PREFACE: I have to write about Rush eventually; that is just par for my course. While many friends, readers and enemies may and do mock me for my addiction, I will stand firm in supporting the band because they have influenced me as both an artist and a thinker. As I am short on time, this week's post will be a review I wrote in 2002 when Rush released Vapor Trails, one of their finer albums. I am posting this because I think it is decent writing and also because I was kind of ticked that it never got published. Breaking into the music review business is tough business.
REVIEW OF Vapor Trails by Rush; originally written in 2002:
If your musical tastes draw you toward the latest hit-rap, hip-hop, flip-pop or sap-top, then perhaps Rush isn’t (and never has been) for you.
But if your maturing, yes even reaching middle age, intellect feeds on a more introspective sound, then perhaps the Canadian trio is (and always has been) just what you’re looking for.
With the release of Vapor Trails, their 17th studio album, Rush not only launches into a new chapter of their musical odyssey, but they simultaneously sculpt a finer image of their unique style — an eclectic blend of rock and melody which heightens the spirit and awakens the conscious to newly formed realities.
For as much as Rush is a rock and roll band, they are musicians first, and as musicians they have challenged themselves artistically and conceptually with each of their previous sixteen endeavors. Vapor Trails is no exception.
From the opening riffs of the single “One Little Victory” the middle-aged rockers seem to be toying with us, reinforcing their ability to grasp every genre of rock with a drum and guitar escalade that would impress even the hardest Korn fan. In fact, they seem to be showing off, portraying a “Listen to what we can play” expression of virtuosity. You want hard and fast, well how about hard, fast and intricately complex?
Layered with hearty cords and resounding percussion, the rhythm straight out rocks, a ripping tirade that has become a signature of the band’s talents. The song, however, drifts with a comfortable transition into an ethereal, sensitive tune one tends to expect as quintessentially Rush, then pounds back and forth between the two alternating styles to encompass the sense of accomplishment felt when one experiences “Just one little victory...the spirit breaking free...”
Geddy Lee’s voice has aged like wine — now lilting and praiseworthy rather than screeching and powerful as it was fifteen years ago. Alex Lifeson’s guitar work has taken art and craft to a level of sophisticated trade, a “Blacksmith and Artist,” to borrow a phrase from the Rush anthology. And Neil Peart, well, Peart as lyricist and drummer is precise and rhythmic on percussion, worldly and in-tuned on lyrics, as always.
If the introduction to the band’s return after a six year hiatus does its job by pulling the rock audience in, the album does not disappoint.
The second track, the inspired and lively “Ceiling Unlimited,” pulsates with energy and direction, supporting the thoughtful lyrics under a shell of sense and vibration. It previews the entire record, a veritable journey which sends the “culture of the thinking class” on a mission through near-anthemic songs with heart and determination at every beat. After all, with their return, “The time is now again.”
The haunting and mystical “Ghost Rider” tells a tale of exploration around the world’s majesty, based on Peart’s own experiences as recounted in a memoir of the same title, and perhaps confronting the personal demons he faced while mourning the death of both his wife and daughter in separate events between 1997 and 1998.
Likewise, the album's title track leaves one envisioning all the places we have been and need to go in a world falling away with chaos while attempting to redefine ourselves as a shared human race.
Tenderly, “And the Stars Look Down” and “Secret Touch” find ways to exhibit emotionality while being backed by a heavy thud and thunderous rock sound. At moments the album lingers between hope — with the inspiring “Sweet Miracle,” which utilizes the “Rushian” (to coin a term) technique of double meaning layered like a Chekhov play with subtext and suggestion — and lost despair in “Freeze,” a darkened, driving exploration of the human psyche confronted with fear.
One cannot critique a Rush effort without focusing on the lyrical quality of the piece, for it is there that the soul of the band exists and where Rush separates themselves from other bands — namely the countless, both famous and forgotten, other bands who have come, gone and come back and gone away again in the twenty-five plus years since we first heard the Rush sound.
While Vapor Trails is not the “Tom Sawyer” or “Free Will” of mass appeal from the group’s halcyon days, it is an album whose conscious is vital and profound, free spirited and as wise as Sawyer may have hoped to become. It is, perhaps, Tom Sawyer all grown up.
Vapor Trails as a piece of literature endears itself poetically to a substance within that conscious, a thinking man’s creed, to pardon the pun. The album is over-layed with innuendo and insight both reflective and contemplative.
From the mundane yet omnipotently practical, “That’s how it is, that’s how it’s going to be,” to the hopeful, “Dream of a peaceable kingdom, dream of a time without war,” the work echoes of a band comfortable with the wisdom of age and sincere in their concern for humanity. As well, it underlines a conviction in their belief, if the line “It’s a smile on the edge of sadness/ It’s a dance on the edge of life” is to be believed in a better means of existence, a hope for conscious.
As he has in the past, Peart investigates those things which make us human and develops the ideas which teach us to consider how we understand the world around us: “What is the meaning of this? / What are you trying to say? / Was it something I said? Something you’d like me to do? / And the stars look down...” In the end, he grants us the peace of mind to age, but to do so while still kicking butt.
The flaw in the album may exist in its failure to produce a single track which jumps off the CD as a classic radio play mainstay. That never has been the concept Rush has gone for, and other tracks, “Earthshine” and “Nocturne,” support a complete work driven to redefine the band as rock musicians. The final track, “Out of the Cradle” signs off with a cryptic message, “Here we come, out of the cradle, endlessly rocking, endlessly rocking,” suggesting perhaps their resolve to continue with their passion for rock and roll as long as they are able to pound out boastful melodies and intense music.
Vapor Trails may not find its way onto the Billboard Top 40, as few Rush releases have, but it remains musically a tricky and elusive investigation of sound. Still, like their other works, it will sell its gold-standard to a devoted following and will place itself proudly within the band’s anthology as a spiritual, esoteric piece of musical art which exists not for, but because of, its conscious.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Rock and Roll is on Life Support
All great empires eventually fall. That is the unrequited truth of history. We cannot stop it - nor are we supposed to. The long rises, reigns and perils of great societies have been documented elsewhere. This page is not intended for stories of history, it is merely the wonderings, ramblings and inquiries of one writer trying to find his voice. Sadly, one voice of our time is dying. You may have known him as R. N. Roll.
Mr. Roll rose up in the heyday of an American empire itself that faces unfathomable challenges in these days. Roll was a rebel, a savant, a clairvoyant, a punk, a garage filler, a dancer, a stripper and a harlot all rolled into one. But R. N. also had his softer side, the anima to compliment his animus. On that side, we heard the Sirens, the heartbreak, the wail, the intrusion, the hope, the future, the piano of our lives.
R. will hold a legacy that many will cherish and that some will do nothing more than willingly forget. For R.N. Roll was not met, he was ingested, and in the bellies of our mainstream he rose up to greet us head on, one-to-one or one-to-ten-thousand, but he never left us lonely. There were good times and bad times when good men and strong women had to run far away to avoid the nausea, the vomiting, the gut-wrenching that followed Roll's lifestyle. As well, there were those who stood to be soothed by the subtle charm, mystified by the electric brilliance, and dazzled by lights unseen, chords ever echoing and reasons unquestioned.
We are all fans, in one way or another. So, please, stand with me, ladies, gentlemen, junkies, alcoholics, lovers, winners, runaways, bus stop clerks, teachers, poets, politicians, doctors and prostitutes alike, as we prepare to bid farewell to R.N. Roll.
R.N. Roll is sick.
Rock N. Roll needs Hospice care.
Rock and Roll is DYING!
You did not even see it coming, did you?
Rock N. Roll recently reached middle age. Many historians pin 1955 as the birth of Rock. With that being accepted, it would be 55 years old now. No, it did not live to the ripe old age of 92 - only poets are afforded that opportunity. One might guess that Rock died of a massive heart attack - the final effect of a life of excess, debauchery and overexposure. Ironically, no. How did Rock N. Roll die? He just kind of slunked off into the night as the rest of us were watching idols and retreads and washed-up reunions.
It started as a half-time show, never mind the act, they all appeared to be the same by the turn of the most recent decade. Rock hobbled itself onto a barely built stage, ran through meaningless repertoire of a mindless montage played at semi-half speed, doffed a hat and went on to some trendy party in the foothills.
