five people to the left of me at this bar is doing some well trained research into the mysterious lives of night hammerers. Either that, or he was just a regular asshole. Which would actually be a little disappointing now that I’ve established that there’s at least a microscopic chance that the young gentlemen could be establishing the basis for a character for some great movie roll about nailing shit with the lights off.

I’d watch that movie.

It was around this point I realized that I was casting stones regarding somebody’s barroom wardrobe choices, when in fact I was wearing a $550 black, pinstriped tailored suit I’d picked up in Needham that day in the middle of a dreary college bar.

I suppose the asshole with the backwards Philadelphia Phillies hat sticks out like a thumbprint on a doorknob compared to the bigger asshole wearing a suit inside of a bar.

Whatever. The suit was part of the plan. So what if I look like my wedding party forgot me at a dive bar in Worcester for some reason?

The suit was part of the plan.

Here’s what I’d gathered from sitting at the bar inside of a place that called itself “ShamRoks” for the past hour and a half:

1.) Phillies cap asshole’s real name was Mitch. He had a torrid love affair with the words “guy,” “dude,” and “bro.” He smelled like Fritos.
2.) Amongst the four people in their drinking party, two of which were of the female persuasion, Mitch was the only one without a significant other. I know. I was surprised too.
3.) At some point in the foreseeable future, they were going to get “fuckin’ high, bro.” The time-table on that was a little fuzzy, mostly because, as far as I could tell, they were already pretty fucking high.

While it would have been nice to focus on anybody else at ShamRoks for the one and a half hours I’d wasted my life there, I unfortunately had limited other choices. There were literally only three other people in the entire 30x40 closet they called a bar. And one of those was the sleepy eyed, fully bearded bartender who specifically referred to himself as “Blob” and wore an expression that screamed either “I want to go home now” or “I want to go home now and stab myself in the neck with a shrimp fork.”

Conversation pieces, these people were not.

As I contemplated asking Blob the origins of his nickname (perhaps Shakespeare?) a cold burst of air exploded into the building from behind me, sending instant shivers up the spines of anybody unlucky enough to stand it its way. The man left in the doorway was roughly 6’4 and 230 pounds of sirloin steak compacted into a human mold. Clearly balding, he had obviously intentionally cut his hair into a military cut to really hammer home that “I’m Tougher Than You, Want to Compare Cock Sizes?” look that probably consumed at least 30% of his free time. The Human Steak took long strides across the right side of the bar and sat down at a free stool in the corner. Despite the lack of people to impress, The Steak did his best to flex through his two-sizes-too-small white t-shirt when he draped his arms on the bar.

This guy had entered the bar like a sergeant entering the barracks, and nobody had so much as flinched. Either he was a bad mother fucker, or everyone here knew this asshole already.

Then it hit me.

Oh, what the fuck? I didn’t even have to ask. Blob beat me to the punch.

“What’ll it be Andy?” Blob stammered out in the direction of The Steak.

The steak processed the question as if Alex Trebek had just asked him the Daily Double. “Miller for now.” Steak eventually replied.

Of course, the man sitting down the bar from me wasn’t known as Steak. He was known by his real name: Andrew Charles Kilby Jr. Thirty-five years old, native of Shrewsbury, MA, graduate of Providence College class of 1999 with a degree in Sociology and a minor in education. Son of Andrew Charles Kilby Sr., otherwise known as the Dean of Arts and Sciences at Clark University in Worcester, MA since 1992, himself a professor of Sociology at Clark since the fall semester of 2005. No wife, no kids. Srong passion for “As Seen on TV” workout equipment and an even bigger hard-on for Ultimate Fighting Championship.

I knew who Andrew Charles Kilby was because I was supposed to be watching him tonight. I knew who he was because he had been harassing a twenty year old Clark junior named Katie Holstein for the better part of three months, and I was supposed to send the message tonight that unwanted groping from a professor did not equal college credits for Katie.

My problem now lied with Katie’s mom. Katie’s mom being the one who had lied to me about who, or more problematically, what Andrew Charles Kilby was. In the photograph Sandra Holstein Macklin gave to me during out last meeting, the man, affectionately known as “Andy” to his buddies, was a short, sawed-off pile of chins and belly weight no younger than forty-five. Either Katie’s mom had lied to me, or Andy Kilby had discovered the greatest fucking diet pill known to man and was keeping it a secret from the rest of the world.

I fumbled to my cell phone in my left pocket and dropped it on the bar in front of me next to the nearly empty glass of Sam Winter Lager. Not one for making a scene, outside of the tailored suit in a bar anyway, I found Sandra Holstein Macklin’s name and text messaged her:

ANDY KILBY. NOT WHO I THOUGHT HE WAS. WTF?

Two minutes later, my phone buzzed back at me:

SRY. DIDNT THINK YOUD TAKE CASE OR BELIEVE KATE.

No point in arguing that. I probably wouldn’t have believed Katie Holstein was against fooling around with a professor if I’d known he looked like an American Gladiator. No offense to Katie Holstein, but she’s a total whore. Everyone knew that. Even me. And I’d never even met the girl.

It was a Thursday night. Katie’s mother had informed me that her daughter spent Thursday evenings at a place called ShamRoks after the sun went down on Worcester. She apparently pieced that information together from drunken pictures Katie had posted on her Facebook page during the previous semester. I wondered out loud at the time why in God’s name a 20 year old girl would be “friends” with her Mom on Facebook, but all I got was The Evil Eye. So I backed off.

Katie had accused Andy Kilby of stalking her and making lewd and unwanted advances during her time in his class. Being a political science major, Katie apparently felt her grades hinged on not upsetting a man who’s father was the overseer of her particular program.

Instead, she went to her mother who in turn came to me.

And now here I am, wearing a suit, standing slightly taller than a cardboard cutout of Betty White, faced with a potential confrontation with a walking oak tree.

Not ten minutes after Kilby entered the bar, Katie and another young female burst in from the cold as well. Both were dressed in what I guess could be called “Club” attire, even though they were just going to a shithole like ShamRoks on a Thursday night. The friend wore a loose fitting purple blouse, diving past her shoulders into a V at her breasts, skin tight black pants, and knee high suede boots. Though not unattractive, Katie would be deemed “The Pretty One” upon viewing the duo. Shorter than her friend, maybe 5’3, Katie Holstein wore a pink and blue striped dressed that barely reached the bottom of her ass. When it ended, it was met by black leggings that covered her the rest of the way. Unnaturally chestnut hair swept over one ear and down to shoulder length. She was most predominately wearing an unsatisfied frown aimed at her blonde better half.

Katie’s friend immediately dragged her across the bar directly to the two seats surrounding Andy Kilby. Katie refused eye contact and the embrace of a hand on her shoulder from Kilby, while the friend giggled and clawed at the man’s left arm. Kilby seemed none to satisfied with the advances of Katie’s friend, as he had his own version of prime rib sitting on his other side.

I sat and watched this Olympic exercise in awkward flirtation as Kilby attempted to converse with Katie, with all the charm and facial expressions of a constipated cobra. The friend laughed loudly at all of his jokes and insights, while Katie monitored her cell phone and the TV airing a college basketball game to her right. As the conversation plowed ahead, I began feeling better about my chances of not being turned into a well tailored hamburger patty by the end of the night. I mean, Andy Kilby wouldn’t be foolish enough to make advances on Katie with her friend right there.

I assumed.

Frustrated by his failure, and his balls clearly a shade of blue that would make Papa Smurf blush, Kilby abruptly stood up and swung his jacket over his shoulders, removing a pack of Marlboro lights from the pocket. His disgustedly announced he was going to go out for a smoke. An effort to rethink his game plan. Before he could hit the door, Katie’s friend smiled at her, whispered something, then took off for the door behind him.

Halfway done with another beer, slightly buzzed, and a trifle unprepared for Kilby’s exit, I had my opportunity to save Katie Holstein from her predicament.

I threw my suit jacket on and walked to Katie’s end of the bar with my beer in hand. She was focused on the TV again, and mentally in another universe far from the rest of us.

“Where’d Captain America head off to?” I asked, taking Kilby’s seat next to her.

I expected her to be startled, but she wasn’t. She turned and locked icy green eyes with mine. They rose a little. I had peaked her interest at least.

She sarcastically grinned and gestured to the door. “Went out for a smoke with my friend. Cigarettes aren’t for me. Plus, it’s fucking freezing outside.”

I shot a glance at the window to the sidewalk. Kilby was already burning down his smoke.

Act fast.

I settled into the seat. “Me neither. Those things will put you in an early grave. Just booze for me. If I’m going to die, I don’t want to remember why.”

She chuckled and gave my suit a once over.

“What’s with the suit? Are you a professor or something?”

I looked down at myself and acted surprised. “Nope, nope, nope. Just coming from a get together with some…uh….friends and felt the urge to drop in for a drink. Not exactly the kind of friends that inspire feelings of sunshine and bunny rabbits, you know?”

She looked out the window at her now friend, who had attached herself to Kilby’s chest.

“Yup.” She paused, “I know. Well, it’s a very nice suit.”

“Thanks. Nice to meet someone who appreciates a nice suit. Even if it’s being worn in a place like this.”

She chuckled again and took a sip of the cocktail in front of her.

“What can I say…I love a man in a suit.”

See. Told you the suit was all part of the plan.

