From 1999-2000, Sportscenter provided a countdown of their 100 greatest athletes of the 20th century. While the people of Bristol compiled their list in the conference room, it is rumored that right before everyone decided on the 35th greatest athlete (and the last selection of the day), Stuart Scott leapt up, screamed BOOO Yah!!!, dropped an ounce of chronic on the table, and requested a TV timeout; Scott Van Pelt then rushed out the door yelling, "I'll get the Cheetos" and Mike Greenberg called his mom to pick him up.
Following this brainstorming session, the cast at ESPN had their unanimous pick for number 35, submitted their selection, and went home to sleep it off. Now, there are very few events in your life that you remember exactly where you were; the O.J. verdict, 9-11, my first viewing of a porno showing penetration, but the day I saw this pick, i remember the walls closing in, my palms going sweaty, and my outer body experience as I suddenly captured myself externally, doing one of those quick 360 degree shots from my shoulder up. "Sportcentury's pick for the 35th greatest athlete of the century...Secretariat."
At this point I went over to my bookcase and began to flip through my High School year book pictures. After careful analyzation, I found several horse-faces, Asses, and ponytails. However, I failed to find any horses. Why is this significant? Well last time I checked the dictionary, an athlete was defined as, "a person trained or gifted in exercises or contests involving physical agility, stamina, or strength; a participant in a sport, exercise, or game requiring physical skill." Therefore, Mr. Ed is no fuckin athlete!
Which brings me to yesterday's tragic news of the euthanizing of Barbaro, our reigning Kentucky Derby winner. Every year, a bunch of rich people wear atrocious hats, get ripped on bourbon, and cheer on various four-legged animals as they race around a dirt track. At what point of this forced relationship does a person's brain rationalize that this powerful beast is some how human? After all, no horse has ever said, "When I grow up, I want to be the best thoroughbred ever!" You know how I know this; I know this because horses can't talk. So the only people who should be crying over the loss of Barbaro are: the jockey who rode him (loss of winning purses), the trainer (loss of training fees), and most of all, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Jackson, the owners of Barbaro. If someone told me that people were going to pay me 6-7 figures to have my pet bust a nut in their female counterparts all day with no strings attached, and the only thing stopping this "Houston 500" was a critical condition broken leg, I too, would attempt every option short of orally searching for the antidote (At least I think I wouldn’t...it is a lot of money?).
Anyway, my point is, Barbaro was a talented horse, but he was JUST a horse. Yes they are beautiful creatures best used for Mariah Carey's semi-bestiality music videos, but their contribution comes up short on the social importance scale required to make front-page news for our national papers. I will maintain this stance until they start trying out for the school debate team or make homecoming queen... Unfortunately, with all you jackasses, I'm sure it's only a matter of time.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
So I guess all men aren't created equal???
This is the first editorial I ever responded to. You can click the link to the article below and decide how you feel. My letter can be read below.
Rick Reilly's Article
Dear Rick,
I have been a great fan of your work for many years. Though I don’t currently subscribe to Sports Illustrated for a variety of reasons, I often get weekly joy, popping into the local Barnes & Noble, flipping to the back of the weekly SI issue, and reading your column (a crime I believe on par with listening to free music off Limewire). To me, your articles often follow a revolving theme of the human spirit-overcoming obstacles and pursuing your dreams; admirable qualities that often give the reader (me) goose bumps. And while having never met you or knowing anybody who has related a story to me regarding you, I envision you to be a fairly honest, descent, and possibly humble guy. So until it is reported that you have been arrested for DWI, child abuse, or domestic assault, I write you this letter with my first impressions in mind.
