So what we have here is a failure to conflagrate.
There's a lot on today's docket, but none of it is "hanging in the balance" per se. A week ago tomorrow, Kaia had an accident -- not her fault -- that resulted in the totaling of her BMW, and yesterday she bought a Mercedes sedan to replace Betty, her venerable, battle-tested BMW 3-series. She was describing the italicized infinity-shape headlights and the silver-on-gray colors and she was happy, which, of course, made me happy. I knew she'd come out of her post-Betty trauma unscathed and happy, but it was nice to see I was right. More importantly, it was nice to know she's smiling.
I spoke to both her parents yesterday, and they were both relieved that Kaia is okay. They were also pleased to know that I finally booked my trip out to San Fran -- I'll be out there during the first week of September, for Labor Day -- so I have a feeling that they're as anxious, excited and looking forward to meeting me as I am them.
Today's morning excitement, while Kaia slept on the West Coast, consisted of my cleaning up the apartment and getting ready for the coming week. Nothing fancy, nothing exciting -- just a brief morning skate in the heat that led to me coming back and going through the apartment, taking out some garbage and some boxes, then watching some TV. First I sat through "A Cook's Tour" on the Food Network, which is actually among the more entertaining things a true New Yorker will see on TV, period. It's a travel show starring a grizzled New York chef by the name of Anthony Bourdain, who is the House Chef for two restaurants in Manhattan, both called Les Halles (pronounced Lay-Oll). However, the show follows Mr. Bourdain's travels to all points north, south, east and west -- not just in America, either. From the shows I've seen, Mr. Bourdain has traveled to Asia, the Middle East, LA, San Fran and parts of the midwest. The entertainment comes not from his enjoyment of the various cuisines he encounters, however; it's the fact that the ironic, Letterman-esque, Steely Dan-esque sardonic wit he embodies shines through each experience the show chronicles. That, and the 6'2 Bourdain chain-smokes and waxes sarcasmic through each of his interludes outside Manhattan. He's sort of a real-life Travis Bickle meets Emeril Lagasse; he smiles, but the irony is what really shines through, especially while he chain-smokes among organic food markets, or performs as a guest-chef at Campanile in LA (or scarfing a burger thereafter at Fred 62). And through all the New York-infused, jaded, world-weary observation, he still manages to be blown away by new and different foods. Very genuine, unscripted, and the closest thing a New York foodie who enjoys to cook -- like me -- can get to getting on a plane and going elsewhere. If it's not already evident, it's worth a look.
Of course, after that ended, I sat through the last 15 minutes of Sylvester Stallone's 1986 masterpiece, Cobra. If you haven't seen this particular film, do yourself a favor -- don't. Take Sly, his then-girlfriend Brigitte Nielson, a pathetically weak plot, and some violent special effects on par with the A-Team, and you've got 90 minutes of laughably awful cinema. Truth be told, Sly is lucky -- he's made two wonderful films -- Rocky and First Blood. However, other than those two films -- the bulk of his career he's played a cartoon character of one sort or another. Even his participation in Cop Land, with Robert DeNiro and a variety of other solid actors, didn't rescue his legacy or excuse him from publishing "Sly" magazine. Next time you're in the market, look for it -- and try as best you can not to chuckle.
The last item on the agenda today is spending some time with my other half and kicking back. It's not ideal that we need the telephone to be together, but until then, I'm looking forward to the day we won't.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
The Technological Catch-22
There are some pros and cons of technology. Cellular phones have allowed people with no sense of direction and no sense of self to find their way home and never get off the phone, respectively. The Sony Playstation Portable (PSP) has, thankfully, made it possible for people to be even lazier and less interested in working than they were before; now, lolly-gaggin' shits don't need to pry their asses off their couches in order to play The Legend of Mario's Left Testicle. And lest we forget, the miracle of air conditioning means that, no matter what the outside temperature, one's apartment or house can just hover at around 58 degrees, just enough to chill (but not freeze) the pool of drool collecting beneath the lolly-gaggin', cell-phone-using PSP geek.
The problem, of course, with all technology, is that it doesn't always work. The concept of a "paperless office" has been bandied about by computer magazine weenies for the past two decades. Yet despite these prognostications, paper shredders, copy machines, fax machines and -- yes, you guessed it -- paper -- are still omnipresent facets of offices around the country, if not the world. And while I fully agree that it'd be nice to not have piles of crap adorning what once resembled my desk, I know -- based on how many people don't have any real concept of what they're doing via PC -- that with paper, it's a matter of finding it. With a PC -- a missing file might be a result of a virus, an incompetent user, hardware failure, or a combination of these possibilities. And while I personally have been keeping my schedule, contact list and all the little info I collect each day in a Palm-based personal digital assistant ("PDA"), I can affirm that the only reason why I continue to do so is because all my info is perpetually backed up ("synced") onto my PC(s). So when I purchased the newest Palm, the LifeDrive, I was pretty pleased -- it's my (holy shit) seventh Palm in about 10 years, and it's really very wild. It's got WiFi and Bluetooth so I can connect to the Internet from anywhere and transfer contacts to/from my cell-phone. It's got a 4GB mini hard drive (same one found in the iPod Mini) so I can upload therein all of my shots of Bea Arthur drunk and topless at Studio54 back in the late 70's. And I can listen to music with the LifeDrive because it has a little headphone jack.