The door kicked open and Kilby entered with Katie’s friend at his side, tucked warmly under his right bicep. At some point in the last three minutes, he’d grown quite fond of the friend was now smiling a resigned “I guess I’ll have sex with you instead” smile. That was, until he saw me sitting on his stool.

Marching over, he loomed over me casting a shadow that I could swear made the room colder. He took off the coat, placed in on the bar, and folded his arms at me. Yes, he was folding them at me, I swear to God.

“Your sitting in my chair, friend.”

I kept my focus on Katie, who’s face had become flush and aggravated.

“Didn’t see a name plate on it, pal. All I saw was this beautiful young lady left alone while her friend left with Jose Canseco to bum a smoke, leaving me with a nice warm, open seat.”

He smiled at me and flexed a bit more.

“Leave.”

I smiled back.

“No.”

I told myself what was going to happen next was also part of the plan, but it didn’t really help when Kilby’s fist actually connected with the side of my face, sending me flying off the stool and through Katie Holstein. Through the ringing in my ear, and the still faint sound of Dick Vitale screaming about the basketball game, I heard Katie plead for Kilby to leave me alone. She said something about the suit too, I think. But that’s only speculation.

He didn’t leave me alone. In fact, he did the opposite. I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt and jacket, lifting me off the dirty linoleum.

Sucking wind and a little unsure about whether or not I was standing or he was holding me, I caught his eyes this time.

“Jeez, Andy. From the sound of it, doesn’t sound like the young lady likes you very much. You give her an F or something?”

Another closed fist, this time to the stomach, sending the wind soaring out of me and a fist shape bruise to appear where pale skin used to be.

I exhaled, just to see if I could. “Maybe you gave her an F because she wouldn’t give you one, eh Hercules?”

“Call me Andy, motherfucker? I don’t fucking know you and you don’t fucking know me. When I say leave, you leave. When I say shut the fuck up, you better close your fucking mouth.”

On the word “mouth” he jackhammered another fist into the exact same spot as the last. Classic bully move…hitting the same spot twice. I swear, my older sister used to do the same thing to me.

However, there was good news: I wasn’t on the ground anymore. The bad news was I was fairly certain now that he was just holding me up like I was a kitten and he was my den mother. In the background there was more pleading from Katie, and now Blob had shuffled over from his perch to see the action. Katie’s friend, meanwhile, seemed mighty pleased by the entire ordeal.

“Fucking guy think’s he’s a fucking comedian.” He laughed, his neck throbbing with every reverberation. “I’ll show you something to fucking laugh about.”

A closed fist reared back from his head and connected square with my jaw half a second later. A pool of blood had started to form in my mouth and my neck suddenly felt like it was being held together by rubber bands and toothpicks.

“That wasn’t that funny.” I managed, spitting blood back up into Kilby’s face. “You must watch a lot of Dane Cook.”

Closed fist number two to the face. This one caught three of five knuckles under the eye, narrowly, and thankfully, missing my nose.

“I guess I see your angle, Andy,” I gummed, trying to get a feel for how many teeth I may have been missing, “I mean, if a twenty year old student of mine didn’t want my dick even when I tried to force her on it, I’d be fairly pissed too, I suppose. Then again…is there even anything left down there, Andy? I’ve seen those steroid commercials with the shrinking balls and stuff. I read that book about Jason Giambi and Barry Bonds. There’s got to be truth to that stuff, right?”

I braced for another fist. This time, nothing came at me.

I peeked out from two closed eyes. By some grace of God, Kilby had let go of me.

Suddenly, I was feeling pretty god damned tough.

…Then I noticed he had left me to make acquaintances with a beat up pool cue from the billiards table under the big TV. He didn’t break it in two like in the movies. He just kind of held it like a lightsaber or something.

Managing to stagger to two feet, thanks in small part to the support of Katie’s shoulder, I raised my hands up to Andy Kilby.

The gentle “Don’t Knock My Face Off” Look.

“Take it outside, Andy” Blob said, I assume to himself because Kilby wasn’t paying much attention. “I don’t need Sully to see this place blood stained in the morning ‘cause some dumb asshole took your fucking stool, dude.”

And then, Andy glanced at Blob and shifted his weight.

Leaving my feet, I dropkicked the inside of Andy Kilby’s right kneecap, bringing him down to ground level and sending a jolt of electric pain through his body. Next, my elbow shot upwards in the area I knew would either be the bridge of Kilby’s nose, or his neck and chin depending on which way his head was pointing. Gauging by the crack and the sharp sting of pain that ran through my arm, I wagered it to be the former.

I jumped to my feet. Kilby still had the pool cue in his hands, supporting him as he grunted and snorted on the floor. There was a small pool of blood collecting around the lower portion of his face. A broken nose and, my guess, a severely sprained right knee.

Looking past Blob and the other horrified patrons, including the stoners and backwards cap kid, I nabbed one of the half empty beer mugs from the bar counter, throwing it down on the floor at Kilby’s hand. The result being an explosion of Miller Lite and microscopic razors digging into flesh. Kilby dropped the pool cue and gagged in pain, quickly jumping to his feet with a new found rush of adrenaline.

“Oh, shit.” Katie’s friend said, taking a half dozen steps back.

Anger, despite what some may tell you, is not a good virtue to bring to a fight unless the other person is equally angry, or completely defenseless. Anger is brought on by emotions, which cloud your judgment, impair your actions, and otherwise leave you a victim of your own mind. When in a fight, like say the one Andy Kilby and I were currently engaged in, a rapid change from Bruce Banner to The Hulk doesn’t mean you turn green and wear surprisingly still in tact pants. In fact, it does the opposite. It makes you uncoordinated, jumpy, an inaccurate. Andy Kilby had just allowed his emotions to turn him into nothing more than an adrenaline blinded cartoon character.

Screaming through the blood, he lunged at me…forgetting his right leg had been incapacitated just moments earlier.

A stumble. A quick look of searing pain.

His knee buckled to the left, just a touch.

A dodge to my left, his fist missed easily. I lifted up my leg and drove it as hard as possible into the bone of his left knee.

A pop.

A scream.

Andy Kilby: down for the count. He’s lucky nobody dropped an ACME brand anvil on his head for good measure.

Katie grabbed her friend by the arm and attempted to rush past me to the door, only to be stopped by a six foot five pile of mashed potatoes that vaguely looked like a human being.

XXL Boston Red Sox jersey, head shaved to Lex Luthor proportions, and a neatly trimmed Amish beard.

I put a foot on Kilby’s head and looked up at the doorway.

“Nice to see you, Murph.” I said.

“Likewise, Lee.”

“You can let the blonde go. She’s seen enough to know it’s easier to just cheat off the kid next to you than suck a teacher off to pass a college class.”

“Damn. And all those wasted years giving up my body when I was at Amherst.”

Katie wiggled and contorted to escape the bear hug she was in, but that was about as likely as Blob moving from the stool to the exit in under three and a half hours.

“Katie,” I said, keeping an eye on Kilby, “I’m a friend. So is Rulon Gardner here. So if you’d please…”

Ten minutes later, I was standing outside explaining to Katie Holstein that we were the potential answers to her little stalking problem, and Murph was dragging the sort-of-conscious body of Andy Kilby from the bar and into the street.

“How did you know he was bothering me, and why do you care?” Katie asked.

“I know,” I started, “because I protect people. That’s my job. I care because Andrew Kilby is a bad person who was doing bad things and deserved to be punished. I’m just not the kind of person who puts people in ‘time-out, though’”

Handsome stare. A nod of the head.

I could feel Murph staring a hole through me.

“Asshole,” he was thinking.

“My associate, Mr. Hamilton here, is going to be doing a little more persuasion on the beloved professor to leave you alone. I can guarantee you that he will not be bothering you in the slightest from now on, and you can also expect to get…what grade is it you want in this class?”

“At least a C+. I mean, it’s just a gen-ed.”

I smiled. “Make it a B+ or higher, Murph.”

Murph, had already strapped Kilby’s hands together with leather cord.

“Can do boss.” He said, loudly. “Shine your shoes for yah?” He also said, slightly less loudly.

Katie pouted her thick red lips, slightly chapped from the cold air. She bundled herself into her hood.

“You’re not going to kill him or anything, are you?”

We both looked at Murph, squatting over Kilby’s body.

“No, Katie. Nobody’s getting killed tonight. We’re just going to teach Mr. Kilby a lesson in manners and maybe school him in how to treat a beautiful young lady, like yourself.”

She smirked. Why not? I was wearing the coat.

“Well…thank you. You’re a regular hero….”

She let it hang there, waiting for me to say my name.

I lied.

“Eric. Eric Betancourt. Can I offer you a ride home?”

The wind whistled through the empty street. Neon lights from a dozen fast food joints lit up the nearest major roadway, three blocks away from Clark University. Just myself, Murph, Andy Kilby, and Katie Holstein standing amongst run down three deckers and a shitty hole in the wall pub.

“Yes. If you’d give me a lift that’d be awesome. I live on Oak Grove Ave a few blocks from here. Just an apartment across from campus. Not too far away.”

I smiled and offered my arm to show her to my car. Looking over my shoulder, I made eye contact with Kilby…just before Murph grabbed him by his legs and dragged him down the ice filled corridor running between ShamRoks and the neighboring pizzeria. Then, I saw nothing.