Responding to a column is not in my nature, but I was compelled after reading your article about the young cancer survivor named Romney in your article, “You make the call.” I can’t remember reading an article and becoming so incensed by the rationalization, hypocrisy, and detriment that you, along with many people in Bountiful, Utah used to justify your moral outrage. Now before you jump to conclusions and dismiss me as a heartless bastard, let me first state the obvious. In no way do I ever wish anyone in this world would have to go through the hardships that Romney or his family have faced. I am 27 years old, and have no children. However, I still realize if I ever have children, the only thing one can hope for is a baby with ten fingers, ten toes, cries when it is slapped, and is generally a “normal,” “healthy” baby (That, and that it doesn’t grow up to be like Paris Hilton). But the realities of this world show that sometimes families are faced with circumstances not close to the norm and certainly not ideal. I have seen the first hand effect on a family when they are dealt a tough hand by biology and nature. It is hard, tiring and a great burden to the family dynamic-a pressure that rarely alleviates.
For the rest of that child’s life, these parents will often work to make the world see their child as “normal.” They will fight for the world to recognize the need to include this child in all the world has to offer. “My child should be able to participate in anything they wish to do,” they will proclaim, ignoring their child’s limitations. They aren’t saying their kid can do anything, just that they should be aloud to try if they so desire. So communities; sometimes out of guilt, sometime out of humanity, refine the rules and standards set forth and create an opportunity for these individuals to participate in social norms. Structure is compromised for compassion. Romney’s parents may have argued, “He is just like any other 10 year old…He just wants to play baseball like any other boy his age. How can we deny him this opportunity just because he had cancer?”(I would have to imagine that due to our countries propensity to sue for a hangnail that young Romney would have to get medical clearance to participate on his local Pony league team). So with clearance, Romney and his family should have gotten everything they could have wished for; Romney was to be treated like a “normal” ten-year-old boy.
Fast-forward a season, and we are suddenly in the last inning of the leagues championship game. Let me repeat that, CHAMPIONSHIP game. “This is a league where everybody gets to bat, there's a four-runs-per-inning max, and no stealing until the ball crosses the plate,” you nonchalantly explain, as if there is nothing that resembles the true nature of baseball. Whether that’s the case or not, there is still a league, rules, and a ranking system (hence the championship game). To argue if it is real baseball or not is beside the point. It’s a game and a competition.
So the best player is up to bat in the final inning of the championship game, on deck is young Romney (cancer survivor), the opposing coach decides to walk the best player to pitch to Romney, and the world goes full-tilt. Parents start booing, umps make assumptions, coaches go bananas, his sister starts crying, and worst of all his parents scream foul! I had to read the article a couple more times to make sure that I didn’t miss anything. Did Romney not get what every kid dreams of? Did his parents not get to see what they could have never imagined when he was diagnosed with a tumor? Did the fanatics (parents) not get the chance to see a scenario that makes sports truly magnanimous? In case you’re wondering what that is, “that” is called OPPORTUNITY! “That” is all we can ever hope for in this world. Dreams come true when one takes advantage of the opportunities presented to them. Nobody was denied anything. Romney was not prevented from participating, his parents weren’t told that their child wasn’t normal, and the parents were treated to a scenario that could have brought chills and tears to an entire community. Romney gets a hit, and the place goes wild.
Several months ago, a senior at Greece Athena High School in upstate NY, took his one opportunity and captured a nation. Jason McElwain stepped on the basketball court to play in the final four minutes of his schools final regular season varsity basketball game, and the rest as we say, is history. Jason lit it up like no other teammate had ever done, he made shot after shot on his way to 20 points in four minutes. I recall watching the story on the news in pure amazement. Not that he was autistic, and that he scored 20 points in four minutes, but that he was not given anything. The opposing players were not giving Jason free access to the basket ala Nakeesha Sales’ Connecticut scoring record. Jason was being guarded…sort of. His shot was unstoppable with a laser quick release. Jason was not carried off the court because he was autistic; he was carried off the court because he did something exceptional in the face of doubt. He was treated like every other player on the court and outshined everyone (but the compelling part was, he is not “normal,” and that warranted being carried from the court and the national attention).