The main problem with all this, of course, is that it isn't always perfect. The WiFi never seems to be able to find a suitable signal, unless of course I'm sitting on my couch and leeching bandwidth from my wireless router (or, better yet, someone else's in my neighborhood). But if I'm sitting on my couch, I might as well just pry my own ass up and go to the PC itself. Unless, of course, some PSP player wants to take a break and play Mario's Testicles on the PC instead.
So where is all this going? Well, back to KISS-country (keep it simple, stupid). My A/C kept shutting off last night, so I ended up spending more time kicking the damn unit (or flipping fuses trying to cure the problem) than I did sleeping (about two hours, thanQ very much). Of course, in the end, it was a very simple, obvious solution -- the filter needed to be cleaned. With that out of the way, the unit was purring and humming along happily -- just in time for me to drop from physical and mental exhaustion.
What is the lesson learned here? It's nice to have 5,000 digital cable channels at your disposal, even if it takes you longer to find a decent, watchable program than it does to determine what to order for dinner via delivery in NYC. It's nice to have your entire life schedule and your world in a device that fits in your pocket, but if you sit on or fail to charge that little gizmo, you could be outta luck faster than shit through a goose. And while it's nice to have A/C that keeps your apartment meat-locker chilly and turns your nipples into pink icicles, it's sucks when these things invariably don't stand up to daily use.
Same with cell phones. I keep my cell phone for about 18 to 24 months before I round-file it and get a new one. On the surface, I do it because the cellular technology -- not just the radiation/emissions, but the cellular networks -- improve regularly, so I try to keep current. But I just love having a phone that can play video, tell me the weather in Sydney, take video snapshots of the womens' locker room at my gym, and function as a crude flash-bang grenade should I ever be taken prisoner by a gaggle of ninja assassins. Except all I really need the phone for is to make PHONE CALLS.
That reminds me of an incident I experienced in the mid-90's. I was looking to get a new car, so I went to a BMW dealership to take a gander at the 3-series. The salesman was giving me the schpiel about how slick the car was and how it's this and that, and instead of just having me drive the thing -- which is, after all, where a BMW (especially) shines -- he showed me the trip computer. The trip computer estimates how many miles you have remaining before you're out of gas, tracks your average miles per gallon, and calculates how lame you are for bothering to actually use the trip computer. The problem is the salesman -- we'll call him Retch -- wasn't quite able to figure out how to get this one car's trip computer to work, and I spent 20 minutes watching this Aqua-Velva freak punch in codes, call his manager, read the manual and try and find the little ID card that gives Retch and anyone else wearing a cheap tie and a polyester suit the ability to unlock the trip computer.
Needless to say, I wound up getting an Audi.
Moral of the story: keep it simple and always remember that gadgets, gizmos, toys and other life-luxuries are and always should be a means to an end, not the end themselves. If your new cell phone is giving you erections and you feel the need to show off by using it everywhere, including doctors offices, waiting areas, elevators, the bathroom stall, baseball games, funerals, the movies and while you are working the express counter at the fucking post office, perhaps you should have that phone permanently installed -- in your ass. If you pay more attention to the GPS set-up in your car than the passengers therein, you should be locked in the trunk, naked, with the GPS antenna in one hole and the crowbar in the other. Guess where you should put the flare.
And if you are so busy yapping away and playing with the trip computer in your 2005 Shitbox Coupe that you wind up causing an accident, you should have the spare tire permanently installed -- in your ass.
Finally, anyone who lives in NYC and feels the need to drive a Hummer and brag about it -- despite the fact that the Hummer is one giant piece of GM-manufactured crap -- is cordially invited to experience both the GPS and spare-tire experiences. Simultaneously.
Ooh, there's my cell phone, gotta go.
The problem, of course, with all technology, is that it doesn't always work. The concept of a "paperless office" has been bandied about by computer magazine weenies for the past two decades. Yet despite these prognostications, paper shredders, copy machines, fax machines and -- yes, you guessed it -- paper -- are still omnipresent facets of offices around the country, if not the world. And while I fully agree that it'd be nice to not have piles of crap adorning what once resembled my desk, I know -- based on how many people don't have any real concept of what they're doing via PC -- that with paper, it's a matter of finding it. With a PC -- a missing file might be a result of a virus, an incompetent user, hardware failure, or a combination of these possibilities. And while I personally have been keeping my schedule, contact list and all the little info I collect each day in a Palm-based personal digital assistant ("PDA"), I can affirm that the only reason why I continue to do so is because all my info is perpetually backed up ("synced") onto my PC(s). So when I purchased the newest Palm, the LifeDrive, I was pretty pleased -- it's my (holy shit) seventh Palm in about 10 years, and it's really very wild. It's got WiFi and Bluetooth so I can connect to the Internet from anywhere and transfer contacts to/from my cell-phone. It's got a 4GB mini hard drive (same one found in the iPod Mini) so I can upload therein all of my shots of Bea Arthur drunk and topless at Studio54 back in the late 70's. And I can listen to music with the LifeDrive because it has a little headphone jack.
