The Left Coast Biased

Hey there kiddos. Remember where you were when you heard the refrain:

Somebody told me that you had a boyfriend
Who looked like a girlfriend
That I had in Februrary of last year
Its not confidential
I've got potential

I do. I was working at the campus bookstore. It came over the PA and I thought: Hey that's one damn catchy tune. Funny, dark, and rhythmic. I bought Hot Fuss after I heard the second single, Mr. Brightside (at least that's the order I heard them in, actual release order has little bearing on this post) I became an instant fan. Seriously did not leave my cd player for a long-ass time (no I did not, nor still yet have an ipod. don't ask) Ryan and I made this cd an essential part of our road trip to San Fran. That is of course until wet pavement and deft evasive driving by Ryan um--created?--the opportunity to drive a car with no cd player.

Aside: who the hell makes a vehicle with no cd player? GM that's who. No wonder that company is asking the government for an absurd amount of money. Hope they don't invest in audio technology.

Back to the point. Hot Fuss was--nay still is outstanding. Then something happened. And when I meet God I will make it a point to ask him: Who the F! gave Brandon Flowers a piano and a David Bowie box set for Christmas? Because if that's what Santa does with boys who are nice (read:make damn fine 1st albums) then I am opting out of that program right now. Somewhere along the line, during the writing of their follow-up Sam's Town, The Killers ditched the gritty guitar motif and Flowers made a back-handed attempt at a concept album. Please, unless you are in the musical ballpark of Pink Floyd, the Beatles, or the Who...don't try. Case in point: Coheed and Cambria. First two cds of the concept awesome. Next three were progressively less so.

Back to the Killers. Can the guys from Men in Black please use that silver wand, red light thingy and erase Sam's Town from our collective conscience? As a fan of the original Killers I can say with chest puffed out: their second cd sits at the bottom of a box in a closet. When I get hard up for cash I will probably sell it back. Too bad I can't just take the money from the Killers, because that would be poetic justice.

And now to the third cd Day and Age. I am not sure how I feel about this one yet, but it is truly apparent that Mr. Flowers busted out the trusty Bowie box set, listened to every damn song Bowie has ever written, and then took a vacation to Europe and spent time in numerous dance clubs. Europe is really behind the times with music (save England and Iceland, except Bjork.) Example: they really love Michael Jackson. We gave up on him shortly after Thriller stopped being bad-ass. Oh and when he bought the bones of the elephant man. Anyway, the point is that I am not sure "dancy" music is what original Killers fans are going to keep coming back for. There is only so many poorly constructed grammatical clauses like "Are we human or are we dancer" that any self-respecting music fan can take.

I am going to listen to Day and Age a few more times, skipping "Human" of course because after about a month radio has officially beaten the proverbial horse. Hopefully the cd will come around and by an act of God redeem itself. If not at least I learned my lesson after purchasing Sam's Town: I have a burned copy of Day and Age. --Como Out!

Labels: music

Nobody has ever summed up being a sports fan better than the New Yorker's Roger Angell in his piece "Agincourt and After," in this passage about Carlton Fisk's famous home run in the 1975 World Series:

It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitive as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut (I know this look -- I know it by heart) is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring -- caring deeply and passionately, really caring -- which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naivete -- the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing and shouting with joy in the middle of the night over the haphazardous flight of a distant ball -- seems a small price to pay for such a gift.

We care about sports. We care deeply and passionately. The society in which we live offers so little to attach ourselves to emotionally that we end have ended up swimming in materialism, as our possessions are the only way that we have left to identify ourselves. Not only does a sport offer an object for emotional investment where you can feel such great and immediate fluctuations, but it provides a community that is altogether absent in today’s world, a community that comes from sharing those emotional ties. No one else cares about the things that matter intensely to me. You don’t care about what I am reading, what my kid did at kindergarten today, or the terribly engaging minutiae of my job. No real conversations will ever be born out of those topics. You will listen politely wait, either to subject me to your own inanities or to make a hurried exit. And I wouldn’t blame you. Sports is a different topic. I can go up to someone in a Liverpool jersey anywhere on the planet and have a 3 hour conversation on the merits of Captain Fantastic and the impotence of Robbie Keane (20 million pounds?!?! Really?!?). I live in a relatively large town, and I can go up to almost anyone in the city and talk about the Arizona basketball team for hours, and at the end of it we have a relationship. I may not know his name but if I ever run into that hypothetical conversational foil again we will share a nod and feel better knowing yet again that we are not alone in the world. This is what sports give to us.