However, Romney’s story did not conclude with that movie theater ending. Romney struck out and his team lost the game. Romney went home and cried himself to sleep. To which I reply, good for him. When I was 12, I stepped up to bat in my little league teams championship game with the winning run on base and one out. Base hit and we win the game. So what did I do, I struck out and the next guy up won the game. We were champions, but I had failed. In fact, I was arguably the worst player on the championship team; I didn’t start, batted at the end of the lineup, but held my own in the field-playing left field (not the dreaded right field). To this day, I still remember the strike out and how bad I felt for letting my team down in the midst of a wonderful chance (I’m the only one on my team who will ever remember the strikeout.). That failure pushed me toward the next year when I became one of the best hitters on a new team and a team leader. Additionally, the first time I ever played organized baseball; I struck out three times and never made contact with a ball. I cried AT the game. Tom Hanks was wrong, most of us cry because of baseball. If you never try, you’re not living. If you never fail, success cannot be sweet.
There are lots of valuable lessons that were taught that day in Utah. Unfortunately, his family taught us none of them. If his parents feared his emotional fragility, they never should have let Romney play baseball. If they feared that he would get hurt, they never should have let him play baseball. If they wanted to protect him from failure, they never should have let him play baseball. How come no one asked Romney’s coach why he decided to bat Romney behind the best player on the team? Not exactly the best strategy if Romney is as bad as we were meant to believe. Why should the winning coaches be condemned for teaching their players critical thinking and strategy? They embarrassed nobody, and treated Romney as a normal kid. It would have been tragic and pathetic if they pitched to Romney underhand or let him win the game. The world is full of billions of people who have strengths and weaknesses to various degrees.
When I was a young boy, I would play my father in a variety of board games. My dad would consistently beat me at these games leaving me disappointed with the results. Often times I would request that he “let me win” or allow me to “alter” the rules of the game in my favor. Both requests were immediately denied. “If I let you win, then you did not earn it,” he would say. Henceforth, when I finally beat my dad for the first time at something, I was filled with a sense of pride and achievement. These are feelings that can’t be bought, bartered, or rationalized. Today my confidence in myself couldn’t be higher. I am not a high level CEO, superstar athlete, or multi-millionaire; I’m just some guy with a good head on my shoulders and a lot of ambition. I don’t fear failure because I have faced plenty of failure in my life already, and worked my way through it.
As stated earlier, I enjoy your writing. You have talent, and the gift of conveying emotion in relation to sports. However, if everyone wrote as well as you did, you really wouldn’t be very special to Sports Illustrated would you? The biggest fable in this world is that we are told that we are all created equal. It’s a farce and a detriment to true ambition, resiliency, and desire. Below average people can achieve greatness, while greatness can be wasted or thrown away. The sad thing is that out of everyone involved in that game, Romney is the only one who has the right outlook on his failure. He’s ready for his next opportunity, his chance not be normal, but to be a winner. Romney survival is a testament to his strength. Romney will be just fine; it’s all you finger pointers that might want to re-evaluate life’s lessons.
Rick Reilly's Article
Dear Rick,
I have been a great fan of your work for many years. Though I don’t currently subscribe to Sports Illustrated for a variety of reasons, I often get weekly joy, popping into the local Barnes & Noble, flipping to the back of the weekly SI issue, and reading your column (a crime I believe on par with listening to free music off Limewire). To me, your articles often follow a revolving theme of the human spirit-overcoming obstacles and pursuing your dreams; admirable qualities that often give the reader (me) goose bumps. And while having never met you or knowing anybody who has related a story to me regarding you, I envision you to be a fairly honest, descent, and possibly humble guy. So until it is reported that you have been arrested for DWI, child abuse, or domestic assault, I write you this letter with my first impressions in mind.