The main problem with all this, of course, is that it isn't always perfect. The WiFi never seems to be able to find a suitable signal, unless of course I'm sitting on my couch and leeching bandwidth from my wireless router (or, better yet, someone else's in my neighborhood). But if I'm sitting on my couch, I might as well just pry my own ass up and go to the PC itself. Unless, of course, some PSP player wants to take a break and play Mario's Testicles on the PC instead.
So where is all this going? Well, back to KISS-country (keep it simple, stupid). My A/C kept shutting off last night, so I ended up spending more time kicking the damn unit (or flipping fuses trying to cure the problem) than I did sleeping (about two hours, thanQ very much). Of course, in the end, it was a very simple, obvious solution -- the filter needed to be cleaned. With that out of the way, the unit was purring and humming along happily -- just in time for me to drop from physical and mental exhaustion.
What is the lesson learned here? It's nice to have 5,000 digital cable channels at your disposal, even if it takes you longer to find a decent, watchable program than it does to determine what to order for dinner via delivery in NYC. It's nice to have your entire life schedule and your world in a device that fits in your pocket, but if you sit on or fail to charge that little gizmo, you could be outta luck faster than shit through a goose. And while it's nice to have A/C that keeps your apartment meat-locker chilly and turns your nipples into pink icicles, it's sucks when these things invariably don't stand up to daily use.
Same with cell phones. I keep my cell phone for about 18 to 24 months before I round-file it and get a new one. On the surface, I do it because the cellular technology -- not just the radiation/emissions, but the cellular networks -- improve regularly, so I try to keep current. But I just love having a phone that can play video, tell me the weather in Sydney, take video snapshots of the womens' locker room at my gym, and function as a crude flash-bang grenade should I ever be taken prisoner by a gaggle of ninja assassins. Except all I really need the phone for is to make PHONE CALLS.
That reminds me of an incident I experienced in the mid-90's. I was looking to get a new car, so I went to a BMW dealership to take a gander at the 3-series. The salesman was giving me the schpiel about how slick the car was and how it's this and that, and instead of just having me drive the thing -- which is, after all, where a BMW (especially) shines -- he showed me the trip computer. The trip computer estimates how many miles you have remaining before you're out of gas, tracks your average miles per gallon, and calculates how lame you are for bothering to actually use the trip computer. The problem is the salesman -- we'll call him Retch -- wasn't quite able to figure out how to get this one car's trip computer to work, and I spent 20 minutes watching this Aqua-Velva freak punch in codes, call his manager, read the manual and try and find the little ID card that gives Retch and anyone else wearing a cheap tie and a polyester suit the ability to unlock the trip computer.
Needless to say, I wound up getting an Audi.
Moral of the story: keep it simple and always remember that gadgets, gizmos, toys and other life-luxuries are and always should be a means to an end, not the end themselves. If your new cell phone is giving you erections and you feel the need to show off by using it everywhere, including doctors offices, waiting areas, elevators, the bathroom stall, baseball games, funerals, the movies and while you are working the express counter at the fucking post office, perhaps you should have that phone permanently installed -- in your ass. If you pay more attention to the GPS set-up in your car than the passengers therein, you should be locked in the trunk, naked, with the GPS antenna in one hole and the crowbar in the other. Guess where you should put the flare.
And if you are so busy yapping away and playing with the trip computer in your 2005 Shitbox Coupe that you wind up causing an accident, you should have the spare tire permanently installed -- in your ass.
Finally, anyone who lives in NYC and feels the need to drive a Hummer and brag about it -- despite the fact that the Hummer is one giant piece of GM-manufactured crap -- is cordially invited to experience both the GPS and spare-tire experiences. Simultaneously.
Ooh, there's my cell phone, gotta go.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Feel The Love
Last night, a storm not quite of biblical proportion slammed the north-east and pounded the heat into submission. So today, a week after the extreme heat and humidity descended upon the entire tri-state area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, the skies are once again a cool french blue, the streets are awash with the sweat of homeless people and all is right in the world again.
And yet...Kaia is still 3,000 miles away, so I opted to cancel my planned "Skipping Naked Through The Street" jaunt, much to the appreciation of my neighbors, relatives and friends (especially those friends who would have wound up bailing me out o' jail). But enough about the weather -- until September, the heat will more than likely inspire people to buy (and hopefully use) far more deoderant than normal, the streets will be alive with perspiration, and the typical, already-cranky New Yorker will give way to the typical cinematic New Yorker -- snippy, sarcastic, condescending and acerbic. And those are just the women ;)
In the meanwhile...work is continuing along without much in its path, which is to say that if I had a bed and a shower in the office, I'd prolly never leave. On top of that, the Yankees continue to defy explanation with their anemic hitting and pitching that would barely qualify for Little League. On a positive note, however, a variety of fun and excitement awaits me this weekend. I was offered tickets to the Dave Matthews Band concert(s) on Randalls Island this weekend, so I am going to touch base with a friend or two and get that nailed down. Aside from Coldplay, Audioslave and Cake, there's really very little "new" music I'd bother seeing live, but DMB qualifies, mostly because seeing Dave, stoned out of his eyebrows and gyrating to some subterranean groove, makes good music. He's not an especially gifted musician -- I can play rhythm on most of his stuff -- but it contributes to a good "life soundtrack."