The first real signs of declining health came in the form of a Rock Hero Guitar game, played by unknowing children and clueless former fans of bubblegum pop. They spent the summer asking, "What song was that? Who played that? Is that really the title of that song?"
Not soon after, she appeared as metaphor, a commercial selling cheeseburgers or facial cream or even erection pills. Her condition worsened as she gave herself willingly to the newest cell phone. What a travesty! It even provided a copy of her newest song as a free ringtone.
Originally, Rock had a keen sense for business, but its purpose was never about the profit. The music had always come first. Later in life, he turned to concern over retirement and investment strategies - even an odd trust fund here and there. Scholars will later come to mark that as the beginning of the end.
She led a grand life. Along the way, a museum was named in Rock N. Roll's honor - in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. Fitting, seeing as Alan Freed dubbed her by her given name there so many years back. Since, she has been called Grunge, Pop, Acid, Metal, Art, Garage, Psychedelic, even a savior once - just so long as you make no claims that she is as popular as any Biblical friends.
She was at once a Long, Tall Woman in a Black Dress, an Evil Woman, a Jessica, a Maybeline, a Pearl, and at the same time a Johnny B. Goode, a Johnny Rotten, a Sexy Pistol, a two-time Elvis, and even The-Mister-Duran-twice-over-each somehow as well.
She had her finer moments - a clash here and there, a kink to work out, a temper to throw.
But she is now dying, as near death as the legacy of the many one-hit wonders who have come and gone in her short but remarkable career.
And in that palace - that Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame - is where the death knell began its somber toll, a tintinnabulation marking the trek to an early grave.
Rock was given due celebration recently as a new group of members joined service after years at her calling. While the stage looked like her typical show, Rock N. Roll was bamboozled. As he strutted his bare-chested glamour across a New York stage, socialites in black ties, tuxedos and three-thousand-dollar dresses sat idly by and watched the demise. They did nothing to try to save her. They did not rock! They did not roll! They did not demand an encore call! They did not rush the stage, scream for more or even mosh their nearest friend. They just sat there and clapped in rhythmic denial of her beautiful swan song.
A few witnesses screamed for help, but most just nodded and smiled in some deft reverence to her inevitable passing. After all, they had paid so much for the dinner.
Perhaps you saw it. The Waldorf Astoria was the location, and the event was the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame Induction Ceremony. It was anything but ceremony. It was a funeral pyre! Mr. and Mrs. Rock N. Roll never expected to be famous in the first place; now their eventual passing has been met with luke-warm applause and the tragedy has unveiled itself.
Those long-dead empires mentioned earlier all crumbled from within. Due to either arrogance or corruption, they simply did not pay proper attention to their simplest of needs. Their people went hungry, their leaders grew powerless and their enemies found easy rapture over their once-proud societies.
Rock has suffered much the same fate. It is as if someone left the back door open to a great gig (in the sky) and forgot to check the front of house for intruders, and in crawled the posers and look-alikes who had no artistic originality, no soundful skill and who were certainly not welcome. Still, they mosied to the stage and didn't so much as steal the show as snuffed it out in fear of a fire code violation.
Once the passion is gone from Rock, its soul withers quickly.
Somewhere between a Genesis it failed to acknowledge and a wanted Nirvana that never lived up to its hype, Rock became ill and began to die. And Who knew?
While Green Days have tried to save it, White Stripes have bandaged it in vein and some sort of Purple Haze still looms over its impending demise, it may be too late. No colorful soliloquy can bring about a miracle cure.
Twenty years ago, that induction ceremony would have seen tables toppled, fists furiously flying and even the occasional bra brandished toward the bar. Not at The Astoria! Rock and Roll was never meant to be played to black ties, it was made to drive you mad with its pounding, tear at your ears with its howling and leave you sweaty like a lover who still demands more from you.
The only hope is that somewhere out there in Australia or England or Germany or Russia or even Bosnia, Boston or Brussels, that a few angry lads are strapping on guitars and kicking into a chord that will forever drive them mad. If not, rock will die. Someone needs to re-energize her, for us.
In the end, we have tributes far and wide left to her greater legacy - the Mount Rushmore of Rock - effaced with Led Zeppelin, Rush, The Beatles and...you decide. It is too painful to chisel. U2? Metallica? The Eagles? Pearl Jam? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Areosmith? Who will fill the final spot? History will decide. Just don't kiss her or adorn her with guns or roses, she deserves more than such a creed.
Like all great arts, Rock N. Roll will not be forgotten, so in that manner she will live forever, but Rock as we know it is nearly dead.
Long live rock - but only in our minds. Rest now, for you are tired. We can only hope that it is not too late. Flatline would make a terrible name for a band.
Mr. Roll rose up in the heyday of an American empire itself that faces unfathomable challenges in these days. Roll was a rebel, a savant, a clairvoyant, a punk, a garage filler, a dancer, a stripper and a harlot all rolled into one. But R. N. also had his softer side, the anima to compliment his animus. On that side, we heard the Sirens, the heartbreak, the wail, the intrusion, the hope, the future, the piano of our lives.
R. will hold a legacy that many will cherish and that some will do nothing more than willingly forget. For R.N. Roll was not met, he was ingested, and in the bellies of our mainstream he rose up to greet us head on, one-to-one or one-to-ten-thousand, but he never left us lonely. There were good times and bad times when good men and strong women had to run far away to avoid the nausea, the vomiting, the gut-wrenching that followed Roll's lifestyle. As well, there were those who stood to be soothed by the subtle charm, mystified by the electric brilliance, and dazzled by lights unseen, chords ever echoing and reasons unquestioned.
We are all fans, in one way or another. So, please, stand with me, ladies, gentlemen, junkies, alcoholics, lovers, winners, runaways, bus stop clerks, teachers, poets, politicians, doctors and prostitutes alike, as we prepare to bid farewell to R.N. Roll.
R.N. Roll is sick.
Rock N. Roll needs Hospice care.
Rock and Roll is DYING!
You did not even see it coming, did you?
Rock N. Roll recently reached middle age. Many historians pin 1955 as the birth of Rock. With that being accepted, it would be 55 years old now. No, it did not live to the ripe old age of 92 - only poets are afforded that opportunity. One might guess that Rock died of a massive heart attack - the final effect of a life of excess, debauchery and overexposure. Ironically, no. How did Rock N. Roll die? He just kind of slunked off into the night as the rest of us were watching idols and retreads and washed-up reunions.
It started as a half-time show, never mind the act, they all appeared to be the same by the turn of the most recent decade. Rock hobbled itself onto a barely built stage, ran through meaningless repertoire of a mindless montage played at semi-half speed, doffed a hat and went on to some trendy party in the foothills.
The first real signs of declining health came in the form of a Rock Hero Guitar game, played by unknowing children and clueless former fans of bubblegum pop. They spent the summer asking, "What song was that? Who played that? Is that really the title of that song?"
Not soon after, she appeared as metaphor, a commercial selling cheeseburgers or facial cream or even erection pills. Her condition worsened as she gave herself willingly to the newest cell phone. What a travesty! It even provided a copy of her newest song as a free ringtone.
Originally, Rock had a keen sense for business, but its purpose was never about the profit. The music had always come first. Later in life, he turned to concern over retirement and investment strategies - even an odd trust fund here and there. Scholars will later come to mark that as the beginning of the end.
She led a grand life. Along the way, a museum was named in Rock N. Roll's honor - in Cleveland, Ohio, of all places. Fitting, seeing as Alan Freed dubbed her by her given name there so many years back. Since, she has been called Grunge, Pop, Acid, Metal, Art, Garage, Psychedelic, even a savior once - just so long as you make no claims that she is as popular as any Biblical friends.
She was at once a Long, Tall Woman in a Black Dress, an Evil Woman, a Jessica, a Maybeline, a Pearl, and at the same time a Johnny B. Goode, a Johnny Rotten, a Sexy Pistol, a two-time Elvis, and even The-Mister-Duran-twice-over-each somehow as well.
She had her finer moments - a clash here and there, a kink to work out, a temper to throw.
But she is now dying, as near death as the legacy of the many one-hit wonders who have come and gone in her short but remarkable career.