Responding to a column is not in my nature, but I was compelled after reading your article about the young cancer survivor named Romney in your article, “You make the call.” I can’t remember reading an article and becoming so incensed by the rationalization, hypocrisy, and detriment that you, along with many people in Bountiful, Utah used to justify your moral outrage. Now before you jump to conclusions and dismiss me as a heartless bastard, let me first state the obvious. In no way do I ever wish anyone in this world would have to go through the hardships that Romney or his family have faced. I am 27 years old, and have no children. However, I still realize if I ever have children, the only thing one can hope for is a baby with ten fingers, ten toes, cries when it is slapped, and is generally a “normal,” “healthy” baby (That, and that it doesn’t grow up to be like Paris Hilton). But the realities of this world show that sometimes families are faced with circumstances not close to the norm and certainly not ideal. I have seen the first hand effect on a family when they are dealt a tough hand by biology and nature. It is hard, tiring and a great burden to the family dynamic-a pressure that rarely alleviates.
For the rest of that child’s life, these parents will often work to make the world see their child as “normal.” They will fight for the world to recognize the need to include this child in all the world has to offer. “My child should be able to participate in anything they wish to do,” they will proclaim, ignoring their child’s limitations. They aren’t saying their kid can do anything, just that they should be aloud to try if they so desire. So communities; sometimes out of guilt, sometime out of humanity, refine the rules and standards set forth and create an opportunity for these individuals to participate in social norms. Structure is compromised for compassion. Romney’s parents may have argued, “He is just like any other 10 year old…He just wants to play baseball like any other boy his age. How can we deny him this opportunity just because he had cancer?”(I would have to imagine that due to our countries propensity to sue for a hangnail that young Romney would have to get medical clearance to participate on his local Pony league team). So with clearance, Romney and his family should have gotten everything they could have wished for; Romney was to be treated like a “normal” ten-year-old boy.
Fast-forward a season, and we are suddenly in the last inning of the leagues championship game. Let me repeat that, CHAMPIONSHIP game. “This is a league where everybody gets to bat, there's a four-runs-per-inning max, and no stealing until the ball crosses the plate,” you nonchalantly explain, as if there is nothing that resembles the true nature of baseball. Whether that’s the case or not, there is still a league, rules, and a ranking system (hence the championship game). To argue if it is real baseball or not is beside the point. It’s a game and a competition.
So the best player is up to bat in the final inning of the championship game, on deck is young Romney (cancer survivor), the opposing coach decides to walk the best player to pitch to Romney, and the world goes full-tilt. Parents start booing, umps make assumptions, coaches go bananas, his sister starts crying, and worst of all his parents scream foul! I had to read the article a couple more times to make sure that I didn’t miss anything. Did Romney not get what every kid dreams of? Did his parents not get to see what they could have never imagined when he was diagnosed with a tumor? Did the fanatics (parents) not get the chance to see a scenario that makes sports truly magnanimous? In case you’re wondering what that is, “that” is called OPPORTUNITY! “That” is all we can ever hope for in this world. Dreams come true when one takes advantage of the opportunities presented to them. Nobody was denied anything. Romney was not prevented from participating, his parents weren’t told that their child wasn’t normal, and the parents were treated to a scenario that could have brought chills and tears to an entire community. Romney gets a hit, and the place goes wild.
Several months ago, a senior at Greece Athena High School in upstate NY, took his one opportunity and captured a nation. Jason McElwain stepped on the basketball court to play in the final four minutes of his schools final regular season varsity basketball game, and the rest as we say, is history. Jason lit it up like no other teammate had ever done, he made shot after shot on his way to 20 points in four minutes. I recall watching the story on the news in pure amazement. Not that he was autistic, and that he scored 20 points in four minutes, but that he was not given anything. The opposing players were not giving Jason free access to the basket ala Nakeesha Sales’ Connecticut scoring record. Jason was being guarded…sort of. His shot was unstoppable with a laser quick release. Jason was not carried off the court because he was autistic; he was carried off the court because he did something exceptional in the face of doubt. He was treated like every other player on the court and outshined everyone (but the compelling part was, he is not “normal,” and that warranted being carried from the court and the national attention).