“G’night, gentlemen.” I said, waving a hand.

“You know,” Katie said, looking up at me with hazy emerald eyes, “I love this coat. I love a guy who knows how to dress nice.”

“I know, Katie.” I said, grinning to myself, “I know.”

My Friend, The Unfrozen Cave Person

I just took on a new intern in my office a few months back, and I think it's fair to say that this young man is the closest thing to an alien I've ever met. No joke. If he came in tomorrow, ripped off his face like Edgar did in MIB, and told me he was from the Nexxulon Galaxy here to study human culture, I wouldn't flinch. I'd ask him how the weather was there and if they were the mean kind of aliens like "Independence Day" or the nice kind of aliens, like from"Close Encounters" and that'd be about it.

After two months, here's what I know about this 26 year old, communications major, intern:

He doesn't know what a Republican or Democrat is. Furthermore, he doesn't know what/how senators, representatives or any other level of government function.

He doesn't watch movies, TV, or football but is eerily fascinated with the Celtics.

He does not have an email address or a home computer. In fact, it wasn't until August that he got his first cell phone.

He was unaware of the oil spill, trapped minors, or any other news story of the past year until he began interning here and was forced to hear news.

He did not know what Facebook or Twitter were until I told him in late September of this year. Still doesn't have one or completely understand why they exist.

He has no desire to go to Las Vegas, drink, gamble, or move from his couch unless it is to play basketball, work, or eat Micky D's. His girlfriend wants to do the opposite.

He has a girlfriend. Somehow he has a girlfriend.

It's been unequivocally the most bizarre two months I've ever spent with somebody. I swear to god a metor could destroy half the continental U.S. and he would still drive here for noon and say "You see that traffic outside? That's crazy, man. What's going on out there?" How could a 26 year old be so illiterate to the world?! At first, I found this predictably frustrating seeing as I work solely with computers and news...but after a while it was almost like interviewing a 26 year old from 1955, not 2010. The conversations became more poignant and I suddenly felt like I was showing the preverbial caveman what the world had become low these past 2000+ years. His questions slowly went from insultingly simple, to unintentionally astute observances about our society's dependency on information.

Why should he know how every level of government works? He enacts his right to not vote due to lack of opinion and knowledge and therefore is doing the responsible thing according to everybody else.

Why should he have an email or cell phone? He lives at home, has a land line, and rarely goes out in the first place. He likes his job and his lot in life so why attempt to alter it all the time? If he had the internet, he'd only be forcefully exposed to information he is neither seeking out nor wanting, which everybody tries to do everyday.

Why does he need to know about news anyway? He doesn't live in New Orleans, so he ain't getting drowned. Hearing about some poor bastard getting shot down in the south end of his hometown doesn't decrease his chances of getting popped in his car, so why worry himself?

His explanations are so stupidly simple, they start making sense after a while. I'm constantly questioning our reliance on media and information as a whole...and then here comes this person that literally is a walking example of what would happen if we suddenly just "shut off" in 2010. The answer is we would be a hell of a lot less world weary and socially aware, but otherwise still capable of putting on clothes and not pooping in public. The world would keep spinning, but the questions would go away. That's both a bad thing (knowing why your paycheck is being cut would be a good slice of FYI) and a good thing (wouldn't know Ashton Kutcher or Twitter to save his life. Something I think we can all agree would be awesome).

The Intern is now really feeling the pressure's of the modern world and is very awkwardly being bombarded left and right to "get with it." My relationship with him is now duplicating the storyboard of "Avatar." At first, I was totally on board with making this kid change his ways, but after time and a little perspective, I'm standing in front of him pleading with everyone else to stop spoiling his perspective on things and to just let him live in peace!

Leave him alone! He's in his natural state and you're going to contaminate him!

Is is possible to keep living like he has been his whole life? Is it socially responsible? Don't we as humans owe it to our species to evolve and embrace what is "new" and "better" for us? By locking ourselves out from all pop culture, information and news do you become dumber or just less informed? Is there even a difference?

Let's put this kid behind glass and find out.

I Shall Follow My Dreams, Nomar

When I was 12 years old, I didn't want to be a policeman. I didn't want to be an astronaut or a firetruck either. I had no aspirations of being a rapper, rock star, or roadie for Metallica. Being an army man or a lawyer or a doggy doctor was never in my cards. I spent my youth focusing on one prize:

I wanted to be Nomar Garciaparra.

And you know what? God dammit...I still have a chance.

I still have my oiled up Rawlings glove (which, ironically, had Derek Jeter's autograph on it). I still have the shaved down tennis balls I used to whip against the brick foundation in my backyard in preparation for my debut at Fenway Park. My toe tap is still as brilliant as it was 12 years ago and all these years of not being Nomar have clearly just enhanced my OCD abilities to waggle a bat, adjust by gloves, fix my gold chain, point to Jesus, then adjust my gloves again. So why not go for it? Why not do my best to be Nomar?

Am I too short? Well, at 5'8 and 160 bills, I'm exactly the same size as Dustin Pedroia so OBVIOUSLY that's not going to be an issue in today's modern age. Are my wrists to strong? Shit no! Before I take my first major league swings, of course I'd have some burly motherf***er break them to toughen me up. Hell, I haven't even gotten a haircut since July so I'm just three buckets of industrial strength cooking oil away from having the awesome, trademark pompadour. A few injections of horse testosterone and a marriage to the best female athlete of this generation I'm I'll be golden.

(Side note: Can we lie and say that Maria Sharapova is the elite athlete of this generation? I really don't want to see Diana Taurasi naked.)

I'm sick of looking back at middle school year books and laughing at how ridiculously short everybody comes to achieving their dreams! Aren't our little kid dreams so much better than our adult ones?

"Hey Johnny, what do YOU wanna be when you grow up?"

"Well, I'm thinking I'll play high school football for a few years. Make varsity, smoke a lot of pot, and forget that you have to apply to colleges to get in. From there I'll probably go to community college for a semeseter, drop out because school sucks, then work part time construction with my Uncle Manny until I knock up that chick down the street who totally has the hots for me."

Where are the lawyers and astronauts?! Shouldn't our population be overrun with veteranarians and pop singers?! Where are the short, Portuguese guys running the point for the Celtics in the NBA?!

Nuh-uh. Not me. No-siree. I'm sick of working this Monday-Friday, 45 hours a week regular working man garbage. Would Nomar Garciaparra work in radio? HELL. NO. He's too handsome to be on radio! I bet ESPN came to Nomar and said "Hey, Nomar! How'd you like to work production at our radio station in Bristol? Work behind the scenes, voice some things, and really put your nose to the....uh....ok, don't put your nose to anything. You might hurt whatever it is you've put it to." And you know what Nomar said? Screw you, ESPN! Get me on TV because that's what I want to do. I may be dopey, lack opinions, insight and apparently razor blades...but I'm Nomar Garcia-f***ing-parra!

That's why I'm heading to the batting cages tonight. I'm gonna strap on the gloves and get to swinging the bat because I won't give up on my dreams. I haven't swung a bat in five years, but I assume with age comes both power, agility, and enhanced hand-eye coordination. Bye-bye, working in local radio...I have a higher calling. Once the scouts from the Sox see me gracefully tracking down balls into into the third base gap they'll be amazed. I'll dazzle them with my ability to hit to all fields. Wait till they see me negotiate a contract too...I'll pout and frown harder than a new born without a binky. Theo will melt like freakin' butter.

All my years of hard work and number 5 jerseys are going to pay off. This time next year, I'll be the starting shortstop for YOUR Boston Red Sox.

Oh...wait a tic. I'm thumbing through my Middle School year book and apparently I wanted to be The Foo Fighers when I grew up. Oops.

I'm coming for you, Grohl.

Hot Dog Flavored Mistakes

Every generation has a "What the f*** was I thinking?!" moment. A once-every-ten-or-so-years event that at least partially explains why they grew up the way they did, and also links them to others they're own age in a "touched by the same uncle" kind of way. Sure, the positive experiences we all go through are ulimately more important to our developmental phases (the 70's had dancing, the 80's had hip-hop, the 90's had video games, etc...), but the negative stuff that we all collectively jam into the back of our brains has to play at least some role. They're like festering memories of embarassment and horror that other generations get to mock while we cower into corners trying to deny their very existence. You think people who grew up watching "Happy Days" like hearing every good thing gone bad called "jumping the shark?" Hell no! That probably eats them up inside, because that's what our generation associates with Fonzie...not his slew of sexually transmitted diseases or broken jukebox hands.

It can't be healthy to keep it in, so I'm just gonna say it outloud for everyone. Our generation's weakest, lowest, darkest point. An event we all got sucked into, probably spent money on, and have spent years pulling a Mel Gibson's Dad pretending it didn't happen. It did. And we have to look it in the eye and deal with it. Ready?

Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water.

I know, I know...I cried a little bit just having to type it. But you know what? Screw it. I'm going to own what we all should own up to.

I bought Chocolate Starfish. I looked forward to buying it. When it came out, I took 20 of my hard earned, Dunkin Donuts made dollars, and bought it. I went home with a big ass smile on my face, popped that baby into my CD player, and listened all the way through. What I, and everybody, should have done was slam my face against a wall of rusty nails then burned 20 bucks with the nearest blowtorch. But we didn't do that. We got excited about what was supposed to be the biggest album of the year and fell into a bear trap made for millions, and everybody walked away looking like they just watched their dog get run over by an oil tanker.