And in that palace - that Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame - is where the death knell began its somber toll, a tintinnabulation marking the trek to an early grave.
Rock was given due celebration recently as a new group of members joined service after years at her calling. While the stage looked like her typical show, Rock N. Roll was bamboozled. As he strutted his bare-chested glamour across a New York stage, socialites in black ties, tuxedos and three-thousand-dollar dresses sat idly by and watched the demise. They did nothing to try to save her. They did not rock! They did not roll! They did not demand an encore call! They did not rush the stage, scream for more or even mosh their nearest friend. They just sat there and clapped in rhythmic denial of her beautiful swan song.
A few witnesses screamed for help, but most just nodded and smiled in some deft reverence to her inevitable passing. After all, they had paid so much for the dinner.
Perhaps you saw it. The Waldorf Astoria was the location, and the event was the 2010 Rock and Roll Hall-of-Fame Induction Ceremony. It was anything but ceremony. It was a funeral pyre! Mr. and Mrs. Rock N. Roll never expected to be famous in the first place; now their eventual passing has been met with luke-warm applause and the tragedy has unveiled itself.
Those long-dead empires mentioned earlier all crumbled from within. Due to either arrogance or corruption, they simply did not pay proper attention to their simplest of needs. Their people went hungry, their leaders grew powerless and their enemies found easy rapture over their once-proud societies.
Rock has suffered much the same fate. It is as if someone left the back door open to a great gig (in the sky) and forgot to check the front of house for intruders, and in crawled the posers and look-alikes who had no artistic originality, no soundful skill and who were certainly not welcome. Still, they mosied to the stage and didn't so much as steal the show as snuffed it out in fear of a fire code violation.
Once the passion is gone from Rock, its soul withers quickly.
Somewhere between a Genesis it failed to acknowledge and a wanted Nirvana that never lived up to its hype, Rock became ill and began to die. And Who knew?
While Green Days have tried to save it, White Stripes have bandaged it in vein and some sort of Purple Haze still looms over its impending demise, it may be too late. No colorful soliloquy can bring about a miracle cure.
Twenty years ago, that induction ceremony would have seen tables toppled, fists furiously flying and even the occasional bra brandished toward the bar. Not at The Astoria! Rock and Roll was never meant to be played to black ties, it was made to drive you mad with its pounding, tear at your ears with its howling and leave you sweaty like a lover who still demands more from you.
The only hope is that somewhere out there in Australia or England or Germany or Russia or even Bosnia, Boston or Brussels, that a few angry lads are strapping on guitars and kicking into a chord that will forever drive them mad. If not, rock will die. Someone needs to re-energize her, for us.
In the end, we have tributes far and wide left to her greater legacy - the Mount Rushmore of Rock - effaced with Led Zeppelin, Rush, The Beatles and...you decide. It is too painful to chisel. U2? Metallica? The Eagles? Pearl Jam? Lynyrd Skynyrd? Areosmith? Who will fill the final spot? History will decide. Just don't kiss her or adorn her with guns or roses, she deserves more than such a creed.
Like all great arts, Rock N. Roll will not be forgotten, so in that manner she will live forever, but Rock as we know it is nearly dead.
Long live rock - but only in our minds. Rest now, for you are tired. We can only hope that it is not too late. Flatline would make a terrible name for a band.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Classic "Here's Something Nobody Cares About..."
I thought it would be fun every once in a while to publish an essay from the original column I wrote in college. Today's is by complete coincidence. It was published twenty years ago - almost to the day! Originally published in "The Thielensian" newspaper on March 20, 1990, an original "Here's Something Nobody Cares About...":
As warm weather pays a humble visit to Greenville, I jump at the opportunity to once again view the world from my "window of inspiration." It is a quaint little spot on campus: comfortable, confined, cozy, and flooding with memories. With the coldness of winter now passing, I can write without being frozen solid to this construction which allows me to break all laws of gravity. In other words, I won't freeze my butt off! A number of months have passed since last I sat perched high above our home to contemplate the lesser important significances of this world called planet Thiel.
However, today, I go beyond Thiel, cross the border of Greenville, and reach far and wide over the vast expanse of our universe. Today, I embark on yet another noble quest, a quest for an answer.
QUESTION: Who are "they"?
The English speaking world uses the term "they" to apply to everyone who does something significant, or does nothing at all, but since no one knows these people, we refer to them as "they." An example: "they say it's gonna rain tomorrow"..."they should fix those damn potholes..."; and the most used cliche "they" statement, "they can put a man on the moon, but they can't..."
Who are "they"?
I personally believe that "they" are a group of high school dropouts strung out on Mountain Dew, BB-Q chips and MTV, who consider themselves to be noted experts on everything. Then again, "they" could be a group of seven philosophers who, after taking Doc White's courses, thought the world was theirs to rule. These philosophers sit around a well-lit, air-conditioned room, drinking Perrier (is that spelled correctly?) and eating finger sandwiches, whatever they are. And, of course, they all drive Saaaaaabs. Perhaps, "they" are three old ladies who have nothing better to do with their lives than to annoy us.
Whoever "they" are, "they" should form a conglomerate to solve the world's problems. Wouldn't it be nice to say, "A bunch of high school dropouts, seven philosophers and three old ladies found a cure for cancer."? That would ring so much nicer in the ear. Enough of that.
A WARNING: An ice-age is expected to hit in about 100,000 years. That is 36,500,000 days from now (approximately) plus 25,000 leaps days. So make sure to stock up on parkas, sweaters, and a lot of reading material. Rumor has it's gonna be a doozy! Don't worry, though, it's not until after finals.
As warm weather pays a humble visit to Greenville, I jump at the opportunity to once again view the world from my "window of inspiration." It is a quaint little spot on campus: comfortable, confined, cozy, and flooding with memories. With the coldness of winter now passing, I can write without being frozen solid to this construction which allows me to break all laws of gravity. In other words, I won't freeze my butt off! A number of months have passed since last I sat perched high above our home to contemplate the lesser important significances of this world called planet Thiel.
However, today, I go beyond Thiel, cross the border of Greenville, and reach far and wide over the vast expanse of our universe. Today, I embark on yet another noble quest, a quest for an answer.
QUESTION: Who are "they"?
The English speaking world uses the term "they" to apply to everyone who does something significant, or does nothing at all, but since no one knows these people, we refer to them as "they." An example: "they say it's gonna rain tomorrow"..."they should fix those damn potholes..."; and the most used cliche "they" statement, "they can put a man on the moon, but they can't..."
Who are "they"?
I personally believe that "they" are a group of high school dropouts strung out on Mountain Dew, BB-Q chips and MTV, who consider themselves to be noted experts on everything. Then again, "they" could be a group of seven philosophers who, after taking Doc White's courses, thought the world was theirs to rule. These philosophers sit around a well-lit, air-conditioned room, drinking Perrier (is that spelled correctly?) and eating finger sandwiches, whatever they are. And, of course, they all drive Saaaaaabs. Perhaps, "they" are three old ladies who have nothing better to do with their lives than to annoy us.
Whoever "they" are, "they" should form a conglomerate to solve the world's problems. Wouldn't it be nice to say, "A bunch of high school dropouts, seven philosophers and three old ladies found a cure for cancer."? That would ring so much nicer in the ear. Enough of that.
A WARNING: An ice-age is expected to hit in about 100,000 years. That is 36,500,000 days from now (approximately) plus 25,000 leaps days. So make sure to stock up on parkas, sweaters, and a lot of reading material. Rumor has it's gonna be a doozy! Don't worry, though, it's not until after finals.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dog Days Not So Far Away
I've been thinking a lot lately about being a dog owner. While it is no surprise that we as a society are dog lovers, it surprises me more and more each year just how much we will tolerate because of our affection for these creatures.
First off all, has there ever been another species in existence that willingly cleans up the waste matter of another species? I doubt it. I am no biologist, but still I doubt it. Perhaps there is some weird-looking sea-scraping creature that cleans the ocean floor of fish fecal particles, but that has little to nothing to do with us.
Reports have surfaced lately that dogs react to the theme music from television's Law and Order in a very peculiar way. They yelp, they moan, they cover their ears with theirs paws. And, really, as much as I hate anything that is cute, what is cuter than a dog attempting to cover its ears with its paws? They just can't reach far enough to serve the intended purpose, so they look like a noodle that aspires to be a pretzel on the schoolyard of culinary similes. It is a stretch. But these dogs! Apparently, our canine friends are rushing under tables to protect themselves from the mysterious tones of this show.