In addition, Kaia's dad and I are starting to delve into car-talk in our e-mails...since she's in the market -- but also in the market to be moving to NYC by the end of the year -- it's sort of a conundrum. Lease a new car and be stuck with a car payment and, as an NYC resident, no place to park? Or lease a pre-owned vehicle, save on the initial depreciation hit, and then dump it or ship it to NYC when appropriate? Or keep the rental Grand Cherokee in the garage until it's time to move and then say goodbye to insurance and gas expenses for good? What lies behind door #3? Only Monty Hall and the man upstairs (no, not Monty's producer) know for sure.
One final question that's been occupying space between the few remaining brain cells between my ears: now that Hillary Clinton successfully uncovered the "hidden" sex-scenes secretly locked in the Rockstar Games product "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas," will anyone buy it? More importantly, why is Hillary Clinton focusing her high-powered investigative skills addressing video games and not on the location of Jimmy Hoffa, the true identity of Bigfoot/Sasquatch, how a studio head actually green-lighted "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo," or why Cynthia Nixon and Anne Heche haven't yet had a lipstick-lesbian-chic hook-up.
Okay, that last one is a tad tawdry, but I was taking a stab at what might be first and foremost on Hillary's mind. Or elsewhere.
But the jury's still out on Deuce Bigalow II: Electric Boogaloo. Meanwhile, tell Hillary to call me after she has Anne and Cynthia over for, um, tea and strumpets.
And yet...Kaia is still 3,000 miles away, so I opted to cancel my planned "Skipping Naked Through The Street" jaunt, much to the appreciation of my neighbors, relatives and friends (especially those friends who would have wound up bailing me out o' jail). But enough about the weather -- until September, the heat will more than likely inspire people to buy (and hopefully use) far more deoderant than normal, the streets will be alive with perspiration, and the typical, already-cranky New Yorker will give way to the typical cinematic New Yorker -- snippy, sarcastic, condescending and acerbic. And those are just the women ;)
In the meanwhile...work is continuing along without much in its path, which is to say that if I had a bed and a shower in the office, I'd prolly never leave. On top of that, the Yankees continue to defy explanation with their anemic hitting and pitching that would barely qualify for Little League. On a positive note, however, a variety of fun and excitement awaits me this weekend. I was offered tickets to the Dave Matthews Band concert(s) on Randalls Island this weekend, so I am going to touch base with a friend or two and get that nailed down. Aside from Coldplay, Audioslave and Cake, there's really very little "new" music I'd bother seeing live, but DMB qualifies, mostly because seeing Dave, stoned out of his eyebrows and gyrating to some subterranean groove, makes good music. He's not an especially gifted musician -- I can play rhythm on most of his stuff -- but it contributes to a good "life soundtrack."
In addition, Kaia's dad and I are starting to delve into car-talk in our e-mails...since she's in the market -- but also in the market to be moving to NYC by the end of the year -- it's sort of a conundrum. Lease a new car and be stuck with a car payment and, as an NYC resident, no place to park? Or lease a pre-owned vehicle, save on the initial depreciation hit, and then dump it or ship it to NYC when appropriate? Or keep the rental Grand Cherokee in the garage until it's time to move and then say goodbye to insurance and gas expenses for good? What lies behind door #3? Only Monty Hall and the man upstairs (no, not Monty's producer) know for sure.
One final question that's been occupying space between the few remaining brain cells between my ears: now that Hillary Clinton successfully uncovered the "hidden" sex-scenes secretly locked in the Rockstar Games product "Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas," will anyone buy it? More importantly, why is Hillary Clinton focusing her high-powered investigative skills addressing video games and not on the location of Jimmy Hoffa, the true identity of Bigfoot/Sasquatch, how a studio head actually green-lighted "Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo," or why Cynthia Nixon and Anne Heche haven't yet had a lipstick-lesbian-chic hook-up.
Okay, that last one is a tad tawdry, but I was taking a stab at what might be first and foremost on Hillary's mind. Or elsewhere.
But the jury's still out on Deuce Bigalow II: Electric Boogaloo. Meanwhile, tell Hillary to call me after she has Anne and Cynthia over for, um, tea and strumpets.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
The Wet, Warm Towel of Life
If I was a Martian and landed on Earth in the middle of Times Square today, I would logically conclude that New York City residents are among the smelliest, stankiest creatures on this big blue ball we call Earth. I'm not a Martian (I was born in New York), so it's sort of irrelevant, but lord have mercy this city's packed with a multitude of odiferous denizens.