What made this catastrophe worse was the epic, class transcending ability Chocolate Starfish had to disappoint. Genuine rap-rock fans stood in line to get it at the same time pop-loving girls with "PINK" splashed on their asses got it. Metal heads bought into the hype and picked it up at the same time the first wave of Juggalo's did the same (side note: Juggalo's deserved this. Assclowns.) Personally, I was probably a little more attached to the early stages of emo music than I'd like to admit and I bought the crap out of Chocolate Starfish. I figured "Hey, 'N-Together Now' is a good song and 'Rearranged' was ok...let's do it!" I wasn't expecting 12 different remixes of the song "Rollin'" and other audible pieces of brown noise producing garbage. But then again, nobody was.

I should point out, up until this point, I was totally against the modern rock scene too. To this day, I will stand on firm ground and argue that Stained and Creed are the worse things to happen to rock music since rehab and condoms. I distinctly remember arguing my freshman year with two kids in $50 GAP sweatshirts why the d-bag from Stained had absolutely nothing to be so depressed about and how he was just pandering to upper-middle class white kids who thought they had social problems. And this is coming from someone who bought a Rufio CD. Don't know who Rufio is? Good for you. I really wish I felt the same.

A couple of years ago, I went rummaging through the cd rack of an old friend of mine. Like everybody else, his cd rack had more dust on it than Cloris Leachman's hoo-ha, but I was able to wipe it away to reveal an absolutely epic collection of horrible music from our youth. New Found Glory. American Hi-Fi. The cd that wasn't 14:59 by Sugar Ray. Eiffel 65. Lou Bega.

Yah. That's right. Lou Bega.

Then I found Chocolate Starfish. Seeing it's nonsensical, mushy oompa loompa cover brought back "Deer Hunter" esque flashbacks. Of all the hot garbage that was festering in that rack, this was by far the worst offender and we all knew it. So then the same argument everybody our age has had...

" Two Dollar Bill Y'all was a great CD! Then the one with Nookie on it was pretty great, too! What was I supposed to do...not buy Chocolate Starfish?!"

"Yes! Yes, you could have not bought it! You should have sold high on Enron stock, not wait until it got better! And what the f*** do you mean Two Dollar Bill Y'all was 'great' CD?! Are you retarded?!

"It was! And didn't you buy Chocolate Starfish too?"

"SHUT UP, MAN! NOT FUNNY! OK, MAYBE I DID BUT F*** YOU!"

I think it's high time we all come together, sit around the camp fire, and talk about what we endured. It's healthy to talk about it and let out all of our anger and frustration. Yeah, Stained and Creed were terrible and we can take comfort in the fact that this generation is going to have to atone for making Nickelback gazillionaires, but Chocolate Starfish was our version of Dave getting taken away by the stranger in "Mystic River:" We all saw it, we all know exactly what happened, and it's never going to go away no matter how hard we wish. Think about it...if you see a guy in a backwards, red hat....what do you want to do?

I think we can all agree that hitting him over the head with a broken bottle then ripping his face off while crying "WHY!?" is a fair answer. And that's not normal. I don't think.

Let's heal. Let's talk. Let's all of us put the past behind us and start fresh.

Let's agree that Chocolate Starfish and the Hotdog Flavored Water did happen, but it's not going to define our generation's biggest mistake. Because, as clearly stated before, that is totally the entire idea of the I.C.P.

F***ing assclowns.


(A great link on this topic: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20100824061145AAC3Dyv)

"Indie"...Why Does the Floor Move?

I'm pretty sure that (500) Days of Summer is the best movie I've seen in a few years. I saw it a few months back, after a couple of months of being unsure about it, and...per usual...I'm an idiot. In case you haven't seen it, or were like me and just heard really vague descriptions, it's a non-linear story about two smart, funny, yet completely self absorbed people who fall in love, then abrubtly break up without any particular reason. Ok...so that didn't help the vague description thing at all. It's not an anti-love story...it's just a story. A realistic look at a goofy relationship with goofy people that told it's a bold, often hysterical, cartoonish kind of way.

Naturally, this was an "indie" movie. Because that's the only kind of movie that gets made nowadays, I think.

To be honest, I'm not really sure what even constitutes being "indie" anymore. It used to be a movie that was not picked up by a major studio that had limited release. Now, major studios are picking them up but still limiting release thus making any movie that's not directed by James Cameron an "indie" movie. That's not a criticism either...I'm actually just really happy that movie studios, more than ever, appreciate that audiences are just as willing to see good movies than bad movies. Historically, "indie" movies are just better than big studio pictures that are released into every theatre on the face of the planet. That's why more people saw the last Madea movie, but not too many people saw Rachel Getting Married.

Before I get ahead of myself, I'm not going to be the douchebag dressed in all black wearing Costello glasses telling you to "appreciate" movies more. I just like good, well made movies as do most people. If you take the time to go see a lot of movies, than odds are you like well made movies too. So I don't need to play the role of snobby, art-house guy and pretend like this is new news. This too is a welcome revelation: more people just like "indie" movies. Mainly because they're easier to get to now, but also because the way technology and the medium has advanced...there's no tolerance for bad "indie" movies. Even a slightly obnoxious "indie" movie, like "Cyrus," gets pushed down because it's not perfect.

I kind of like that.

The best part of the mass marketing of "indie" movies is the effect it's had on everybody else. Big budget movies now have to keep up with compelling characters (Iron Man, Star Trek, Spider-Man 2, The Social Network, The Town, etc...) as well as high budget, crowd pleasing action and story. Gone are the days of Steven Segal getting top billing on the facade...instead, we get to be gleefully entertained by bad movies for free. It's called SyFy and it's f***ing awesome. The standards "indie" movies have brought to major cinema have quietly taken a foot-hold in the market. Major studios now want quality instead of quantity. Ok...maybe a little of both. But at least it's not just luck if a big budget movie is also well written.

In turn, this has kind of hurt the appeal of "real indie" movies, I suppose. (500) Days of Summer was really great and director Marc Webb is now manning the Spider-Man reboot, but we'll never see him direct a real, true "indie" flick again. Once more...that's not a criticism. That just means his immense talents will actually be given the time of day by studios, hopefully like what happened to David Fincher. It's only rarely now that a flick like Blue Valentine comes out and people are genuinely shocked by an "indie" picture.

Of course, Blue Valentine is only getting pub because it's rated NC-17....but still. I'm thinking people just want to see Ryan Gosling have sex with Michelle Williams but hey, whatever sells tickets.

Here's hoping to the long term success of pseudo-"indie" films continuing the pop up under the guise of major studios who are handling them better than ever.

Don't Hate the Player...

Imagine for a second that you are 18 years old. You're the typical fresh-out-of-high-school punk who just wants to mess around with girls and have a good time...only, you're also a savant at a particular craft. So gifted, in fact, that you are all but guaranteed to, at some point, be given the opportunity to perform this ability for an extremely lucrative career.

You are recruited to a college that specializes in that craft, given a full scholarship to master the craft, and are given a rather inclusive internship where you get to showcase your abilities in front of thousands of prospective employers. This is an amazing opportunity that is only enhancing the number of zeroes your first paycheck will have when college is finished.

You go to the campus store, and what do you see in the window? A big, ol' honkin' t-shirt with your smiling face on it. Thousands of students, and creepy adults, are causing the shirts to fly off the shelf. Every newspaper in the state is singing your praise for the immense amount of talent and attention you've given the school. Those t-shirts are now the highest selling item in the campus store.

And every single penny made off of your name and abilities is going to the school.

So one day, you take off your own t-shirt, sign it, and give it to the girl sitting next to you in chem. lab. She winks, you laugh, knowing that you're probably going to get laid by that girl in the very near future.

Only you've just been suspended from your internship, scolded by the school, and penalized by the state legislature because you sold your t-shirt and made a profit. You're future is ruined, your reputation tarnished, and the once free ride is now one with lots of shifty eyes. Because you attempted to cash in on your own fame, created and marketing by the school who is allowed to cash in on the same fame, you've been socially and professionally torn down.

Sound fair?

Welcome to the world of NCAA athletics, where even sports fans who don't care about major college sports know that the "system" of the NCAA is more screwed up than than Chris Johnson's teeth. Putting aside the easy target of the money grabbing, self serving joke that is the Bowl Championship Series, let's look at the way student athletes are treated: like cash cows.

By all regards, NCCA football is arguably the new "fourth major sport." The athletes are known before they even commit to a school, and once they do they are major discussions on ESPN and every other sports media around. Stadiums sell jerseys, video games are made, and other heaps of praise are showered on the players with all the revenue made off of these names and likenesses going back to the NCAA and the schools. If a student athlete, most of whom come from poor backgrounds, attempts to make a buck off of their own fame...they are suspended from their team and their reputations are dragged through the mud.

Case in point: A.J. Green, the consensus best WR in college football from Georgia. Green sold his own jersey, which was being sold for $50 in the campus store, to turn a little profit. He was suspended for six games and, in the era of "OH MY GOD!" sports journalism, got lumped in with student athletes who take booster money or accept gifts from greedy agents looking to get their feet in the door of a potential million dollar piggy bank.