I don't watch the show so I may never know if this is rumor, hearsay or both, but I will delight (just a little) in watching one of our dogs bark and scamper and howl if the show happens to be on when I am surfing through cable or whatever fiber-optic-satellite-junky-million-stations-with-nothing-on subscription that I happen to pay for every month. The dog gets to watch TV for free, by the way.
This is just proof that dogs are more than special. They are like little brothers in our lives. Trust me, I know! I am a little brother and never had a littler one to mess with. One cannot help but give a little brother a hard time. It comes with the territory - a familial pecking order of sorts. The family dog fits nicely into the process. I can pick on the dog without hurting him. I can call him stupid names while rubbing behind his ears and he does not feel offended or hurt, nor is he even remotely aware that one could be insulted in the first place. The kids can dress him to look like an absolute dolt on Halloween, and the creature does not know the difference. He just stands there as laughs are filling the room and photos are capturing the moment forever. Really, he is grateful the TV is off. He is the center of attention, and he takes it so well.
If I have a bad day, my dog meets me at the door as if the most exciting thing ever (ever!) is to greet a guy from Pittsburgh at the door. If I take my dog for a ride in the car, to him it is the best thing ever! Okay, enough with the exaggerated ever! joke. But a dog reveals the simpler things in life that we might overlook. Sitting in the grass on a summer evening is grand. If only the dog were smart enough to realize that he keeps smelling his own poop, he would be half the creature we are. As well, running down the street while I (with my wife and kids in tow) yell after him, "Stop! Come here, boy. No, do not trample Miss Johnson's daisies!" seems to be the ultimate pleasure for this creature. In truth, he is laughing at us. He knows that after he has had his run of the neighborhood, he will get the slice of bologna that was intended to lure him home. It's a "reward" for coming home when really he thinks of it as his treat for making us get the exercise we so badly need. Who is the fool here? Not the dog - I am! I know he will eventually return home, panting and flashing that adorable smile that suckers me in each time. And, he knows that we humans will convince ourselves that offering the pressed sandwich meat will somehow train him not to run next time. It is Pavlovian foolery at its finest!
And then there is the couch. A dog has a sense of entitlement, as if the couch is his throne. Where did this originate? I want to know who the first American was to let his pooch jump up onto the couch to sit and watch a baseball game with him. And then, I would like to beat that person with a rolled-up newspaper. Seriously, who ever gave the dog this idea? As soon as the first beagle or Lhasa Apso pulled it off, word went around the canine universe that people will allow their dogs onto the couch. Before long, Kansas City had a Labrador hopping on a sofa, Seattle saw a Collie sprawled out on the love seat, and some mutt in Texas was snoozing on a settee. Chaos took over! Pittsburghers watched Neil O'Donnell lose Super Bowl 30, and they almost wailed at the Spaniels, Pugs and Terriers sitting next to them in disbelief. The dogs had taken over!
So, what is next? We think they are cute and cuddly and warm and friendly, and they are. We love them. But, they are plotting against us. First, they had us doing their bidding. Then, they took over our furniture. Now, they are controlling the media! See, a coup starts in just this manner. A dictator always controls the masses through the news, right? Well, the dog in your house might now be avoiding television because of the harsh tones of a detective show. But mark my word, soon they will be switching the channel on you. Dogs no longer eat the remote control. They now understand that even without the opposable thumbs that have for so long "separated us from the beasts," they can press a paw upon the up/down button and rule our lives. Huh? See! You never saw that one coming, did you?
Look, dogs are significant. Dogs are wonderful. Dogs are the best, ever! (Couldn't resist.) As an example, I ask you, what is a girl's best friend? A diamond! A cold, heartless stone. What is man's best friend? The dog! A warm, loveable creature. I'm just saying.
However, we will soon rue the day when we first scooped poop, called pooch up on to the pouffe and ran around the block to call him home. If we are not careful, they will overtake the house and have us watching reruns of Scooby or live broadcasts of some New York Kennel.
They are plotting to take over our lives, I tell you. What else would they be doing all day just sitting there waiting for us to come home?
Until the next post...
First off all, has there ever been another species in existence that willingly cleans up the waste matter of another species? I doubt it. I am no biologist, but still I doubt it. Perhaps there is some weird-looking sea-scraping creature that cleans the ocean floor of fish fecal particles, but that has little to nothing to do with us.
Reports have surfaced lately that dogs react to the theme music from television's Law and Order in a very peculiar way. They yelp, they moan, they cover their ears with theirs paws. And, really, as much as I hate anything that is cute, what is cuter than a dog attempting to cover its ears with its paws? They just can't reach far enough to serve the intended purpose, so they look like a noodle that aspires to be a pretzel on the schoolyard of culinary similes. It is a stretch. But these dogs! Apparently, our canine friends are rushing under tables to protect themselves from the mysterious tones of this show.
I don't watch the show so I may never know if this is rumor, hearsay or both, but I will delight (just a little) in watching one of our dogs bark and scamper and howl if the show happens to be on when I am surfing through cable or whatever fiber-optic-satellite-junky-million-stations-with-nothing-on subscription that I happen to pay for every month. The dog gets to watch TV for free, by the way.
This is just proof that dogs are more than special. They are like little brothers in our lives. Trust me, I know! I am a little brother and never had a littler one to mess with. One cannot help but give a little brother a hard time. It comes with the territory - a familial pecking order of sorts. The family dog fits nicely into the process. I can pick on the dog without hurting him. I can call him stupid names while rubbing behind his ears and he does not feel offended or hurt, nor is he even remotely aware that one could be insulted in the first place. The kids can dress him to look like an absolute dolt on Halloween, and the creature does not know the difference. He just stands there as laughs are filling the room and photos are capturing the moment forever. Really, he is grateful the TV is off. He is the center of attention, and he takes it so well.
If I have a bad day, my dog meets me at the door as if the most exciting thing ever (ever!) is to greet a guy from Pittsburgh at the door. If I take my dog for a ride in the car, to him it is the best thing ever! Okay, enough with the exaggerated ever! joke. But a dog reveals the simpler things in life that we might overlook. Sitting in the grass on a summer evening is grand. If only the dog were smart enough to realize that he keeps smelling his own poop, he would be half the creature we are. As well, running down the street while I (with my wife and kids in tow) yell after him, "Stop! Come here, boy. No, do not trample Miss Johnson's daisies!" seems to be the ultimate pleasure for this creature. In truth, he is laughing at us. He knows that after he has had his run of the neighborhood, he will get the slice of bologna that was intended to lure him home. It's a "reward" for coming home when really he thinks of it as his treat for making us get the exercise we so badly need. Who is the fool here? Not the dog - I am! I know he will eventually return home, panting and flashing that adorable smile that suckers me in each time. And, he knows that we humans will convince ourselves that offering the pressed sandwich meat will somehow train him not to run next time. It is Pavlovian foolery at its finest!
And then there is the couch. A dog has a sense of entitlement, as if the couch is his throne. Where did this originate? I want to know who the first American was to let his pooch jump up onto the couch to sit and watch a baseball game with him. And then, I would like to beat that person with a rolled-up newspaper. Seriously, who ever gave the dog this idea? As soon as the first beagle or Lhasa Apso pulled it off, word went around the canine universe that people will allow their dogs onto the couch. Before long, Kansas City had a Labrador hopping on a sofa, Seattle saw a Collie sprawled out on the love seat, and some mutt in Texas was snoozing on a settee. Chaos took over! Pittsburghers watched Neil O'Donnell lose Super Bowl 30, and they almost wailed at the Spaniels, Pugs and Terriers sitting next to them in disbelief. The dogs had taken over!
So, what is next? We think they are cute and cuddly and warm and friendly, and they are. We love them. But, they are plotting against us. First, they had us doing their bidding. Then, they took over our furniture. Now, they are controlling the media! See, a coup starts in just this manner. A dictator always controls the masses through the news, right? Well, the dog in your house might now be avoiding television because of the harsh tones of a detective show. But mark my word, soon they will be switching the channel on you. Dogs no longer eat the remote control. They now understand that even without the opposable thumbs that have for so long "separated us from the beasts," they can press a paw upon the up/down button and rule our lives. Huh? See! You never saw that one coming, did you?