However, Romney’s story did not conclude with that movie theater ending. Romney struck out and his team lost the game. Romney went home and cried himself to sleep. To which I reply, good for him. When I was 12, I stepped up to bat in my little league teams championship game with the winning run on base and one out. Base hit and we win the game. So what did I do, I struck out and the next guy up won the game. We were champions, but I had failed. In fact, I was arguably the worst player on the championship team; I didn’t start, batted at the end of the lineup, but held my own in the field-playing left field (not the dreaded right field). To this day, I still remember the strike out and how bad I felt for letting my team down in the midst of a wonderful chance (I’m the only one on my team who will ever remember the strikeout.). That failure pushed me toward the next year when I became one of the best hitters on a new team and a team leader. Additionally, the first time I ever played organized baseball; I struck out three times and never made contact with a ball. I cried AT the game. Tom Hanks was wrong, most of us cry because of baseball. If you never try, you’re not living. If you never fail, success cannot be sweet.
There are lots of valuable lessons that were taught that day in Utah. Unfortunately, his family taught us none of them. If his parents feared his emotional fragility, they never should have let Romney play baseball. If they feared that he would get hurt, they never should have let him play baseball. If they wanted to protect him from failure, they never should have let him play baseball. How come no one asked Romney’s coach why he decided to bat Romney behind the best player on the team? Not exactly the best strategy if Romney is as bad as we were meant to believe. Why should the winning coaches be condemned for teaching their players critical thinking and strategy? They embarrassed nobody, and treated Romney as a normal kid. It would have been tragic and pathetic if they pitched to Romney underhand or let him win the game. The world is full of billions of people who have strengths and weaknesses to various degrees.
When I was a young boy, I would play my father in a variety of board games. My dad would consistently beat me at these games leaving me disappointed with the results. Often times I would request that he “let me win” or allow me to “alter” the rules of the game in my favor. Both requests were immediately denied. “If I let you win, then you did not earn it,” he would say. Henceforth, when I finally beat my dad for the first time at something, I was filled with a sense of pride and achievement. These are feelings that can’t be bought, bartered, or rationalized. Today my confidence in myself couldn’t be higher. I am not a high level CEO, superstar athlete, or multi-millionaire; I’m just some guy with a good head on my shoulders and a lot of ambition. I don’t fear failure because I have faced plenty of failure in my life already, and worked my way through it.
As stated earlier, I enjoy your writing. You have talent, and the gift of conveying emotion in relation to sports. However, if everyone wrote as well as you did, you really wouldn’t be very special to Sports Illustrated would you? The biggest fable in this world is that we are told that we are all created equal. It’s a farce and a detriment to true ambition, resiliency, and desire. Below average people can achieve greatness, while greatness can be wasted or thrown away. The sad thing is that out of everyone involved in that game, Romney is the only one who has the right outlook on his failure. He’s ready for his next opportunity, his chance not be normal, but to be a winner. Romney survival is a testament to his strength. Romney will be just fine; it’s all you finger pointers that might want to re-evaluate life’s lessons.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Those Who Can't Do...Vote
If there was ever was an argument in favor of communism, the People’s Choice Awards and the Baseball Writers’ Association of America (BBWAA) would be it. If nothing else it proves that when a group of people are given the opportunity to express their cumulative opinion, they will almost inevitably fuck things up worse than Donald Trump trying to trade jibes with middle-America’s queen bee. Within a twelve-hour window, we were privy to a non-stop parade of voting incompetence.
Now I could write a long diatribe examining the factors that could go into nominating the film Click for best movie in the comedy category, however, when I find out the movie Click WINS best movie in the comedy category, I start to go all dizzy like Agent Mills did when he found out his wife’s head was in a box. Believe me, I do not live and die by the voting results of the Peoples Choice Awards or any other awards show for that matter. I just simply feel exhausted. I scratch my head…my eyes go glazy… my body wants to fold up and roll under a bed like a Total Gym.