Needless to say, the main thing on everyone's mind these days isn't getting work done, it isn't finding solace in the beds of the opposite sex, and it isn't going out and getting plastered -- it's all about stayin' cool, baby! The only winners here this summer are Con Ed and any and every salesman that pushes some piece of shit A/C unit on some poor unsuspecting schmuck. Next year, the whole process will begin yet again. In the meantime, I've got 14,000 BTU's of cool, crisp love circulating around Chateau de Boogie, and it's a mere 69.8 degrees herein as I type this out. Tomorrow, it will be around 86 by 9:30AM and it's due to hit 105 if the heat index is mixed in. The heat index is one of those phrases, by the way, created by some TV weatherman who plays second fiddle to on-screen cartoon depictions of the sun, clouds, rain and Mary Lou Retton. And again, come October we'll be bitching about the rain or the weather or al-Qaeda and we'll have to re-learn the "heat index" phrase come May yet again.
So in the meantime, aside from being glad that Kaia's mostly comfy at home and not in a hospital bed, I'm going through the motions -- getting as much work done as possible, avoiding the weather (when possible), staying cool (when possible) and keeping an eye on the long-term plans. I have calls to make, errands to do, people to see and some writing to do -- but when it's this hot, all I seem to be capable of handling is coming in, having some food, kicking back and then finding my other half via telephone. Since she's slammed at work as well, it's hard for either of us to relax, but we're trying. Slowly but surely, we're trying...that, and we're looking forward to Labor Day Weekend, September, October, and, finally, Novemberish. This will be the second consecutive Thanksgiving I'll have no problem knowing for what I should be thankful.
So tomorrow -- once I climb out of bed, shower, and prepare to face the boiling pavement and the waves of heat on the sidewalks -- I'll emerge from my apartment, like I did today, and fight through the wet warm towel that engulfs me each time I leave my place.
And it's only Wednesday.
Shit.
Needless to say, the main thing on everyone's mind these days isn't getting work done, it isn't finding solace in the beds of the opposite sex, and it isn't going out and getting plastered -- it's all about stayin' cool, baby! The only winners here this summer are Con Ed and any and every salesman that pushes some piece of shit A/C unit on some poor unsuspecting schmuck. Next year, the whole process will begin yet again. In the meantime, I've got 14,000 BTU's of cool, crisp love circulating around Chateau de Boogie, and it's a mere 69.8 degrees herein as I type this out. Tomorrow, it will be around 86 by 9:30AM and it's due to hit 105 if the heat index is mixed in. The heat index is one of those phrases, by the way, created by some TV weatherman who plays second fiddle to on-screen cartoon depictions of the sun, clouds, rain and Mary Lou Retton. And again, come October we'll be bitching about the rain or the weather or al-Qaeda and we'll have to re-learn the "heat index" phrase come May yet again.
So in the meantime, aside from being glad that Kaia's mostly comfy at home and not in a hospital bed, I'm going through the motions -- getting as much work done as possible, avoiding the weather (when possible), staying cool (when possible) and keeping an eye on the long-term plans. I have calls to make, errands to do, people to see and some writing to do -- but when it's this hot, all I seem to be capable of handling is coming in, having some food, kicking back and then finding my other half via telephone. Since she's slammed at work as well, it's hard for either of us to relax, but we're trying. Slowly but surely, we're trying...that, and we're looking forward to Labor Day Weekend, September, October, and, finally, Novemberish. This will be the second consecutive Thanksgiving I'll have no problem knowing for what I should be thankful.
So tomorrow -- once I climb out of bed, shower, and prepare to face the boiling pavement and the waves of heat on the sidewalks -- I'll emerge from my apartment, like I did today, and fight through the wet warm towel that engulfs me each time I leave my place.
And it's only Wednesday.
Shit.
Monday, July 25, 2005
So Much To Say
Contrary to this post's title, today was a lousy day...aside from the searing, humid heat permeating the City today, Kaia had a car accident this morning. I called her early this afternoon and she answered, crying. She's fine, but Betty, her BMW, is DOA. As I quickly explained to her, a totaled car is nothing to cry over, unless it's a McLaren F1, which is as close to orgasm as an automobile ever will be.
So while she is fine, the pain of coexisting long-distance reared its ugly head. I was pretty close to grabbing a cab and flying to San Fran, but she reassured me she was fine. Not being able to hug her and whisper naughty things in her ear to get her laughing was downright painful. And more importantly, it put things in perspective. It taught me that life is short, that being with the ones we love is the most important thing on Earth, and that women from Lithuania should not be allowed to drive Toyota minivans.
Oh, and that watching a homeless guy defecating on the sidewalk near the Brooklyn boro Municipal Building isn't all it's cracked up to be.
More later.