Look, dogs are significant. Dogs are wonderful. Dogs are the best, ever! (Couldn't resist.) As an example, I ask you, what is a girl's best friend? A diamond! A cold, heartless stone. What is man's best friend? The dog! A warm, loveable creature. I'm just saying.
However, we will soon rue the day when we first scooped poop, called pooch up on to the pouffe and ran around the block to call him home. If we are not careful, they will overtake the house and have us watching reruns of Scooby or live broadcasts of some New York Kennel.
They are plotting to take over our lives, I tell you. What else would they be doing all day just sitting there waiting for us to come home?
Until the next post...
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Cubs are Losers!
The beauty of history is that it teaches us where we have come from and gives an insight to where we should be going. At best, it reflects who we are; at worst, it highlights what we have still to learn. The beauty of cable television is that it sends us packets of history in neat little thirty-minute segments!
The beauty of baseball is far and deep and rich, and is tied to American history in many ways.
This winter, I am glad I have cable and history and baseball, because all three remind me that the Chicago Cubs are nothing but a team of hapless losers.
ESPN Classic recently aired game 6 of the 2003 National League Championship Series. You may recall that this was the game with the famous “Bartman Ball” incident. This was when a twenty-something fan reached for a foul ball that was heading toward the glove of a Cubs’ outfielder and knocked the ball out of reach. It was a beautiful moment! As the futility of the Cubs overflowed into a heartbreaking loss, the team went onto to lose game 7 of that series and continued the curse that keeps them from the World Series.
As an avid anti-Cub guy, I enjoyed viewing that game again, especially knowing what was coming. Now, I did not watch the entire replay – only the 6th through 8th innings as I knew the impending doom that was soon to be launched upon the Cubs and their fans. After all, I had the benefit of history’s spyglass pointing backward to that fall collapse.
Watching the moment felt the way it must feel when one sees their arch enemy falter, or how an ex-anything witnesses his or her former lover suffer some miserable embarrassment. It was sheer diabolical joy!
The Cubs are not all that our media frenzy fandom would make them out to be. They only have monumental national status because Chicago is a large city – see New York Yankees Rise to Prominence circa 1920-1935.
In 2009, when the Cubs were eliminated from the play-offs (again!), it marked a 101 year gap (chasm? void? black hole of futility?) between World Series Championships for the so-called "Lovable Losers." Yes, you read that correctly - the Cubs have not won the World Series since 1908!
Correct me if I am wrong, but that is longer than most Americans have been alive, longer than most technology has survived its usefulness and even longer than the Rolling Stones have been doing reunion tours. But, still, America loves the Northside Chicago Baseball Boys. Why?
Because we are afraid to call them what they are, and that is historic losers.
The moniker of "loveable losers" is an embarrassment to competition. Are the Pirates loved throughout the land for their now-record 17 straight losing seasons? No. Are the Indians the nation's darlings because they have not won the World Series since 1948? No! Do we adore the NY / San Francisco Giants for having not won baseball’s championship in 56 years? Of course not.
Yet all three teams are mocked endlessly by fans and pundits of the game while the Cubs are elevated to mythic status as Mistresses of the Diamond, as Charlatans of Cooperstown. Lest we forget to mention the Royals, Padres or Expos / Nationals, who have never won baseball's championship at all.
In short, losers are losers and the Cubs need to be called that -- LOSERS.
Call them chokers, perennial disappointments or yearly also-rans, but either term is a euphemism for L – O – S – E – R! They are no better than the Giants, Indians and Pirates, who, by the way, have won a combined 10 World Series titles since 1908. (I'm just saying.) It is time that baseball fans acknowledge the fact that the Cubs might never win the World Series again – goats be damned!
So the next time someone discusses the “friendly confines” of Wrigley Field (I was there in June of 1997 for a game and it was a nice outing but as cold as a Pittsburgh autumn; a.k.a. – not so friendly after all), please ask them why they root for classic losers. Or the next time someone admires Lou Piniella for his brash arrogance, I encourage you to remind them that he is at the helm of a group of losers!
Am I a bitter Pirates fan? No, not really. I embrace history. It is part of what makes baseball the great game that it is, the same magic that you just cannot explain to someone who is not a fan of our once national pastime. I am old enough to have attended a Pirates play-off game and I recall the 1979 World Series fondly. As well, I am often heard reminding people that the Pirates were once a proud and successful franchise, as were those same Royals and Expos.
In fact, had someone pulled a Rip Van Winkle in 1992 and awoken on June 27, 2009, they would have thought it was late October as the Pirates battled the Royals for a World Series title. But that was just Kansas City visiting PNC Park on a mild summer evening for interleague play, something no one knew of the last time the Pirates had a winning season...in 1992.
What is wrong with baseball is obvious – it needs a salary cap. I am not the first to have said that, nor will I be the last. Until we as fans join together and outright boycott the game for an entire season, not much will change. Maybe the Yankees won’t win the World Series again in 2010. Maybe the Rays were a fluke in 2008. They might join the Cubs and not have a post-season appearance again until 2108. Either way, it won’t be the Cubs who will be sipping November Champagne this year. And for that, we should all come to the realization that the Cubs are Losers. Deal with it! I for one will celebrate the fact.
The beauty of baseball is far and deep and rich, and is tied to American history in many ways.
This winter, I am glad I have cable and history and baseball, because all three remind me that the Chicago Cubs are nothing but a team of hapless losers.
ESPN Classic recently aired game 6 of the 2003 National League Championship Series. You may recall that this was the game with the famous “Bartman Ball” incident. This was when a twenty-something fan reached for a foul ball that was heading toward the glove of a Cubs’ outfielder and knocked the ball out of reach. It was a beautiful moment! As the futility of the Cubs overflowed into a heartbreaking loss, the team went onto to lose game 7 of that series and continued the curse that keeps them from the World Series.
As an avid anti-Cub guy, I enjoyed viewing that game again, especially knowing what was coming. Now, I did not watch the entire replay – only the 6th through 8th innings as I knew the impending doom that was soon to be launched upon the Cubs and their fans. After all, I had the benefit of history’s spyglass pointing backward to that fall collapse.
Watching the moment felt the way it must feel when one sees their arch enemy falter, or how an ex-anything witnesses his or her former lover suffer some miserable embarrassment. It was sheer diabolical joy!
The Cubs are not all that our media frenzy fandom would make them out to be. They only have monumental national status because Chicago is a large city – see New York Yankees Rise to Prominence circa 1920-1935.
In 2009, when the Cubs were eliminated from the play-offs (again!), it marked a 101 year gap (chasm? void? black hole of futility?) between World Series Championships for the so-called "Lovable Losers." Yes, you read that correctly - the Cubs have not won the World Series since 1908!
Correct me if I am wrong, but that is longer than most Americans have been alive, longer than most technology has survived its usefulness and even longer than the Rolling Stones have been doing reunion tours. But, still, America loves the Northside Chicago Baseball Boys. Why?
Because we are afraid to call them what they are, and that is historic losers.
The moniker of "loveable losers" is an embarrassment to competition. Are the Pirates loved throughout the land for their now-record 17 straight losing seasons? No. Are the Indians the nation's darlings because they have not won the World Series since 1948? No! Do we adore the NY / San Francisco Giants for having not won baseball’s championship in 56 years? Of course not.
Yet all three teams are mocked endlessly by fans and pundits of the game while the Cubs are elevated to mythic status as Mistresses of the Diamond, as Charlatans of Cooperstown. Lest we forget to mention the Royals, Padres or Expos / Nationals, who have never won baseball's championship at all.
In short, losers are losers and the Cubs need to be called that -- LOSERS.
Call them chokers, perennial disappointments or yearly also-rans, but either term is a euphemism for L – O – S – E – R! They are no better than the Giants, Indians and Pirates, who, by the way, have won a combined 10 World Series titles since 1908. (I'm just saying.) It is time that baseball fans acknowledge the fact that the Cubs might never win the World Series again – goats be damned!