I'm not in favor of paying student athletes. I think that's completely unjustified and unfair to students who are helping their campus and communities in other ways. You pay a college football player, you damn well be ready to pay engineering students while they intern as far as I'm concerned. However, it is completely unfair to disallow a student to make money, especially when the college that is admonishing them is doing the exact same thing. Call it "Do as I don't, not as I do, or else you'll be on your ass so fast your head will spin." If AJ Green or Tim Tebow or any other athlete can't make money on their own fame, then neither should the NCAA. No more jerseys or video games or ESPN shows. No more BCS bowl games and multi-million dollar TV deals for conferences or underhanded money grabbing for out of conferences games that will demand hundreds of thousands in TV ad money.

If the NCAA is allowed to blatantly make money off of their athletes...then the athletes should get to make money from playing in the NCAA.

God Dammit I Love YouTube

This video has 834 views. I account for probably a little over half of those. Why does YouTube exist? Because if it didn't, I would have never have seen this guy's facial expression.

Music and I(pod)

I have a tough time with music.

I was raised dorkish, so I wasn't even exposed to anything other than The Beatles, Fleetwood Mac and The Moody Blues until I was a teenager. This left me with a healthy love for music, and specifically the well written songs. When I was in high school, I worshiped at the alter of WBRU and WFNX and couldn't wait until I was in college so I could go to all sorts of college rock shows, grow a spiffy beard, and complain about how hard college was. I always found most of the really good college bands to be the well thought out, well spoken, and well written types who could simultaneously complain but also be introspective. Also, they had cool names like "Soul Asylum" and "Weezer." By the time I got to college, My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy replaced flannel shirts and shaggy beards with skinny jeans and cry make-up. This, to me, was a tragic turn of events. Mostly because I think emo music is f'ing horrible, but also because I don't know how to wear a mohawk, fauxhawk, or eyeliner ironically.

I don't remember the day I turned off the radio and plugged in the iPod for good...but it was sometime around there I suspect. That's when I went into my time capsule to avoid what people my own age were listening to that I couldn't stand hearing. In other words: a music snob cocoon of my own creation.

The other day after leaving a concert in Providence, my buddy who was home for the weekend from Texas, asked me if I could recommend any good bands for him. Apparently, the only things popular in Texas are Toby Keith, old Ozzy and every Nickelback song ever recorded. I gave him a few off the top of my head...She & Him, Gnarls Barkley, some of Ok Go, The Fratellis....then I realized I was out. I thumbed through the 1500+ songs on my iPod and realized that I don't have anything new. I couldn't even recommend any good metal bands, because since everybody's favorite gross toilet/venue closed (The Living Room), I hadn't even seen a decent metal show. I had stepped out of the time capsule to realize that I hadn't given modern music a chance in over five years. The last time I had even discussed music, it was an argument over why Trent Reznor and Buckethead were no-talent a**holes and why hack, psuedometal bands like Clutch and Three Days Grace should find a volcano to sacrifice themselves to. But even that was two years ago.

What had I missed in five years?

Were obnoxious BRU DJ's talking about the creative wonders of Panic! At the Disco and AFI? Had Simple Plan, New Found Glory and Something Corporate merged into one high pitched whine known simply as "Found Something Simple?" Could I safely wear leather pants and spiked necklaces and been seen as just a weirdo, not someone going to a concert at Lupos? Had some brave soul broken the mold and created a band with melodic guitars and a singer who sang whilst playing said guitar...or was the world still being run by 65 pound males in makeup bracing themselves on microphones, backed up by overly enthusiastic yet mediocre bass players?

So, I turned on WBRU to see if emo was still in and the time capsule had served its purpose. Emo isn't in, as it turns out. Bands that sound like Brandon Flowers and The Killers are in though, and the bass players are slightly tamer. The singers still make love to their mic stands and can't play anything other than synthesizer...which I guess isn't so bad?

I emailed my brother, who's 16 years older than me, but also has a bigger heart for accepting new bands into his iPod fraternity. He suggested a bunch that I'd casually heard: Arcade Fire, The Black Keys, Wilco, etc...I determined that I like Wilco, although I find Jeff Tweedy's fragile, emotional genius thing to be a little much. I'm ok with The Black Keys...and I just flat don't get the popularity of Arcade Fire. Somewhere along the line, the wackier you sound just meant the better you were. Again, all of this still being better than the aforementioned cry make-up and screaming, so I can't cast too many stones.

In all, this revelation of my own dying taste in finding new, good music is a little depressing. I used to love finding new bands that I could latch on to...now, I'm lucky if I can find a song that catches my interest let along a slew of songs from the same band. I know sites like Pandora are out there and are designed specifically to open your mind to new content...but I like my old content. I was ok with The Killers...but I'll go god damned insane if I hear another "my heart is bleeding inside!" song with guys in ironic suits playing behind them.

I'm not going to go back into the time capsule. But I'm also not willing to argue over why Trent Reznor is a douche anymore either. I think I'm just going to let the music come to me, and not the other way around.

Spare Change

Tomorrow is election day or, as I like to think of it, The Day The Fun Slander Commercials Stop. There's something wildly entertaining yet socially and mentally crippling about campaign season. Kind of like a car crash you can't take your eyes off of...only you're involved in the car crash and the car is sitting on top of you, crushing you slowly. Obviously, we're all accustomed to the negative, slanderous ads candidates jam down or throats on radio and TV to discredit their opponents. We've been dealing with it as a collective since way back in 2000 when a little known philosopher (I believe his name was Rove-acles) theorized that the best way to win an election is to make your opponent into the Anti-Christ. People will be so afraid of making the wrong choice, that they'll be forced to vote for you, even though they have no idea what the hell you stand for. Just not baby killing and tax hikes.

Having taken part in about a dozen debates on the production side of things this year, I've noticed a few odd mutations negative campaigning has had. Here they are in no particular order...

5.) "I represent change. I'm a new voice." (Subtext: Remember when this got Obama elected? People like the word "change!")

4.) "My opponent is a career politician." (Subtext: People don't like politicians. Which is weird, because that's what I'm trying to be. Maybe nobody will notice.)

3.) "My opponent doesn't understand the legislative process." (Subtext: You're inexperienced. Ergo, you'll never hold office. Only those born into the legislative process have required experience.)

2.) "I'm going to work hard to get jobs." (Subtext: Ummm...something to do with taxes? I don't know. Maybe print more money? Can we do that?)

1.) "My opponent has voted with ______ over ___ percent of the time!" (Subtext: Find someone who has already proven to be unlikable...make them seem like Hurley and Charlie aka, BFF's.)

In Massachusetts, it seems that every Republican running for office is trying to seperate themselves from the bats**t crazy Tea Party while doing an impression of Scott Brown. I look at someone like Sean Beilat, who's trying to unseat legendary jowell enthusiast Barney Frank, based on the fact that he's "a new voice" and "an outsider" attempting to oust a liberal Democrat. In other words, he's trying to capture some Scott Brown magic. So in the Southcoast, we've been treated to a slew of "Retire Barney" rallies on street corners which inevitably spill into intersections and cause accidents and generally piss people off. On Frank's side, we've gotten really condescending messages about Beilat's lack of intelligence.

One problem though: Scott Brown didn't win his damn race. Martha Coakley lost it. Coakley ran one of the worse, least organized, lazy races in the history of the Commonwealth, and Brown played a conservative, voter friendly, "Don't Crap on Kennedy's Grave" approach. Democrats didn't vote because Coakley was such a terrible candidate, the Republicans smelled blood, and they struck. End of story. All it proved was that a good, honest candidate can win regardless of party in MA.

In other words, dropping gloves and trying to convince people that the guy in office is Hades himself only works if...well...you're running against Hades. Or, at the very least, a dumbass.

These attack ads don't seem to be gaining traction with anybody, even party extremists. With politics basically being a popularity game akin to high school sex parties now, the ads are pretty much "Which one of us is going to get people talking most and can we actually trick people into thinking the world will end if the other is elected."

All those little talking points we're hearing are going to come back over and over and over until...well, probably forever now. It's borderline unthinkable to imagine an elected official of any capacity generating positive emotions from a vast majority of voters regardless of what they do for their constituents.

In the end, political agendas may change. Elected officials will certainly change. Hell, policies might even change.

But the way our prospective leaders go about getting our vote? That ain't changing any time soon.

Play Together! But Not Really, Please!

Please, allow me to geek out for a second.

When I was younger, I was a big video game guy. Some of my fondest memories, and long running in-jokes, revolve around me and my buddies huddled around a 32 inch TV at 4am trying to beat the impossibly hard, yet astromically entertaining, "Conflict: Vietnam." On weekends, one of our friends would bring over a few extra controllers for the PS2, and four or five of us could play college football, hockey, the aforemention Conflict games, and whatever else tickled the fancy of 16 year old us's.

We were stoked when PS3 and X-Box came out, even though those 4am gaming sessions wondering when the next Vietcong was going to scream "RPG!" have turned into occasionally plugging in a first person shooter late on a Saturday night after grabbing a few drinks.

With the near release of the soon to be mega-hit "Call of Duty: Black Ops," we actually got excited. We had heard that the game was going back to the roots of old, offering 4 player co-op (meaning four people could play the game in the same room). Even since PS3 and X-Box came out, the concept of co-op died. Every game is supposed to be played online via social networking and LAN sites. Naturally, this rumor was dragged out for months only to be eventually squashed, like has happened with basically every other game that even thought about going back to regular old co-op games.