In regards to the BBWAA, it’s bad enough that the highest honor in baseball is decided by a group of people with less at-bats then Dr. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham had in Field of Dreams, but they also feel the need to grace us with their moral stance on the issue of hitting a baseball through their print and media jobs. The only thing that separates these individuals from the avid sports fan is a field pass and the knowledge of the player’s underwear preference. I grew up with a sports writer for a prominent NY newspaper and the thing I remember most about him was how he reneged on the only two sports bets we ever made (Bet 1: Dave Kingman had over 400 homeruns; Bet 2: Chris Corchiani was the NCAA career assists leader at the time). Why do I remember this? Because he was no expert on anything, he just walked around like he was. But everyday, thousands of people will read his opinion and process his words as fact.
I could explain to you how Little Miss Sunshine on mute was funnier than Click, and how Mark McGwire revitalized baseball twice in his career (his rookie year and following the strike), but I’m just too tired. I realize I am outnumbered, and stuck in a perpetual world of wannabe Laguna Beach stars…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to buy my opening weekend tickets to Stomp the Yard...
Now I could write a long diatribe examining the factors that could go into nominating the film Click for best movie in the comedy category, however, when I find out the movie Click WINS best movie in the comedy category, I start to go all dizzy like Agent Mills did when he found out his wife’s head was in a box. Believe me, I do not live and die by the voting results of the Peoples Choice Awards or any other awards show for that matter. I just simply feel exhausted. I scratch my head…my eyes go glazy… my body wants to fold up and roll under a bed like a Total Gym.
In regards to the BBWAA, it’s bad enough that the highest honor in baseball is decided by a group of people with less at-bats then Dr. Archibald “Moonlight” Graham had in Field of Dreams, but they also feel the need to grace us with their moral stance on the issue of hitting a baseball through their print and media jobs. The only thing that separates these individuals from the avid sports fan is a field pass and the knowledge of the player’s underwear preference. I grew up with a sports writer for a prominent NY newspaper and the thing I remember most about him was how he reneged on the only two sports bets we ever made (Bet 1: Dave Kingman had over 400 homeruns; Bet 2: Chris Corchiani was the NCAA career assists leader at the time). Why do I remember this? Because he was no expert on anything, he just walked around like he was. But everyday, thousands of people will read his opinion and process his words as fact.
I could explain to you how Little Miss Sunshine on mute was funnier than Click, and how Mark McGwire revitalized baseball twice in his career (his rookie year and following the strike), but I’m just too tired. I realize I am outnumbered, and stuck in a perpetual world of wannabe Laguna Beach stars…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to buy my opening weekend tickets to Stomp the Yard...
Monday, January 8, 2007
Friends Don't Let Friends Share Songs
There are certain moments in time that are yours and yours alone. One of those moments for me is at three minutes and twenty-eight seconds of “Shine,” by David Gray…If it’s playing and I can hear it, it’s mine and it is not meant for sharing.
I used to play music for people I felt a connection with. I would look at them contently, while I anticipated their core reaction. Unfortunately, as with a tourist commenting on the Louvre’s Pyramid, there was never a satisfactory answer.
Our first instinct is to share a song with a group, friend or significant other; waiting for them to validate our taste in music (we play it for them for no other reason than for them to judge it). Our enthusiasm or disappointment is proportional to the value we place on their opinion regarding our self worth.
Ever overhear someone you dislike tell a friend, “Like, Oh My God!!! You like totally have to listen to this band called…Sugar Rose (Sigur Ros) or something. They are like amazing.” What happens to you internally? Well if you feel connected to a band like Sigur Ros, your brain holds an emergency board meeting to discuss the ramifications of being associated with a song or group liked by THAT person!!! You try to calm yourself down by rationalizing that it’s just a phase (not a reflection on you) and that person is just a tourist visiting. "Just close your eyes and it will be all over," you tell yourself, "they will be back with Taylor Hicks soon enough."