So the next time someone discusses the “friendly confines” of Wrigley Field (I was there in June of 1997 for a game and it was a nice outing but as cold as a Pittsburgh autumn; a.k.a. – not so friendly after all), please ask them why they root for classic losers. Or the next time someone admires Lou Piniella for his brash arrogance, I encourage you to remind them that he is at the helm of a group of losers!
Am I a bitter Pirates fan? No, not really. I embrace history. It is part of what makes baseball the great game that it is, the same magic that you just cannot explain to someone who is not a fan of our once national pastime. I am old enough to have attended a Pirates play-off game and I recall the 1979 World Series fondly. As well, I am often heard reminding people that the Pirates were once a proud and successful franchise, as were those same Royals and Expos.
In fact, had someone pulled a Rip Van Winkle in 1992 and awoken on June 27, 2009, they would have thought it was late October as the Pirates battled the Royals for a World Series title. But that was just Kansas City visiting PNC Park on a mild summer evening for interleague play, something no one knew of the last time the Pirates had a winning season...in 1992.
What is wrong with baseball is obvious – it needs a salary cap. I am not the first to have said that, nor will I be the last. Until we as fans join together and outright boycott the game for an entire season, not much will change. Maybe the Yankees won’t win the World Series again in 2010. Maybe the Rays were a fluke in 2008. They might join the Cubs and not have a post-season appearance again until 2108. Either way, it won’t be the Cubs who will be sipping November Champagne this year. And for that, we should all come to the realization that the Cubs are Losers. Deal with it! I for one will celebrate the fact.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Snow-Snowing Away
I have the feeling that everyone wishes I would talk about the snow. (Everyone being an extremely relative term - considering I have all of a dozen readers at best.) But I am not going to do that. I don't want to talk about the snow. Just how do I have this alleged feeling? I don't know, but I think it has something to do with being a Kirk and using the Force in some quasi-related definition of irony.
I could discuss the record amounts of snowfall that have hit my hometown of Pittsburgh and the surrounding area, but I won't because D.C. and Philadelphia got walloped worse. I do think that Philly had it coming to them, though. After all, their baseball team allowed the Yankees to win the World Series. I'm just saying.
Most readers would expect me to tell my own story to somehow draw relevance to the bigger things in our lives. We want to connect in that way. We like to link our memories to the events of our shared human experience. If I were to do that, I would bore you with thoughts about my childhood when I recall in 1978 having only had school on Wednesdays for an entire winter. Or, of how I happened to move south in 1993 - the worst winter to have hit Western PA in decades. That would bore you, so I won't mention those facts.
I refuse to quote Mark Twain, who said, "Everyone complains about the weather, but no ever does anything about it." That is a great quote, and one that, based on how long ago Twain lived, shows that the human animal really has not changed all that much over the centuries. As much as we have evolved, we have stayed the same. There might be a Rush reference in there somewhere, but I won't quote either Twain or the Tom-Sawyer-boys, because they have all been quoted before.
Sorry, I just won't discuss the Blizzard of 2010 because it is a mundane topic. After all, the news has covered the event ad nauseum - from snow-packed streets to a plow that actually caught on fire! They have used news time to show a citizen fall, another complain and yet another remove newly accumulated snow from a car window. What gripping footage! I will not pay credence to events that are of nature which we somehow make into a news story. Writing about that would be as ridiculous as the news coverage itself.
Nor will I gain a cheap laugh by telling the story of the first voicemail we heard when our electricity was restored after 22 hours in the near-cold/near-dark of our house. Oh, you would love that one! The message was from our neighbor who is "wintering" in Florida, and she said that she has a snowblower in her garage that we are welcome to use! Great, just when we had finished 5 other driveways. Nope, I won't share that story because you will assume I am making it up.
As much as readers may wish, I will not justify the rambling complaints of my friends and co-workers. These same people who gripe and whine about the snow and the cold and the muck and the ice will be the same who complain in six months because it is too hot, too sticky, too humid or because they are too sun-burned. By then, it will not be the heat that bothers them, but the humidity. Then again, I have not heard a single person say, "Cold enough for you?" yet this winter.
As well, I will not waste valuable (well, again - a relative term) webspace wondering just why people make a rush on groceries at the earliest hint of an approaching storm. But we must give credit where credit is due. This time, the crazies got it right. Heading to the store to grab milk, bread and eggs the very minute WTK-whatever-station broadcast a coming storm was actually a good idea for the first time since 1993.
And, finally, I will not even scrape the ice of the age-old topic about exercise and hard work. I could ramble on about how good I feel after having shoveled snow amounts in the metric tonnage, but I will not do that either. I could remind myself that it is all about mind over matter, this exercise thing; how if I just motivate myself regularly I can in fact work harder to push myself further and to tone up, lose weight and get in shape. After all, if I can find enough energy to shovel during a snowfall of six days straight, I could definitely do it for a standard work-out routine. No one wants to read about that! Besides, if I were to write that fact, someone would undoubtedly use it against me in the future.
So as much as you and every other reader would like to have read about my views on THE STORM, I am sorry but I cannot and will not do that. Maybe next year when we have a serious and substantial storm I will rant about winter. For now, I will just bid you good day and get back out there with shovel in hand. I mean, really, what is 26 inches of snow over 6 days when you have multiple driveways to clear?
I could discuss the record amounts of snowfall that have hit my hometown of Pittsburgh and the surrounding area, but I won't because D.C. and Philadelphia got walloped worse. I do think that Philly had it coming to them, though. After all, their baseball team allowed the Yankees to win the World Series. I'm just saying.
Most readers would expect me to tell my own story to somehow draw relevance to the bigger things in our lives. We want to connect in that way. We like to link our memories to the events of our shared human experience. If I were to do that, I would bore you with thoughts about my childhood when I recall in 1978 having only had school on Wednesdays for an entire winter. Or, of how I happened to move south in 1993 - the worst winter to have hit Western PA in decades. That would bore you, so I won't mention those facts.
I refuse to quote Mark Twain, who said, "Everyone complains about the weather, but no ever does anything about it." That is a great quote, and one that, based on how long ago Twain lived, shows that the human animal really has not changed all that much over the centuries. As much as we have evolved, we have stayed the same. There might be a Rush reference in there somewhere, but I won't quote either Twain or the Tom-Sawyer-boys, because they have all been quoted before.
Sorry, I just won't discuss the Blizzard of 2010 because it is a mundane topic. After all, the news has covered the event ad nauseum - from snow-packed streets to a plow that actually caught on fire! They have used news time to show a citizen fall, another complain and yet another remove newly accumulated snow from a car window. What gripping footage! I will not pay credence to events that are of nature which we somehow make into a news story. Writing about that would be as ridiculous as the news coverage itself.
Nor will I gain a cheap laugh by telling the story of the first voicemail we heard when our electricity was restored after 22 hours in the near-cold/near-dark of our house. Oh, you would love that one! The message was from our neighbor who is "wintering" in Florida, and she said that she has a snowblower in her garage that we are welcome to use! Great, just when we had finished 5 other driveways. Nope, I won't share that story because you will assume I am making it up.
As much as readers may wish, I will not justify the rambling complaints of my friends and co-workers. These same people who gripe and whine about the snow and the cold and the muck and the ice will be the same who complain in six months because it is too hot, too sticky, too humid or because they are too sun-burned. By then, it will not be the heat that bothers them, but the humidity. Then again, I have not heard a single person say, "Cold enough for you?" yet this winter.
As well, I will not waste valuable (well, again - a relative term) webspace wondering just why people make a rush on groceries at the earliest hint of an approaching storm. But we must give credit where credit is due. This time, the crazies got it right. Heading to the store to grab milk, bread and eggs the very minute WTK-whatever-station broadcast a coming storm was actually a good idea for the first time since 1993.
And, finally, I will not even scrape the ice of the age-old topic about exercise and hard work. I could ramble on about how good I feel after having shoveled snow amounts in the metric tonnage, but I will not do that either. I could remind myself that it is all about mind over matter, this exercise thing; how if I just motivate myself regularly I can in fact work harder to push myself further and to tone up, lose weight and get in shape. After all, if I can find enough energy to shovel during a snowfall of six days straight, I could definitely do it for a standard work-out routine. No one wants to read about that! Besides, if I were to write that fact, someone would undoubtedly use it against me in the future.