To a bunch of almost mid-20's guys...this isn't the end of the world. We would have had an f'ing blast playing it like the old days, but oh well. What does upset me though is the hypocracy of "social" gaming.

What exactly is more social: sitting in an empty room talking s**t to complete strangers via a microphone, or sitting with three friends playing the game at one in the same room?

It's not like the technology doesn't exist...it did ten years ago. And it's also not an obvious cash grab for the PS3 people...their online network is free.

Maybe it's the World of Warcraft-ing of video gaming...but I think this all kind of sucks. I don't play games online and, even if I did, I'd sure as hell rather have the option to play with my friends in the same room without having to bring an extra three TV's and a Best Buy's worth of LAN cables. Considering gaming is evolving just as quickly as social networking and cell phones, it's amazing that none of the "Scream Into Space For Attention" parent groups aren't pissing and moaning over the promotion of solidarity that PS3 and X-Box are promoting. I'm sure once Rock Star Games comes out with a new role player where the main character does coke off of a dead hooker's stomach, we might get a few hits...but until then what? Just a bunch of kids sitting in dimly lit rooms with pouches of Capri Suns calling each other "noobs."

Call me a crotchety old man...but I liked it better before. I mean, at least then we could throw the empty Capri Suns at each other when we called each other noobs.

Political Jabronyism

I saw this video today whole floating around "teh interwebs" as a response video to the nasty political war being waged right now on the mean streets of Greenwich, CT in the race for U.S. Senate. Democrat Richard Blumenthal is running against Rep. Linda McMahon...who many of us who grew up in the early 2000's know simply as the former C.E.O. of World Wrestling Entertainment and the wife of controversial, uber-billionaire Vince McMahon. Along the political road, McMahon has pushed Blumenthal's buttons for being a fiscally irresponsible liberal. In the most mature move possible, Blumenthal of course referenced Linda being hit over the head with a steel chair on live television. Which I guess really isn't actuallythat bad, considering I remember a lot worse things being done to, or around, the former C.E.O. of WWE (then the WWF, before endangered pandas stole the company's name). For example, I remember Katie Vick. I wish I didn't...but I do.

Blumenthal has continued to promote McMahon's overseeing of the raunchy days of what the WWE now calls it's "Attitude Era." Earlier this week, Vinny Mac took it upon himself to defend his company, his wife, and his reputation by lauching this "Stand Up for WWE" promotion on every social network available, as well as WWE.com. It seems that in the past five years or so, the WWE has traded in it's Attitude Card for a pinwheel hat and a lollypop. WWE programming is now exclusively PG rated, features no swearing, sex or excessive violence (which I understand now to mean, no chair shots to the head. Just the back), has marketing deals with children's magazines, Mattel toys, and numerous other "family friendly" enterprises. Essentially, it's a throwback to the "Say your prayers, eat your vitamins!" 80's only with the guy from "The Marine" instead of Hulk Hogan.

Blumenthal points out that Linda oversaw a wildly controversial, weekly episodic TV show that routinely garnered mature ratings and more outrage from parent groups than Snooky being punched in the face by the South Park rendition Allah. There's video to prove all of this and enough Stone Cold Steve Austin middle fingers to probably fill the entire state of CT. On the flip side, the company is "clean" now, and Linda no longer has any affiliation with the WWE besides being married to The Boss. Of course, The Boss still being the original face of steroid abuse in sports in the United States, and a guy who once had human crap sprayed on him and his son in fron of 15 million people. I should probably mention the fact that too that, as a business practice, the WWE has seen a marketing boom throughout the last 15 years, even lasting through the latest recession with great numbers on Wall St. as a publically traded company (thank you, American Airlines in flight magazine article). Regardless of content: people just really like wrestling. It used to be kids, then it was adults, then it was teenagers, now we're back to kids again.

So is Blumenthal in the right for using such inflamatory video against McMahon in this race? Should he acknowledge that the company has gone the family friendly route and, despite it's raunchiness, the business was still a successful one and brought business to the state of CT during McMahon's tenure with the company? Should McMahon have to at least atone for her on-air sins during the "Attitude Era" and address them like a professional? Should she sling mud back? Should Vince McMahon have brainstormed this new "Stand Up for WWE" thing, which is going to cause great feedback from fans I assume, but horrible feedback from the democratic challenger?

There are a lot of relevant, ethical questions going on here and I think this election, not the stupid one in Delaware with the witch, is the best microcosm of national politics in the U.S.A: The practice of attack ads over issues. The relevance of one's past business practices versus their current day objectives. The dillusion of politics into entertainment, and vice versa. The overwhelming media obsession with "drama" over state issues, which I think everybody can agree should be the real talking points in the CT Senate race.

In my opinion...McMahon helped run a major corporation that, for years, promoted indecency because that's what got ratings and made money. That's not wholely ethical, but it at least proves she's a shrewd business woman who knew how to run what was, at the time, one of the biggest money making businesses in the entire country, something CT values. By constantly going back to the "look at this horrible video!" gimmic, I think Blumenthal is grasping at straws to stir up national controversy against his more famous opponent. We get it. Linda McMahon is/was into pro wrestling, which is violent, which once upon a time was like soft-core porn, which a lot of people didn't approve of. It also proved it WAS popular enough to be a major force in entertainment, and is still making more ad money than some professional sports organizations are (I'm looking at you, everybody but the NFL). To me, that's a one time shot you can take as a candidate...then you move on to attack her political ideas. Blumenthal's not going that route, which is why Vince and the WWE have their new promotion, Linda McMahon is still more famous than her challenger but now is a demi-villain, and the whole thing is like...well...some sort of scripted, poorly acted, smackdown of a drama.

And that's the bottom line.

Pre-Rolling the Dice

Every Friday for the past two years, I've heard the same question at work:

"How do we make more money off the website!?"

For two years, I've given the exact same answer:

"Get sponsors for the podcasts and the live stream features."

Technically, I'm the youngest person working in the radio station, but also ironically one of the longest tenured. It sometimes makes for a weird dynamic of "He' been here for a while, so maybe he knows what he's talking about...but then again, he grows facial hair like a twelve year old girl and doesn't remember Guns and Roses, so maybe we need another opinion." I'm guessing it's this confusion that's led to a stalemate over the whole web-marketing issue.

We're not the biggest radio station in the world (AM baby!), but at any given time we can get upwards of 15,000 listeners. That's pretty solid numbers. Our website is cheaper than a suit from Sears, but I've been trying to make due making it look like not-the-ugliest-girl at the prom for a while now. The important pointI keep raising to "The Powers That Be" is this: why would people go to a news/talk radio's website? To click on the advertising tiles on the left and right hand side? To see the profiles of the hosts? To read about the latest trends in eyebrow plucking?

No! They go to listen! Hear the interview they missed or listen live because they're stuck at work! Not to get all number-y...but the stream has been downloaded 10,000 times since the start of the new year. The podcasts get played over 160 times a week. And there's no advertisements on them. At all. To advertise on the air at my station, or one of a similar size and market, can cost thousands of dollars a month for the potential of maybe a few dozen commercials at best. If Sam's Bed and Taco Emporium were to advertise on the podcasts, for example, they'd be heard nearly 200 times a week, guaranteed. As anybody who watches videos of Hulu or downloads content from any news site...you can't skip those little pre-rolls.

That right there is a microcosm of modern advertising in the media. The traditional outlets like radio and print and even TV commercials are damn near impossible to pitch. People are using them less, and even when they do they aren't likely to stay dialed in for the commercials as much as they used to. It's a world of sliding in advertisments here and there, coming up with catchy hooks (and now the WB Mason Postgame show, anyone?) that become synonymous with the product. Sponsor the news, the weather updates, the interviews, the traffic...whatever you can possibly stick a name in front of that people cannot avoid. In other words, nail them when they go online, where everybody is aware that we can't avoid pre-roll commercials before downloadable content.

So...uh...that's how'd I'd like to see money get made off the website.

"The View" was right. Gross.

Ugh...I think I just whole-heartedly agreed with the ladies of "The View." Somebody bring on the Pepto, please.

Are there even any words anymore for entertainers who have turned to political controversy to make quick cash? They can't be stopped, they can't be shut up, and more and more people actually take their word as hard news by the day. What's worse is the potential "end-game" this gimmick is going to come down to: violence.

Who do you think is more likely to face the wrath of some psycho on the street who can't stand their political views anymore and decides to take matters into their own crazy hands....O'Reilly, or Obama?

Yeah...this isn't going to end well.

Show Biz 101

"We all know what I do out there...that's politics. What you do in here...that's entertainment. It ain't politics in here."

We're heading towards election day in November, which means the one month grace period where I didn't have a dozen politicians coming through my production door everday to cut a commercial has officially ended. Today, two candidates (State Rep. candidates, both) came in to do their next round of spots in the final drive to winning their seats. The utter lack of enthusiasm I felt for this wacky, busy stretch of time kind of disappointed me. I believe I've become jaded to political commercials and...dare I say...the politicans themselves.

The quote up there was what one of the guys running, perhaps the most genuinely nice people to ever run for anything, told me today. I'm producing two commercials for him: one using an announcer voice spliced with his, and other using his war veteran son and his young daughter singing his praises. He came to me for advice about how the spot should sound, I gave him some, and we had that exchange. Every politician that comes through here knows that to be true, but he actually said it...which was weird to hear outloud.