However, if we feel a strong emotional connection to someone, playing a song for them is like Vince Vaughn sharing his intestines with us in “The Cell.” We are not sharing a song. There is no song. Just guts.
But why do we do it? One way to distinguish yourself while simultaneously connecting yourself with others is through your musical tastes. This person is not judging music; they are judging us. Our brain says we want you to love the music, thus validating me, but our mind says that you will never possibly understand what this (song/group) means to me. You couldn’t possibly - no matter how badly we want that mutual connection. That song has a personal history with raw emotion, context, and imagery. Your friend may truly love the song you play, but your internal music video will be completely different than theirs.
The irony is…when you find someone who seems to fully embrace YOUR song; you will often subconsciously resent them for their attempt to understand your soul. So in the future, recognize that while certain music provides the soundtrack for my life, I will never ask you to directly comment on my soundtrack because...
"Your sooooooooooulllllllll’s the one thing you can’t compromise!!!”
I used to play music for people I felt a connection with. I would look at them contently, while I anticipated their core reaction. Unfortunately, as with a tourist commenting on the Louvre’s Pyramid, there was never a satisfactory answer.
Our first instinct is to share a song with a group, friend or significant other; waiting for them to validate our taste in music (we play it for them for no other reason than for them to judge it). Our enthusiasm or disappointment is proportional to the value we place on their opinion regarding our self worth.
Ever overhear someone you dislike tell a friend, “Like, Oh My God!!! You like totally have to listen to this band called…Sugar Rose (Sigur Ros) or something. They are like amazing.” What happens to you internally? Well if you feel connected to a band like Sigur Ros, your brain holds an emergency board meeting to discuss the ramifications of being associated with a song or group liked by THAT person!!! You try to calm yourself down by rationalizing that it’s just a phase (not a reflection on you) and that person is just a tourist visiting. "Just close your eyes and it will be all over," you tell yourself, "they will be back with Taylor Hicks soon enough."
However, if we feel a strong emotional connection to someone, playing a song for them is like Vince Vaughn sharing his intestines with us in “The Cell.” We are not sharing a song. There is no song. Just guts.
But why do we do it? One way to distinguish yourself while simultaneously connecting yourself with others is through your musical tastes. This person is not judging music; they are judging us. Our brain says we want you to love the music, thus validating me, but our mind says that you will never possibly understand what this (song/group) means to me. You couldn’t possibly - no matter how badly we want that mutual connection. That song has a personal history with raw emotion, context, and imagery. Your friend may truly love the song you play, but your internal music video will be completely different than theirs.
The irony is…when you find someone who seems to fully embrace YOUR song; you will often subconsciously resent them for their attempt to understand your soul. So in the future, recognize that while certain music provides the soundtrack for my life, I will never ask you to directly comment on my soundtrack because...
"Your sooooooooooulllllllll’s the one thing you can’t compromise!!!”
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Nick Saban Dumps His Girlfriend For The Town Slut.
So you’ve been in a solid relationship (Miami) for a couple years now, but recently things seem rather mediocre (15-17 record). You met her with rose-colored glasses; dumping the prom queen (LSU) after you de-flowered her at the dance (1st national championship). Initially, your current girlfriend seemed to be everything the prom queen wasn’t. She was smart, professional, and full of potential. She would be the challenge you needed.
So you pack your bags and dive into this new relationship, co-signing a lease that has both your names on it (5 year, $22.5 million). She’s takes this lease as a sign of long term commitment, and starts talking about things like “I want these flowers at our wedding” (Playoffs) and “I want at least 5 kids” (Superbowl).
After hearing this a couple times, you start to think about the good old days when you were the big man on campus, dating the girl everyone wanted. It felt good. Just so happens, your girlfriend’s father (Don Shula) has a son (Mike Shula) who was dating the hottest girl in town (Alabama). However, she recently dumped him because he couldn’t satisfy her (6-6) and is going around telling everyone that her ex’s-sister’s-boyfriend is hung like a horse (48-16 at LSU).