So as much as you and every other reader would like to have read about my views on THE STORM, I am sorry but I cannot and will not do that. Maybe next year when we have a serious and substantial storm I will rant about winter. For now, I will just bid you good day and get back out there with shovel in hand. I mean, really, what is 26 inches of snow over 6 days when you have multiple driveways to clear?
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Top One-Liners from Non-Sports Movies
Sadly, when the Boston Red Sox won the 2004 World Series, a slice of Americana passed away. Namely, those of us loyal (or somewhat loyal…or bandwagon loyal) to the “Red Sox Nation” now have nothing to moan about because the team ended the dreaded “Curse of the Bambino” over five years ago. And it will be long before we hear talk of the poor Red Sox fans who have gone their whole lives without seeing their team win. Hell, there are fourteen and seventeen-year old kids right here in Pittsburgh who haven’t experienced a winning season, yet alone a play-off race as fans of our Pirates!
The sad reality is that a great one-liner from a movie is now null and void. Well, at least to sports fans it might have been a great line. You see, sports like art reflects life, reflects sports, reflects art, reflects life...whatever. But, seriously, many of our films remind us about how we feel as a people. Our American conscious is revealed through the films we watch, those we love and hate, and those we choose to quote. (If it happens to be Monty Python, the ones we quote ad nauseam until we are kicked out of a friend’s apartment while viewing, but that is another story.)
Now, as thoughts of baseball return and the Red Sox’ Championship banner flies high over Fenway Park, let’s take a look at great sports lines from non-sports movies, and end it with a Requiem for the Greatest Sports One-Liner From a Non-Sports Movie Ever...as now registered dead by those same Red Sox.
The precept is simple – the general story-line of the film is not along the lines of Bull Durham, Slapshot or Remember the Titans, but rather just any variety of subjects in which a sports one-liner works its way into the film, and those one-liners deserve mentioning.
In shameless self-promotion mode, allow me to mention that I recently wondered about my own writing and came across this idea. In a play I wrote a few years back, a grumpy old man is asked “Isn’t it a glorious day?” on a given New Years Day in the 20th Century. The play is set in Baltimore, MD, and for better or worse is entitled, West of Hell. (And is available for production or for movie rights, by the way!) The old man’s response is what got me thinking about great sports commentaries found in films not about sports. To that question, “Isn’t it a glorious day?”, he replies to his erstwhile pseudo-niece, “There hasn’t been a glorious day in Baltimore since the Colts left!” Ravens fans who choose to unite against me, be damned! Onto the list!
If movies are a collective reflection of our culture, then maybe we can learn something from movies that make up a fun (or stupid) list. After all, this is the only list left to be made for a top-100 or top-10 of anything. However, in devotion to football, we’ll go for a touchdown (plus the assumed point after) equivalent of the Top Ten Format. So here goes...the Top SEVEN Greatest Sports One-Liners From Non-Sports Movies:
Strange Brew (Honorable Mention) – In this early 1980s Canadian caper, the McKenzie Brothers find themselves suited up in a good-versus-evil game of ice hockey at one point in the film. The one-liner deserves mention because it is a great line from a sports moment in a non-sports film. (Talk about your hierarchy!) One brother in black as goalie approaches the other in white as a shooter and breathes through his dark, empirical mask, stating, “Luke, I am your father. Give into the dark side, you knob.” A beer lover’s movie with hockey and a Star Wars reference deserves at least an honorable mention – the proverbial two-point conversion on our touchdown scale.
7) Catch Me if You Can – This one gets bottom-billing because it even dares to mention the Yankees. Christopher Walken plays father to son Leonardo DiCaprio as Frank William Avignale Sr. and Jr., respectively. Walken asks his son, “Do you know why the Yankees always win?” The son answers, “Because they have Mickey Mantle.” Dad rebuts his claim, “No, it’s the pinstripes. The other teams are so stunned by how good they look that they are in awe before they even play the game.” Frank Jr. buys the false logic entirely in admiration of his father’s scheming ways, and later invokes the phrase in an attempt to one-up Tom Hanks as FBI man Carl Hanratty. DiCaprio poses, “Do you know why the Yankees win all the time?” “No, Frank, I don’t. Why?” utters Hanks in a Bronx dialect we haven’t heard often enough from him. “Because of their pinstripes.” The telephone silence is given pause by Hanks who quips, “You are wrong – the Yankees win because they have Mickey Mantle.”
6) Coming to America – Eddie Murphy playing multiple characters offers a great one-liner for our list. In the Barber Shop scene, the old men, mostly played by Murphy in a make-up and costume frenzy, are arguing over who is the greatest boxer of all-time. One man proclaims it is the original and real Rocky, to which another replies, “Rocky Marciano, Rocky Marciano! Every time you talk about boxing a white man’s gotta bring up Rocky Marciano!” Very subtly, an older barber shop patron reminds us about Marciano: “He beat Joe Louis’ ass!” While the hilarity of the moment in particular and the barber shop banter in general make the film what it is, that line is a guaranteed laugh every time.
5) Dragnet – We offer Tom Hanks again, this time earlier in his career as a new detective in Los Angeles who must deal with an anal-retentive partner, Agent Friday played by Dan Akroyd. Upon taking his job more seriously, Hanks avows: “I’m gonna clean up this town – better schools, safer streets, a good hockey team!” While it doesn’t target sports, per se, it sure makes for a great line; and the Kings made the Stanley Cup Finals a few years later back in 1993. Hmmmm...Besides, who can pass on Akroyd and Hanks dressed as pagan love partners in a later scene?
4) City Slickers – This one requires a visual reminder. Billy Crystal and the boys are sitting around a campfire, the sun just setting in the vast open west; they are sipping coffee and discussing who was a better right fielder, Roberto Clemente or Hank Aaron. (Obviously it was Clemente, but I digress.) The woman in the film says, “You guys and your sports! I mean who cares who played – third base – for Pittsburgh – in 1960?” She asks this effortlessly, portraying quite well the “I am just searching blindly for crap no one would ever know” attitude to suggest the randomness of the possibilities. The men, of course, race each other to the answer and without missing a beat, they immediately claim, “Don Hoak.” And each argues that they said it first! This one gets a special “moving up the charts with a bullet” designation for referencing our beloved Pirates not once, but twice.
3) Heathers – A GREAT movie, seriously. Just top dollar entertainment, dark comedy for the deeply cynical and outright hilarity for those who hated high school. After Christian Slater’s character has shot two football players dead and staged it as a gay-love-suicide pact, Heather, played by Wynona Ryder, ponders the believability of football players being gay. Slater replies, “Come on, this is OHIO! If you’re not playing football, you might as well be wearing a dress!” It speaks for itself.
2) Good Morning Vietnam – In a very close play at second, Robin Williams and his sergeant cohort just miss the top spot with this clever baseball reference. Set in Vietnam, Adrian Cronauer is subjected to the whims of an over-aggressive sergeant. After Cronauer has pushed the limits of insubordination, the "Sarge" points to the stripes on his uniform and says to Williams, “Does three up, three down mean anything to you?” Williams, playing the sharp-mouthed wisecrack character whom he made famous in the film based on the real Cronauer replies, “End of an Inning?”
1) Malice – Rounding third to head for home, the single greatest sports one-liner ever, at least from a non-sports movie. It invokes all things men hope for, epitomizes all great sarcasm, and volleys up the ultimate answer about what a man wants rather than what a woman expects upon rebuttal to a rejection. And the Red Sox went and ruined it for all of us! In a film with a bizarre plot about wronged love, a staged hysterectomy and a psychotic Alec Baldwin (which of his roles aren’t?) drawing Nicole Kidman into a love tryst that leaves Bill Pullman reeling, the scene is nearly perfect. The couple meets at a restaurant after all things have unraveled in their once happy lives. Their marriage is ruined, his life is in disrepair, and she is attempting to justify this other-worldly scenario that she has created in order to be with her lover, Baldwin, instead of her husband. Pullman, playing the jilted husband, boils over in a quiet, concentrated rage that lets her know he won’t be had. Kidman attempts with all heart in her intentions to save their friendship and part ways amicably. She asks him, “What is it you want?” Pullman’s character poses a classic Brando-esque pause, considers the question and retorts: “I want what all men want – I want the Red Sox to win the World Series!”