-B-
So while she is fine, the pain of coexisting long-distance reared its ugly head. I was pretty close to grabbing a cab and flying to San Fran, but she reassured me she was fine. Not being able to hug her and whisper naughty things in her ear to get her laughing was downright painful. And more importantly, it put things in perspective. It taught me that life is short, that being with the ones we love is the most important thing on Earth, and that women from Lithuania should not be allowed to drive Toyota minivans.
Oh, and that watching a homeless guy defecating on the sidewalk near the Brooklyn boro Municipal Building isn't all it's cracked up to be.
More later.
-B-
Sunday, July 24, 2005
What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on here?
Between the various terrorist bombings, the cavalcade of good old-fashioned domestic stupidity that has amazed me lately and my other half's birthday, I've neglected to address another vital, significant topic which requires periodic treatment on these pages. That topic, of course, is the multi-headed, multi-threaded beast otherwise known as the world of professional sports.
A ephemeral but necessary run-through should start with Lance Armstrong's attempt at winning another consecutive Tour de France victory. This makes twenty-four straight Tour de France wins for Mr. Subaru (actually it's seven). But while it's nice an American manages to win the Tour de France every year (the proverbial finger-flip to the frogs, er, French living in France and all over the world), it makes me wonder how Armstrong, a cancer survivor and a guy who's dating the flat-chested post-modern hippie herself, Sheryl Crow, could (and would) actually be bothered doing so much while perched on a bicycle. It's very telling, incidentally, that with the recent proliferation of doping (another word for athletes who take performance-enhancing drugs -- no, not viagra) that my first thought of Mr. Armstrong's incredible achievement is that he's got to be taking some sort of enhancement to be able to win a grueling race like the Tour de France so many times in a row.
In either case, I'd wish him luck, but after the way his foundation jerked me in connection with those little yellow rubber-band bracelets (and the fact that, barring someone pulling a Nancy Kerrigan on him), he's going to win his seventh consecutive (and final) Tour and then become yet another unemployed Texan (albeit one who sells Subaru and Gatorade).
So...what's next on the HoB glimpse into the world of pro sports today?
Gotta be the NHL.
Without going into Lockout-related specifics in these pages yet again, the 2004-05 NHL season was officially cancelled because the League's finances were too low (their TV revenue was almost one tenth of the three major US sports -- football, baseball and basketball) and their players were making way too much money. So after more than a season was lost, and a lot of bickering, finger-pointing and bullshit ensued, the NHL and the NHL Players Association finally agreed on a new CBA (Collective Bargaining Agreement). The new CBA was ratified by the owners on Friday, leaving the myriad questions surrounding the financial aspects of the game in a soon-to-be extinct limbo. The main components of the new CBA, in a nutshell, are a revenue-anchored salary cap (not merely a salary cap for each team but one which shifts according to annual league revenue) and a variety of new rule changes (like decreasing the size of goalie equipment) which are designed to create more open space on the ice and therefore more opportunities to increase the most exciting part of the game -- scoring). As always, the next-to-hardest part for the "new NHL" will be for all 30 teams to get their respective houses in order financially so that each roster is within the confines of the salary cap and ready to proceed once the League starts up again. The hardest part will be to combat the collective, post-Lockout yawn this nation expresses every time the NHL is mentioned, let alone televised.
I've received e-mail from people who have asked me why I haven't addressed the NHL returning to "active duty" sooner, and I think, despite the fact that I am a die-hard hockey fan and player, the key is that the NHL's melt-down (pardon the pun) is sad and disappointing. Just as my conscience sadly questions Lance Armstrong's mettle vs. his pre-ride chemical preparation, watching the NHL flush an entire season down the toilet -- for really no good reason that I can think of -- really disappointed me on a number of levels. Yes, the recently-implemented changes (not merely the financial ones) needed to be made, and I rationally understand why the lockout was necessary (sort of). But they lost an entire season. This sport is sadly lacking in its fan base, unless you're talking to people in Canada. It's not a hot ticket to go see the New York Rangers lose a lackluster, boring game of hockey. And yet it costs $400 for a pair of tickets behind the Ranger bench. How many people in their right mind will drop that kind of money to go watch a hockey game? And now that people have ably replaced hockey in their day-to-day lives (a lot of hockey fans, apparently, took up knitting and crocheting during the lockout, I'm told) I wonder how many of those MIA fans will, now that their sport has returned, happily return and pay the reduced ticket prices to watch the sport they grew to live without.
Keep in mind, baseball and football also have logged lots of days waging CBA Civil War as well; the fans returned to both of those sports and everything worked out. The problem is there are relatively very few hockey fans, and many of those cannot afford to drop $600 to take their family of hour to see the Canadiens vs. the Penguins on a Wednesday night. Aside from the fact that the Canadian dollar is worth so little, hockey went from being a blue-collar sport to being glitzed up and depicted as a white-collar luxury. It's not. Unless the Rangers are perennial contenders like the Yankees, people in New York are largely disinterested in watching the on-ice entertainment, unless it's Barney and Friends doing the skating. So my concern these days is what the NHL will do to survive its first few post-Lockout months, and I genuinely wonder -- despite the millions of dollars at stake -- if it can legitimately escape the proverbial, self-inflicted death sentence of a lost season.