With that understanding, the deepest and greatest love of my life is the aforementioned Arizona Basketball team. I’m certain that I am entirely to blame for this allegiance. I grew up in an almost quaint little town on the Arizona/Mexico border in the 80’s. Arizona didn’t have a baseball team, I couldn’t support a team who wore purple, and take a moment to think about what the Cardinals have been like for the last 2 decades. Jake Plummer was a highlight. On top of being the only game in town, the Wildcats were good. I was awakening to sports consciousness in the late 80’s when Sean Elliott and Steve Kerr carried us into the national spotlight where we lived in comfort for the next 20 years. I can count on one hand the number of times that I didn’t think we could win a national championship. Being the UA point guard was practically synonymous with “future NBA All-Star”. When we rioted in ’97 after winning the title I went out in my yard and threw some rocks and lit a small pile of weeds on fire and screamed our triumph into the night. Quietly, so I didn’t upset my parent’s. In 2001 I forged a hatred for Duke so deeply entrenched that when my sister got a job there I almost didn’t talk to her, and settled for burning a Duke shirt in effigy.

The point is this. I love the UA basketball team the way I have loved few things in my life, and I want you to understand both the immensity of this affection and it’s impact on my life, my relationships and my community. I want you to understand it, so you can understand what these last few years of watching it fall apart have done to me. It is like having a brilliant and beautiful daughter, who you love more than anything in the world, who is the light of your life. She is good at everything she does, maybe not always as good of a student as she could be, but she is so pleasant in person that you overlook those little things. But then something happens. She goes off to school and you hear rumors that she is falling of the deep end. You don’t believe it because when she comes home she is still so bright and beautiful, but the grades are dropping a bit more each year and then BAM! It happens. She drops out of school and starts turning tricks for crack. You can’t really believe it until one day you are driving and you see her on the corner flagging a guy down. And to make matters worse your next door neighbor has a daughter that was always a little behind every curve there was, but you were always nice to her, because she was so far below your own daughter that it didn’t matter. But then she went off to school, blossomed into a Rhodes Scholar who married a doctor. It hurts so much. Every time you see a girl who is beautiful, funny, successful, you cry a little bit, because that what your daughter used to be. Then every time you see a girl hooking for crack, you cry more, because that’s what your daughter is! You are torn between trying to forget the past and all its glory, or ignoring the present and living in the past. Then our girl shows up for Christmas and she is cleaned up and gorgeous and she dazzles the whole company with her wit and charm and you start to think that maybe, maybe things aren’t as bad as you thought. Maybe there is hope for your little girl yet. For those of you who need it spelled out, the stroke/Lute going crazy was the drop out of school moment, ASU is the girl next door (or even UCLA. What a crappy block), losing to UAB on national television at home was seeing her on the corner, and last night’s victory over #4 Gonzaga was the brilliant holiday dinner. Now listen to me closely. The dinner is a lie. She isn’t your bright and beautiful girl anymore. She is a filthy crack whore who every now and again remembers what it is like to be incredible. You are in for a long and miserable decade, filled with weeping and the gnashing of teeth. You will see her out on the corner many more times than seeing her wash up and remember who she is.

This is my advice. Live in the past. Block out this painful reality and dwell on all the brilliance of the last twenty years. In fact, we need a dvd: Lute: The Glory Years. It will have interviews and player profiles on the college and NBA careers we have been witness to- Kerr, Elliott, Tolbert, Rooks, Mills, Stoudimire, Reeves, Bibby, Terry, Dickerson, Edgerson, Wright, Jefferson, Woods, Arenas, Frye, Iguodala, Gardner. Have games from all the great teams- ’88, ’94, ’97, ’99, ’01, ’03, ’05. Have a CGI representation of the Team That Didn’t Happen- Jennings, Bayless, Buddinger, Negedu/Horne, Hill. Show the entire ’97 tourney run. Show the three biggest heartbreaks, also- ’01 final (The Great Referee Robbery), the ’05 Illinois game (The End of an Era), and any of the any of the end of tournament losses in ’88, ’89, ’94, ’99, or ’03. Or the Santa Clara game. We need this dvd, to get us through the times to comes. Please, someone make this happen.