Do we really care about the issues or the way the politican presents themselves to us?

If JFK himself walked in to my studio and cut a commercial where he just said "Vote for me...I'm f'ing JOHN KENNEDY. I'm better, smarter, richer and more prepared for this job. Plus, I'm going to win anyway because of my last name," would we not vote for him? I mean...he's qualified. He'd be more qualified than anybody else, anyway. If a bad person comes in to make a political commercial, why do they try and act nicer? Why not just focus on the issues? Is it really because, deep down, not one of us would vote for the bad guy with the right take on the issues over the nice guy who's an idiot?

I've worked probably five different local elections now, and I have to say that I can't think of a time where that situation unraveled, and the bad guy won. Just in last month's primary, one of the candidates who became a local laughing stock because of his utter failure to answer a question in a debate won his race over his largely more qualified competitor based on one thing: his competitor came off like an arrogant jackass. It was a landslide.

When you hear a politician speak on a radio or TV ad...what are they really saying? Did they take the time to put real thought in, or did they have their staff piece it together and work with the producer (side note: this happens. A lot.) Are imcumbants just putting stuff out there so people won't accuse them of being lazy? Would a challenger ever just say 'screw it, I don't need to impress people with my charm...I'm flat a better candidate' in their ad? Most of all, how the hell can we blame our local officials for being incompetent, when we're the ones electing them based on horrible reasons?

Two years ago, Fall River elected a 29 year old to be mayor. It marked the youngest mayor ever in the city, and also the first time in Fall River's 100+ year history that the sitting mayor didn't come in first or second in the primary, thereby not qualifying for the final vote. Why? Well, the sitting mayor was an arrogant bastard who sounded like a mobster and the new guy had a goofy commercial where a Frank Sinatra impersonator sang his praises of "high hopes." Not to say the commercial won the election...but it's two years later and I'm still hearing from people that come through my radio station how much they loved that stupid thing.

I think what bothers me most about all this is the fact that there's no real way to just throw it all aside and "focus on the issues." How the hell can you do that when there's no forum? All we know are the personalities, not the drive or the motivation to do good by their seat everyday they hold it. The only issue we can focus on, is how much more likeable one candidate is over the other.

You know...come to think of it...this is that damned JFK's fault. Had he not been both the better candidate AND the more likeable candidate when he out debated the sweaty, greaseball posing as Nixon, we'd never be here right now. Eh...ok...we'd still probably be here right now.

The Not-So Beautiful People

I just finished watching the video of the Texas Rangers celebration in the clubhouse after they took down the Rays (and their six fans) in five games in the ALDS. In honor of their best player, the likely AL MVP, and former alcoholic and drug addict, Josh Hamilton...the team lambasted each other in ginger ale instead of the traditional champagne. Aside from the obvious question of how much does ginger ale in the eyes actually hurt, this was the coolest and classiest move I can remember a sports team doing in a while. Maybe the highest team approval rating move since the "Come Out Together" 2001 Super Bowl Patriots. Since his return to baseball, after flaming out to substance abuse as the best prospect baseball had seen in 20 years, Hamilton has been the biggest role model in the sport: a testiment to the American spirit of second chances and open arms. The fact that he has come all the way back to fulfill his potential a decade after he squandered it only enhances what should be the biggest story in sports right now.

Of course, barely anybody knows who the hell he is.

This got me to thinking about the celebrity of athletes in the media. Who are the most well known athletes and, more importantly, why are they so well known? Let's see....

MLB - Alex Rodriguez (steroids, had sex with Madonna, biggest contracts ever)

NFL - Peyton Manning (in lots of commercials, very talented, historical choke artist, sort of funny) or Chad Ochocinco (reality TV and Twitter star)

NBA - LeBron James (self promoter, hometown skipper, global a**hole) or Kobe Bryant (aggressiveness, rape)

NHL - Sidney Crosby (top-2 player in league, former champion, only hockey player allowed on TV commercials outside of "VS.")

Of the four major sports (screw off, NASCAR), only one of the biggest stars is actually only known for their talent. The fact that more people know who Chad Ochocinco is over Adrian Peterson is upsetting. Alex Rodriguez being more well known than Albert Pujols, who's only the best baseball player in the last 70 years, is the pinacle of "What The Hell Is Going On Here? Apparently, nobody remembers the most earth shattering, brain explodiest homer ever hit in the 05' Playoffs. Brad Lidge actually died he turned his neck around so fast. Don't look that up

Should this make us appreciate our actual star athletes more? The fact that, in the era of celebrity and controversy, some guys like Crosby, Pujols, Hamilton, Kevin Durant, etc...can actually succeed under the radar for an extended period of time is astounding. What's more astounding is that, if you woke up tomorrow to learn that Albert Pujols was found with PED's or Durant had beat up his girlfriend...you'd never stop hearing about them. Their names would be engrained in your head until the day you die, and the name association with "BAD!" will always linger.

That's why I say "cheers" to the guys and girls who actually succeed and perform as role models in their given sport while somehow avoiding the top story on Sportscenter. Now THAT'S a serious achievement.

I Think I'm Still Too Unpopular For Twitter

I have, at last check, 138 friends on Facebook. I know...that's kind of lame. But here's the thing: I'm not one of those people that, as soon as I meet somebody, I have to search them and friend them before they forget who I am. My palpabley lame friend total is actually all people that I either talk to on occasion, or at least people I used to talk to on a semi-regular basis. But I'm not here to defend my lack of popularity on Facebook...I'm here to say that this only proves that I have no business being on Twitter.

Considering my job title actually includes the words "New Media Specialist," I'm not un-aware of the social uprising Twitter's caused in the meida world in the past two years. My problem is, the entire nework is really just designed for famous (or at least moderately popular...) people or media outlets that need a quick way of spreading news.

I am neither of those things. If I were to Tweet something, maybe ten people would see it. At least if I post a Facebook status there's good chances that maybe a dozen people would notice. Basically, that's all these little status updates are for anyway: being noticed by somebody. I'm ok with that. It's a totally narcissistic thing to do, but hell...500 million people are on Facebook everyday, so me admitting narcissism isn't exactly groundbreaking.

Twitter just doesn't make sense. Facebook exists, so therefore Twitter shouldn't. Twitter is just the status update of Facebook, only meant for celebrities who have fans who actually care about what they're eating for lunch. It's like a company just creating a website where I can play Frontierville. Nothing else. Just Frontierville. And I'd have less friends helping me tend to my Frontier, too. Which is a huge, royal, pain in the ass. (Side note: I hate the fact that I know that.)

Anywho...Twitter should be roped off to the common man at this point. I'm sick of seeing TV ads or hear people talk about their Twitter pages. Just use Facebook. You're not popular enough for Twitter. Ashton Kutcher says so. Or, at least his 2 million fans do.

The NHL Is So Uncool, It's Cool.

After the 2004-05 lockout of the NHL, I was devestated to see seemingly the whole damn country turn it's collective back on one of the sports we used to call "The Big Four." At the time, ESPN and other outlets were in the ears of every "kind of" sports fan in the world trying to convince them that _______ was the next big sport. You can fill the blank yourself with NASCAR, Texas Hold Em', soccer, professional bocce, competitive eating, naked snowmobiling, etc...

ESPN used the lost season as an opportunity to phase out their nightly NHL show as well as any live coverage, a feat that still somehow stands today on a network in six different channels and frequently shows women's college vollyball. This was their window to six hours a day of NFL coverage, a much more bankable sport. The rest of the sports media moped that it was because the sports wasn't "American" enough anymore and the lockout just proved how stupid greedy athletes can be: they didn't even know that nobody would come back because they were fringe-popular in the first place.

Ok. That one's kind of hard to disagree with.

Eventually, all this really did was cost owners a crap ton of revenue and team exposure. It also easily weeded out whatever potential Pink Hat fans were on the bandwagon like Lil Wayne at a Justin Beiber concert. Now all that's left is a sport with the remnents of two black eyes, crazy dedicated fans, and absolutely no love from the sports media other than a roll of the eyes and a "Oh friggin' great, I have to say a foreign name with 40 consonants in it." In the past five years, the rules have changed to allow a more open, fan friendly game. The players have gotten younger and the European fad of the mid 90's is all but long gone. Once again, the league is dominanted by Canadians, Russians and Americans. The arenas are easier to access and the invention of HDTV seemed to be specifically made for the bright, white background of hockey. Expansion stopped, southern teams with no business having teams are awful again, and power has been restored to "real" hockey towns.

What I'm saying is that within five years, hockey has gone through more rehab than Lindsay Lohan, but has come out looking like Robert Downey Jr.:

1.) Influx of European talent and the New Jersey Devil's defensive trap kill popularity. League locks out. Martin Brodeur celebrates quietly. A**hole.

2.) Lock out ends, whatever fringe popularity the sport had is gone. ESPN has waved it's magic wand and relegated the NHL's popularity level akin to Saturday morning bowling or professional billiards trick shot competitions. Martin Brodeur is still to blame.

3.) Several years in financial and popularity purgatory as other sports see a boom in the HD/Sportscenter era. Hell, even international soccer is getting big play.