The last time I addressed the status of the New York Yankees, I was, amazedly, expressing satisfaction over the fact that this $200-million team managed to eke into first place in the American League Eastern Division. Since then, the Yankees have taken a sorta-kinda nosedive and have dropped three consecutive games, which has not only doused their first-place status but has reminded me that this team won't be doing much come playoff time. I live and die with the Yankees, so perhaps I'm over-dramatizing their plight; clearly, it seems to me that they're, as Billy Joel wrote, simply "running on ice." Rationally, I understand that this season's ups and downs (mostly downs) are simply a result of an aging, overpaid, ineffective, inconsistent starting pitching staff, and a collection of carpetbaggers in the bullpen, combined with a variety of mediocre, overpaid position players, topped off by an owner and an administration (GM Brian Cashman and Yankee President Randy Levine) who really don't know how to assemble a winning team. But it still pisses me off that a $200 million team can't string together a series of wins and actually play as well as a team being paid one eighth of their annual salary. There remains lots of baseball, but if the Yankees don't do something quick (despite another week remaining before the expiration of the MLB Trading Deadline, they publicly suggest there's not much going on in the world of possible trades), they're going to be flushed down the toilet. And while I can accept them losing to a better team, it makes me sad to watch the Yankees themselves doing the flushing.
In brief, I have been watching the ongoing saga of Danica Patrick, the 24-year-old female from Phoenix, AZ, who is gaining significance in the world of auto racing. Patrick is apparently a very talented driver (insert women drivers joke here), and I am glad to see the ol' boy network slowly but surely crumbling around us. However, it's ironic that a sport in which its participants are, largely speaking, covered head to toe for the majority of the contest(s) is gaining in popularity since Ms. Patrick, who has posed in very little clothing in the pages of Maxim Magazine, began her notable, impressive rise to the top. I'm not suggesting Ms. Patrick is unattractive: to the contrary, I think she's quite tasty. But I wonder how much the world of racing has really gained as a result of Ms. Patrick's abilities as opposed to her boobs. Men, like the nation in general, are a fickle bunch; what's hot today is tomorrow's has-been. And I seem to perceive a slow but steady shift for the world of racing, one that was on the cusp of front-page notoriety, slowly but surely returning to the back pages of the sports section once again.
And I wonder how much the sport would have grown if Ms. Patrick had accepted the rumored Playboy offer and actually posed nude.
That's all the time I have for today, and I see the checkered flag waving up ahead. I've got to attend to my other half's day-after-birthday needs, some work and some apartment cleaning, and if I have any time and/or energy remaining, I will watch the Yankees play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. They might have lost three straight, but the one constant in an otherwise ever-changing universe is the fact that, every night, I can vicariously compete along with the Yankees and stand with them, win or lose.
If they lose again, I won't be too happy. But then again, you already knew that.
A ephemeral but necessary run-through should start with Lance Armstrong's attempt at winning another consecutive Tour de France victory. This makes twenty-four straight Tour de France wins for Mr. Subaru (actually it's seven). But while it's nice an American manages to win the Tour de France every year (the proverbial finger-flip to the frogs, er, French living in France and all over the world), it makes me wonder how Armstrong, a cancer survivor and a guy who's dating the flat-chested post-modern hippie herself, Sheryl Crow, could (and would) actually be bothered doing so much while perched on a bicycle. It's very telling, incidentally, that with the recent proliferation of doping (another word for athletes who take performance-enhancing drugs -- no, not viagra) that my first thought of Mr. Armstrong's incredible achievement is that he's got to be taking some sort of enhancement to be able to win a grueling race like the Tour de France so many times in a row.
In either case, I'd wish him luck, but after the way his foundation jerked me in connection with those little yellow rubber-band bracelets (and the fact that, barring someone pulling a Nancy Kerrigan on him), he's going to win his seventh consecutive (and final) Tour and then become yet another unemployed Texan (albeit one who sells Subaru and Gatorade).
So...what's next on the HoB glimpse into the world of pro sports today?
Gotta be the NHL.
Without going into Lockout-related specifics in these pages yet again, the 2004-05 NHL season was officially cancelled because the League's finances were too low (their TV revenue was almost one tenth of the three major US sports -- football, baseball and basketball) and their players were making way too much money. So after more than a season was lost, and a lot of bickering, finger-pointing and bullshit ensued, the NHL and the NHL Players Association finally agreed on a new CBA (Collective Bargaining Agreement). The new CBA was ratified by the owners on Friday, leaving the myriad questions surrounding the financial aspects of the game in a soon-to-be extinct limbo. The main components of the new CBA, in a nutshell, are a revenue-anchored salary cap (not merely a salary cap for each team but one which shifts according to annual league revenue) and a variety of new rule changes (like decreasing the size of goalie equipment) which are designed to create more open space on the ice and therefore more opportunities to increase the most exciting part of the game -- scoring). As always, the next-to-hardest part for the "new NHL" will be for all 30 teams to get their respective houses in order financially so that each roster is within the confines of the salary cap and ready to proceed once the League starts up again. The hardest part will be to combat the collective, post-Lockout yawn this nation expresses every time the NHL is mentioned, let alone televised.