Labels: sports

So are people really that surprised about the meltdown in dallas? I mean everyone with a pulse kind of expected this to happen eventually right? I think most people assumed that once the Cowboys started to struggle, once any receiver on that team caught more passes than TO, that the monster of all egos would rear its ugly, loud-mouthed head and initiate the beginning of the end. I am surprised it took this long. Thats the only shocking part for me.

But what I love about all of this is that ESPN keeps showing the clip of TO crying because people were saying bad things about "his quarterback" Tony Romo. If you haven't seen it you might be missing out on brilliant television work. Its not only ESPN's preferred lead-in for the continuing drama, its also filler. Meaning ESPN doesn't want you to forget, even for a moment, that TO is the biggest baby on the planet.

So apparently Romo and Witten are drawing up secret plays in order to exclude TO from the offense. What evidence does TO have of this? None. He tells the media that the QB/TE have secret meeting and secret plays designed to get Witten the ball. And then provides zero evidence to back up his claim. And isn't it at all interesting that this conspiracy only emerged after Keyshawn Johnson said on national tv that Romo seems to have more trust in Witten than in TO? Could Key have been the catalyst in this whole situation?

No. Terrell Owen's megalomaniacal mind latched on to 1 man's opinion and began to obsess, and then he became paranoid. Which led to delusional behavior. I am not a mental heath expert, but I think these are signs of serious mental disorder.

Labels: sports

Alright, its time I entered the fray. First things effing last (name the movie), I agree with Ryan. About what? About most things, and usually not everything. We get along just fine that way.

Labels: personal

I don’t know what to do with a blog, but quite a few people (some of whom I even respect) seem to think blogs are a good idea so I guess we'll give it a go. I don’t even know what a ‘blog’ is. I mean, I’m familiar with the concept, but how did we get here? So I looked it up. It’s short for weblog, and apparently it is just a journal, albiet with an audience and hyperlinks. Memoirs with the conceit of not being retrospective. Well, I’ve kept a journal for years so this shouldn’t be too difficult of a transition. Having stepped into this now, what exactly are the standards? Do we address you, the ever present reader, or are you the elephant in the room? Do we have to write daily? Do we need a theme? I am a huge fan of standards as they play nicely into my completely unfounded sense of elitism, but I look around the World Wide Web and it appears that there are none whatsoever. Looks like you elephants will have to indulge our flights of fancy as they swing o’er philosophical ranting, sports commentary, local cuisine, and random biographical nostalgia. The central theme will be the reflection of our intellectual meanderings and as such most of what ends up here will be our own opinions, some original, some colored more heavily by other’s thoughts and some ripped off wholesale, but go read Neal Stephenson’s Anathem for a fun little illustration of the vanity of original thought. Or the copyright to Days of War, Nights of Love. Or Ecclesiastes.

I am sure that no one is going to read this without having substantial personal exposure to us already, but on the off chance that someone is bored and stumbles across this by hitting the I Feel Lucky button, I guess I’ll start with a justification of our chosen name. First of all, this should be an imperative: if you are going to start a blog with a clever name, say, back in 2002, and then not post for the next 6 years DELETE THE BLOG. Or don't be foolish enough to post your home address unless you want some future blogger to come drag you into the street to physically vent some of the frustration of spending a half an hour trying to find some domain name that is appropriate and witty. To all of you, I hate you. That being said I don't want the chosen title of our blog to give the impression that this will be a bludgeoning of provincial sporting convictions. We will try to keep that to a mere smattering, at most. The name was chosen from our undivided affection for all things West Coast. The coast itself, and all accompanying beaches and subsequent recreational pursuits are more pleasant. The weather is nicer for longer. The people are prettier. Everything about this edge of the country is better. And that assertion is in no way related to the fact that my entire family moved back east and now I never get to see them.

Labels: personal