Unfortunately, your girlfriend’s family (Miami fans) are also hearing these rumors spread around town and they (the press) ask you about your future intentions. While being put on the spot, you assure everybody that you are committed to your current relationship and you’re not thinking about anything else. But it doesn’t stop there; everyday someone is asking you if you’re interested in the other girl while telling you stories about what a freak she is ($$$$).
You try to ignore everyone and focus on your relationship, but your girlfriend suddenly seems cold and distant (no QB, no playoffs, aging team). Next thing you know, the phone ringing, and sure enough, it’s the other girl. She going out tonight and wanted to know if you wanted to meet up “to talk” (interview). You tell yourself that you are just going to talk, telling your girlfriend you’re going out for a bit (Wayne Huizenga). However, just before you leave, you put some Viagra in your pocket (the out-clause on your lease).
As you travel to meet this stranger, you brain works overtime weighing the pro’s and con’s of your relationship, that is, up until you walk in the door of the club and see the other girl dancing. You approach her on the dance floor where she immediately grabs your hand and sticks it between her legs (8 year!!!). At this point you realize she isn’t wearing any underwear ($32 million!!!) and you proceed to screw her right there from behind (guaranteed money!!!).
The next day, you go home and tell your girlfriend you are leaving her for another woman (Meeting w/ management). When she asks you why she wasn’t enough for you, you give her no answer (Press Conference).
The new girl will be fun and exciting for a while, however, you are soon to find out you knocked up the town slut (revolving door of coaches), who gave you a massive case of herpes (You’re tainted goods).
Hope she was worth it...
So you pack your bags and dive into this new relationship, co-signing a lease that has both your names on it (5 year, $22.5 million). She’s takes this lease as a sign of long term commitment, and starts talking about things like “I want these flowers at our wedding” (Playoffs) and “I want at least 5 kids” (Superbowl).
After hearing this a couple times, you start to think about the good old days when you were the big man on campus, dating the girl everyone wanted. It felt good. Just so happens, your girlfriend’s father (Don Shula) has a son (Mike Shula) who was dating the hottest girl in town (Alabama). However, she recently dumped him because he couldn’t satisfy her (6-6) and is going around telling everyone that her ex’s-sister’s-boyfriend is hung like a horse (48-16 at LSU).
Unfortunately, your girlfriend’s family (Miami fans) are also hearing these rumors spread around town and they (the press) ask you about your future intentions. While being put on the spot, you assure everybody that you are committed to your current relationship and you’re not thinking about anything else. But it doesn’t stop there; everyday someone is asking you if you’re interested in the other girl while telling you stories about what a freak she is ($$$$).
You try to ignore everyone and focus on your relationship, but your girlfriend suddenly seems cold and distant (no QB, no playoffs, aging team). Next thing you know, the phone ringing, and sure enough, it’s the other girl. She going out tonight and wanted to know if you wanted to meet up “to talk” (interview). You tell yourself that you are just going to talk, telling your girlfriend you’re going out for a bit (Wayne Huizenga). However, just before you leave, you put some Viagra in your pocket (the out-clause on your lease).
As you travel to meet this stranger, you brain works overtime weighing the pro’s and con’s of your relationship, that is, up until you walk in the door of the club and see the other girl dancing. You approach her on the dance floor where she immediately grabs your hand and sticks it between her legs (8 year!!!). At this point you realize she isn’t wearing any underwear ($32 million!!!) and you proceed to screw her right there from behind (guaranteed money!!!).
The next day, you go home and tell your girlfriend you are leaving her for another woman (Meeting w/ management). When she asks you why she wasn’t enough for you, you give her no answer (Press Conference).
The new girl will be fun and exciting for a while, however, you are soon to find out you knocked up the town slut (revolving door of coaches), who gave you a massive case of herpes (You’re tainted goods).
Hope she was worth it...
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