I've received e-mail from people who have asked me why I haven't addressed the NHL returning to "active duty" sooner, and I think, despite the fact that I am a die-hard hockey fan and player, the key is that the NHL's melt-down (pardon the pun) is sad and disappointing. Just as my conscience sadly questions Lance Armstrong's mettle vs. his pre-ride chemical preparation, watching the NHL flush an entire season down the toilet -- for really no good reason that I can think of -- really disappointed me on a number of levels. Yes, the recently-implemented changes (not merely the financial ones) needed to be made, and I rationally understand why the lockout was necessary (sort of). But they lost an entire season. This sport is sadly lacking in its fan base, unless you're talking to people in Canada. It's not a hot ticket to go see the New York Rangers lose a lackluster, boring game of hockey. And yet it costs $400 for a pair of tickets behind the Ranger bench. How many people in their right mind will drop that kind of money to go watch a hockey game? And now that people have ably replaced hockey in their day-to-day lives (a lot of hockey fans, apparently, took up knitting and crocheting during the lockout, I'm told) I wonder how many of those MIA fans will, now that their sport has returned, happily return and pay the reduced ticket prices to watch the sport they grew to live without.
Keep in mind, baseball and football also have logged lots of days waging CBA Civil War as well; the fans returned to both of those sports and everything worked out. The problem is there are relatively very few hockey fans, and many of those cannot afford to drop $600 to take their family of hour to see the Canadiens vs. the Penguins on a Wednesday night. Aside from the fact that the Canadian dollar is worth so little, hockey went from being a blue-collar sport to being glitzed up and depicted as a white-collar luxury. It's not. Unless the Rangers are perennial contenders like the Yankees, people in New York are largely disinterested in watching the on-ice entertainment, unless it's Barney and Friends doing the skating. So my concern these days is what the NHL will do to survive its first few post-Lockout months, and I genuinely wonder -- despite the millions of dollars at stake -- if it can legitimately escape the proverbial, self-inflicted death sentence of a lost season.
The last time I addressed the status of the New York Yankees, I was, amazedly, expressing satisfaction over the fact that this $200-million team managed to eke into first place in the American League Eastern Division. Since then, the Yankees have taken a sorta-kinda nosedive and have dropped three consecutive games, which has not only doused their first-place status but has reminded me that this team won't be doing much come playoff time. I live and die with the Yankees, so perhaps I'm over-dramatizing their plight; clearly, it seems to me that they're, as Billy Joel wrote, simply "running on ice." Rationally, I understand that this season's ups and downs (mostly downs) are simply a result of an aging, overpaid, ineffective, inconsistent starting pitching staff, and a collection of carpetbaggers in the bullpen, combined with a variety of mediocre, overpaid position players, topped off by an owner and an administration (GM Brian Cashman and Yankee President Randy Levine) who really don't know how to assemble a winning team. But it still pisses me off that a $200 million team can't string together a series of wins and actually play as well as a team being paid one eighth of their annual salary. There remains lots of baseball, but if the Yankees don't do something quick (despite another week remaining before the expiration of the MLB Trading Deadline, they publicly suggest there's not much going on in the world of possible trades), they're going to be flushed down the toilet. And while I can accept them losing to a better team, it makes me sad to watch the Yankees themselves doing the flushing.
In brief, I have been watching the ongoing saga of Danica Patrick, the 24-year-old female from Phoenix, AZ, who is gaining significance in the world of auto racing. Patrick is apparently a very talented driver (insert women drivers joke here), and I am glad to see the ol' boy network slowly but surely crumbling around us. However, it's ironic that a sport in which its participants are, largely speaking, covered head to toe for the majority of the contest(s) is gaining in popularity since Ms. Patrick, who has posed in very little clothing in the pages of Maxim Magazine, began her notable, impressive rise to the top. I'm not suggesting Ms. Patrick is unattractive: to the contrary, I think she's quite tasty. But I wonder how much the world of racing has really gained as a result of Ms. Patrick's abilities as opposed to her boobs. Men, like the nation in general, are a fickle bunch; what's hot today is tomorrow's has-been. And I seem to perceive a slow but steady shift for the world of racing, one that was on the cusp of front-page notoriety, slowly but surely returning to the back pages of the sports section once again.
And I wonder how much the sport would have grown if Ms. Patrick had accepted the rumored Playboy offer and actually posed nude.
That's all the time I have for today, and I see the checkered flag waving up ahead. I've got to attend to my other half's day-after-birthday needs, some work and some apartment cleaning, and if I have any time and/or energy remaining, I will watch the Yankees play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. They might have lost three straight, but the one constant in an otherwise ever-changing universe is the fact that, every night, I can vicariously compete along with the Yankees and stand with them, win or lose.
If they lose again, I won't be too happy. But then again, you already knew that.
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