So, for what is worth we now have a touchdown’s worth of one-liners from non-sports movies to keep our interest piqued. I wonder if it is possible to conjure up a top-ten list of great one-liners about rock and roll in movies that are not about music...
The sad reality is that a great one-liner from a movie is now null and void. Well, at least to sports fans it might have been a great line. You see, sports like art reflects life, reflects sports, reflects art, reflects life...whatever. But, seriously, many of our films remind us about how we feel as a people. Our American conscious is revealed through the films we watch, those we love and hate, and those we choose to quote. (If it happens to be Monty Python, the ones we quote ad nauseam until we are kicked out of a friend’s apartment while viewing, but that is another story.)
Now, as thoughts of baseball return and the Red Sox’ Championship banner flies high over Fenway Park, let’s take a look at great sports lines from non-sports movies, and end it with a Requiem for the Greatest Sports One-Liner From a Non-Sports Movie Ever...as now registered dead by those same Red Sox.
The precept is simple – the general story-line of the film is not along the lines of Bull Durham, Slapshot or Remember the Titans, but rather just any variety of subjects in which a sports one-liner works its way into the film, and those one-liners deserve mentioning.
In shameless self-promotion mode, allow me to mention that I recently wondered about my own writing and came across this idea. In a play I wrote a few years back, a grumpy old man is asked “Isn’t it a glorious day?” on a given New Years Day in the 20th Century. The play is set in Baltimore, MD, and for better or worse is entitled, West of Hell. (And is available for production or for movie rights, by the way!) The old man’s response is what got me thinking about great sports commentaries found in films not about sports. To that question, “Isn’t it a glorious day?”, he replies to his erstwhile pseudo-niece, “There hasn’t been a glorious day in Baltimore since the Colts left!” Ravens fans who choose to unite against me, be damned! Onto the list!
If movies are a collective reflection of our culture, then maybe we can learn something from movies that make up a fun (or stupid) list. After all, this is the only list left to be made for a top-100 or top-10 of anything. However, in devotion to football, we’ll go for a touchdown (plus the assumed point after) equivalent of the Top Ten Format. So here goes...the Top SEVEN Greatest Sports One-Liners From Non-Sports Movies:
Strange Brew (Honorable Mention) – In this early 1980s Canadian caper, the McKenzie Brothers find themselves suited up in a good-versus-evil game of ice hockey at one point in the film. The one-liner deserves mention because it is a great line from a sports moment in a non-sports film. (Talk about your hierarchy!) One brother in black as goalie approaches the other in white as a shooter and breathes through his dark, empirical mask, stating, “Luke, I am your father. Give into the dark side, you knob.” A beer lover’s movie with hockey and a Star Wars reference deserves at least an honorable mention – the proverbial two-point conversion on our touchdown scale.
7) Catch Me if You Can – This one gets bottom-billing because it even dares to mention the Yankees. Christopher Walken plays father to son Leonardo DiCaprio as Frank William Avignale Sr. and Jr., respectively. Walken asks his son, “Do you know why the Yankees always win?” The son answers, “Because they have Mickey Mantle.” Dad rebuts his claim, “No, it’s the pinstripes. The other teams are so stunned by how good they look that they are in awe before they even play the game.” Frank Jr. buys the false logic entirely in admiration of his father’s scheming ways, and later invokes the phrase in an attempt to one-up Tom Hanks as FBI man Carl Hanratty. DiCaprio poses, “Do you know why the Yankees win all the time?” “No, Frank, I don’t. Why?” utters Hanks in a Bronx dialect we haven’t heard often enough from him. “Because of their pinstripes.” The telephone silence is given pause by Hanks who quips, “You are wrong – the Yankees win because they have Mickey Mantle.”
6) Coming to America – Eddie Murphy playing multiple characters offers a great one-liner for our list. In the Barber Shop scene, the old men, mostly played by Murphy in a make-up and costume frenzy, are arguing over who is the greatest boxer of all-time. One man proclaims it is the original and real Rocky, to which another replies, “Rocky Marciano, Rocky Marciano! Every time you talk about boxing a white man’s gotta bring up Rocky Marciano!” Very subtly, an older barber shop patron reminds us about Marciano: “He beat Joe Louis’ ass!” While the hilarity of the moment in particular and the barber shop banter in general make the film what it is, that line is a guaranteed laugh every time.
5) Dragnet – We offer Tom Hanks again, this time earlier in his career as a new detective in Los Angeles who must deal with an anal-retentive partner, Agent Friday played by Dan Akroyd. Upon taking his job more seriously, Hanks avows: “I’m gonna clean up this town – better schools, safer streets, a good hockey team!” While it doesn’t target sports, per se, it sure makes for a great line; and the Kings made the Stanley Cup Finals a few years later back in 1993. Hmmmm...Besides, who can pass on Akroyd and Hanks dressed as pagan love partners in a later scene?
4) City Slickers – This one requires a visual reminder. Billy Crystal and the boys are sitting around a campfire, the sun just setting in the vast open west; they are sipping coffee and discussing who was a better right fielder, Roberto Clemente or Hank Aaron. (Obviously it was Clemente, but I digress.) The woman in the film says, “You guys and your sports! I mean who cares who played – third base – for Pittsburgh – in 1960?” She asks this effortlessly, portraying quite well the “I am just searching blindly for crap no one would ever know” attitude to suggest the randomness of the possibilities. The men, of course, race each other to the answer and without missing a beat, they immediately claim, “Don Hoak.” And each argues that they said it first! This one gets a special “moving up the charts with a bullet” designation for referencing our beloved Pirates not once, but twice.
3) Heathers – A GREAT movie, seriously. Just top dollar entertainment, dark comedy for the deeply cynical and outright hilarity for those who hated high school. After Christian Slater’s character has shot two football players dead and staged it as a gay-love-suicide pact, Heather, played by Wynona Ryder, ponders the believability of football players being gay. Slater replies, “Come on, this is OHIO! If you’re not playing football, you might as well be wearing a dress!” It speaks for itself.
2) Good Morning Vietnam – In a very close play at second, Robin Williams and his sergeant cohort just miss the top spot with this clever baseball reference. Set in Vietnam, Adrian Cronauer is subjected to the whims of an over-aggressive sergeant. After Cronauer has pushed the limits of insubordination, the "Sarge" points to the stripes on his uniform and says to Williams, “Does three up, three down mean anything to you?” Williams, playing the sharp-mouthed wisecrack character whom he made famous in the film based on the real Cronauer replies, “End of an Inning?”
1) Malice – Rounding third to head for home, the single greatest sports one-liner ever, at least from a non-sports movie. It invokes all things men hope for, epitomizes all great sarcasm, and volleys up the ultimate answer about what a man wants rather than what a woman expects upon rebuttal to a rejection. And the Red Sox went and ruined it for all of us! In a film with a bizarre plot about wronged love, a staged hysterectomy and a psychotic Alec Baldwin (which of his roles aren’t?) drawing Nicole Kidman into a love tryst that leaves Bill Pullman reeling, the scene is nearly perfect. The couple meets at a restaurant after all things have unraveled in their once happy lives. Their marriage is ruined, his life is in disrepair, and she is attempting to justify this other-worldly scenario that she has created in order to be with her lover, Baldwin, instead of her husband. Pullman, playing the jilted husband, boils over in a quiet, concentrated rage that lets her know he won’t be had. Kidman attempts with all heart in her intentions to save their friendship and part ways amicably. She asks him, “What is it you want?” Pullman’s character poses a classic Brando-esque pause, considers the question and retorts: “I want what all men want – I want the Red Sox to win the World Series!”
* * *
And with that, a Requiem. Farewell great one-liner from a movie of little substance that no one will remember beyond these words. Bon voyage, Curse of the Bambino. Perhaps in a few years we’ll have reason to celebrate as the Pirates toast a Championship season and Barry Bonds has retired with only an asterisk after having past Hank Aaron on baseball’s all-time home run list. Unlike Malice, Aaron may be safe atop that list for years to come after all.
So, for what is worth we now have a touchdown’s worth of one-liners from non-sports movies to keep our interest piqued. I wonder if it is possible to conjure up a top-ten list of great one-liners about rock and roll in movies that are not about music...
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