4.) Anti-popularity starts to sink in. Hockey becomes so uncool, it's cool. The phenomenon legit rivalry, thought dead in modern sports, pops up with the two best players in the league. Every team seems to have at least one young, recognizable superstar in the making. The high exposure and money of the NFL, the steroid era of baseball and the bore of the NBA leave wiggle room for the team first, balls out athleticism and grit of pro hockey. No frills, just hockey.

Suddenly, the NHL has a new image: the anti-American sport. And I f'ing love it.

Watching the NHL is now a throwback for sports fans, even young ones like me. There's no 24 media coverage or reality shows or stupidly nicknamed athletes. Hell, there's not even really a network where you can see full highlights from the night before (sorry, VS....nobody knows what channel your on. Work on that.). It's like the early days of fantasy baseball all over again. Want to know what happened the night before? Check the boxscore in the equally so-unpopular-it's-sorta-popular newspaper.

Best of all, the sport is reaching this new ideology at just the right time. The competition is outstandingly good. For the first time in 15 years, the players are all young and supremely talented across the board. While I am horrified that I'm finally old enough (24) that most of the best players in the league are officially younger than me, I'm still thrilled. Disappointed in myself for not being the starting shortstop for the Boston Red Sox by now. But thrilled none the less. The NHL is actual so good now that's there's even sub-storylines going on, like the rebirth of the MVP caliber defensemen in the mold of Bobby Orr and Ray Borque. For passive "I Like Football Because I Get to Wear a Jersey in Public!" fans, this means crap, obviously. But for those actually craving a little bit of a toned down sports world, it's perfect.

It's as if the NHL, through it's own stupidity and greed provoked by the ESPN age, has emerged as a counter culture in our own backyard. An escape from celebreathletes and highlight reels and "Decisions" and controversies and locker room drama and post game press conferences. It's emerged as the only sport in the country that allows the sport to do the entertaining. Despite years of me sitting at home at night longing for Barry Melrose's ridiculous hair to show me highlights of the night's games, I'm actually happier this way.

The sports world is now a sub-outlet of Entertainment Tonight. The NHL? That's re-emerged from the rubble as a prettier version of itself from the 1980's only with a few more teeth and some uglier jerseys. But HDTV. And HDTV cures all viewing woes. I wasn't around too long in the 1980's, but I do know this.

There sure as hell wasn't any reality TV then. And that's the way I like my hockey.

Student Media: Who's the Boss, Anyway?

Last Thursday, the four candidates running for Governor in MA made their way to UMass Dartmouth for a debate, presumably about the issues facing the southcoast of the state. As it would turn out, they really just answered five questions about state wide jobs, and I think at one point Tim Cahill started doodling a la Jackie Treehorn on his free pad of paper. It was a boring, pointless exhibition in political hackery with more useless questions than the first five minutes of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire."

Every local media outlet in the area, including my own radio station (1480 WSAR! Listen Live now on WSAR.com!) and every single solitary newspaper in the region covered the event live. Going through the provided means given to us lame, techy-like people, each of us were given a link to UMass Dartmouth's live video stream. Great. Fantastic. Outstanding. Problem is, the guy we were all dealing with who oversees both the student run radio and TV stations had no idea what he was doing. I mean that literally. If thrown into a lion pit and was told to defuse a bomb, I'd have a better chance.

In conversations with the guy, and from previous experience in college radio stations, I was fairly confident his only expertise was hitting the button that says "TALK." That'd be great if the poor guy didn't have to run the entire damn school media. Once I started throwing out "questions" and "technical words" and trying to address potential "issues" that could "f*** us out of thousands of dollars in sponsorships," he kind of got a little ornery to say the least. Our conversation ended with me asking if there was some sort of audio backup, should the video fail, and I got a one word email back.

No.

In the end, the experience was a disaster that cost the local papers a LOT of advertising dollars, and a whole hell of a lot of angry web viewers wondering why the video of the debate was terrible.

WARNING: TECH MOMENT: they just set up a camera with no feed into the candidates microphones, meaning it was akin to just shooting a debate from 150 feet away with a cell phone. Because the candidates used wireless microphones to speak, there was also bled over RF that caused the viewing and listening audience to hear a nearby oldies station. The debate sounded awful, but The Temptations have never sounded better. If you got any of that last paragraph, I both congratulate and pity you.

Luckily, because I didn't trust the set up, I created a back up plan that got us the audio feed from UMass' radio station online. The papers? Not so much luck.

The fact that such a person, and this goes well beyond the dreary greystone campus of UMass-D, has control over student media operations is a disservice to the actual students. There is no technical understading of the business, which means the students won't get any either. I'm positive that if anybody looked into it, the young man in charge probably has a degree in history and spent the last few years as a teaching understudy. But because student media is seen as a busy project at some schools, it's acceptable to throw them into this situation. The result was a disaster of a project, a complete lack of faith in an entire university's media department, and the loss of thousands of dollars. The stupidest part being this: had the governor's "people" opted to hold the debate down the road at the much less esteemed Bristol Community College auditorium, it would have gone off without a hitch. The theatre is nicer, bigger, and run by several people with technical experience in both audio and visual media.

I guess the community college setting wasn't up to par with the candidate's high standards.

It's generally upsetting to me to constantly have potential interns coming through my office every semester looking for experience, have several years of college radio under their belts, and absolutely no concept of how the operation even comes close to working. Student media shouldn't be mental fodder for kids with mohawks who love Arcade Fire; it should be a learning ground for a pretty fun business with a lot of different nooks and crannies that can find even the poor voiced (uh...me?) being usefull in the realm of the media. Instead...every intern I have either wants to talk about the Patriots or talk about how sick Buckethead is. They don't know how the on-air process works, they don't know anything technically works, and they don't care. And THAT is the fault of the colleges who put people like my UMass-Dartmouth friend in charge, then expect to still be looked at as credible.

Give me the guys at the community college.

This Could All Be Yours Tuesday

WARNING: The following is a really lame, congratulatory blog dedicated to a band that I have had an unhealthy obsession with for the past 11 years. This blog could cause eye bleeding, runny nose, gout, and in some cases severe "get off it, nobody wants to read about a stupid band you loser" disorder. Reader discretion is advised.

This Tuesday marks the release of the newest album from my favorite band, Guster. I'm really excited because it's been almost five years since their last album, even though they only briefly stopped touring just in time for everyone of them to have kids. I remember when their last album, "Ganging Up on the Sun" came out, I was a freshman in college and treked out to Providence with my best friend the day of the release to watch them perform live at Station Park. It was awesome. Although, the crowd only knew one track...the one that had been released on iTunes a week before and was currently playing on WBRU in between audio garbage such as Fall Out Boy and...well...Fall Out Boy. Naturally, I downloaded the track, "One Man Wrecking Machine," and played it 4000 times that week causing some sort of dementia with my friend, who went through phases of both love and hate for Guster not unlike a recovering alcoholic that week. I later apologized...but totally didn't mean it.

Don't criticize The Gusters. A**hole.

Anywho, the new album, "Easy Wonderful" has been in the works for like three years and it's finally done and produced and the hyper critical trio are done chopping songs for it. Several songs were left off because lead singer Ryan Miller didn't like them, one of the guys left the band (their jack of all trades "extra" guy, Joe) two weeks ago, and every song on the album is going to have a video for it.

I know all of this because of twitter, road journals, and most importantly, facebook.

The guys of Guster have a strange sense of humor, so I love the Twitter postings and the blogs. The video thing is actually more of a contest where they are taking any videos into consideration for their only currently undirected song "Bad, Bad World." They're doing this through facebook as well. Today, they released all the songs from the album on their facebook page and band website, and I've poured through a few of the tracks already. Yes, I'm at work. No, I'm apparently not professional enough to wait. They're just lucky I have the common courtesty to do it in my sound studio, and not on the air.

The point of all this (not really, I just wanted to blog about the album) is how dominant a promotional force social networking is now compared to just five years ago. I've known every step of the process in making the album and I've now heard all the tracks and seen several of the videos just on facebook alone. Guster is a band that's very close to their fans, and it seems like this social networking is a perfect storm of self promotion for them. Granted, it's not the greatest way to get new fans...but it's the best way to please the one's you already have, and that's all Guster seems to want to do with "Easy Wonderful." Through the blogs and the postings, fans already knew months ago that this was going to be a much more upbeat, uplifting album (again, they all had kids) then their last effort, which was sort of a melancholy reaction to the emotional misery of the beginning of the decade.

I've bobbed my head to "Do You Love Me?" and finger drummed to "This Could All Be Yours" and rewatched the stellar video for "Stay With Me Jesus" about 75 times in the past week. I've read about the song writing process and the different instruments Guster learned when they were trying to flesh out the album and not go back to "just bongos and acoustic guitars" like they were known for on college campuses in the early 90's. Hell, I actually heard some of the songs on the album six months ago when I saw them live in Worcester and they announced that some of the stuff they were playing was a "test run" to see if they'd want it on the album and, therefore, play it over and over at live shows. After the concert, there were a dozen photos on facebook tagging them in the songs that were new. On YouTube, the new songs being performed live sprouted up like weeds every time you searched the band's name.

Guster doesn't have YouTube take them down. They love that stuff. Most of the band's success was based on viral videos of their shows being passed from person to person in the 90's, and the brunt of the success in the early 2000's came from similar word of mouth and the sprouting of the internet.

So I guess none of this is surprising at all.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a song to listen to instead of a commercial to make...