Thursday, November 27, 2008

I'm Thankful that I'm from the Future

Amidst the wild flailing of the holiday season, we will somehow find time to post regularly. For now, though, gorge yourselves on this: a short installment of this our internet, with an eye towards giving thanks. I get a lot of my daily kicks from the internet, from some very talented artists and entertainers, and nearly all of it for free, and that is absurd. In lieu of dollars (which are expensive), I'm offering these tiny pieces of genius a "shout-out", one apiece, which I gather are redeemable at the local market for various sundries.
I've chosen only things that are new to me from this year, and I tried the vary the range of categories. Go ahead, pinch yourself.

Do you like your comedic british soap operas in graphic format? Do you find the occult funny? Scarygoround is for you, and boy howdy is there a lot of it. Start here, maybe. It won't make any more sense at first, but it is a funny strip.

Basketball fans: do you wish talk radio were less terrible, and had no commercials, and that sports radio personalities watched as much basketball as you did? Bam. If you hate the new video format (like I do), they still put the audio version up on itunes.

Do you like cats, and maybe annoying them a little? Awww. Frankly, the alternative is ridiculous. If this is a meme that makes no sense to you, maybe salon can straighten it out for you.

Lastly, awkwardly: you're always welcome to enjoy the things that I have found. Mitchell.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

November Cubs Chatter

In an effort to digest the majority of the Chicago Baseball Cubs news from November, we're breaking out the bullet points. If you have no particular interest in the Cubs, or baseball in general, you can just shuffle on. Meet me back here later? Ok, cool.

  • Lou Piniella is your NL Manager of the Year. Hooray? I love that every story about this is absolutely obligated to include this line near the top: "Voting was done before the playoffs."
  • Jim Hendry tells Kerry Wood to just walk away. Good move, I think, but is anybody else a little heartbroken?
  • Ryan Dempster gets a fancy new contract. Clowns everywhere approve.
  • Cubs acquire Kevin Gregg for Jose Ceda and others. This guy doesn't like it. I haven't seen Ceda throw, but I have seen Gregg, and this is certainly true: Kevin Gregg, even healthy and pitching well, is no Kerry Wood.
  • The Cubs might not get all sold, they definitely won't be sold to Mark Cuban, and they need all bids in by December 1st. Breaking news: business talk is boring.
  • Aramis Ramirez wins the NL Hank Aaron Award, which goes to the best offensive player in the league. Shockingly stupid, given that he wasn't even the best hitter named Ramirez in the NL. Wait, what's that? Voted on by the fans, you say? Oh: still stupid.
  • Geovany Soto wins the NL Rookie of the Year Award. That was easy to predict, if you saw him play late in '07, but I was a little off in my numbers projections, since I had Soto hitting about .370, with 30 Home Runs and 140 RBI's. Yeah, I was crushin'.
Expect updates throughout hot-stove season, and expect them to be euphoric if the Cubs can get their hands on a leadoff man.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Obscenely Stupid Hypothetical

I was in the car with Mike (brother, roommate, fellow procrastinator) this week, and the conversation turns, as it so often doesn't, to eggs. In our defense, we were coming straight from the grocery, and the eggs were in the backseat, sliding, bouncing, frolicking--doing all sorts of things eggs shouldn't be encouraged to do. Mike railed, as he does whenever the subject is broached, against the merits of eggs on the whole, and in doing so, he tossed out this (very true) fact that I had entirely forgotten about: in the town that Mike and I grew up in (Wauconda, Illinois), it is illegal to have eggs inside the car with you. I have no idea if this sounds far-fetched to you, but it would to me. I will try to explain why, which will require a bit of background.

Eggs were not always the reprehensible and dangerous products they are now considered in the 60084; like you, the people of Wauconda frequently enjoyed the taste of egg salad, for instance, or of a plate of huevos rancheros. Pickled, deviled, or simply boiled hard, the egg was revered and beloved, as it is all over this land. Like the Force of Star Wars lore before it, though, it soon became obvious that the egg could just as readily be turned; turned for the purpose of evil.

The tradition of Homecoming (if this is an unfamiliar term to you, I suggest you study up here) runs rampant in the fall months of the the northwest suburbs, and Wauconda is no exception. Aside from the games, parades, and dances, ol' W'onda, like many other small towns, injects its own local traditions. One of particular importance (for our purposes is) known, by its participants, as Junior/Senior Wars. During school hours, the local high school encouraged good-natured competitiveness, where a particular school day might have a specific theme, like dressing up like idiots day, or pie-eating contest day. These school-sponsored events were generally engaged in with the same spirit in which they were proposed, and simple (if stupid) fun was had by most. At night, however, things begin to take a devious turn: Juniors and Seniors wage war between them, near-literal war, and the primary weapon, when I was of this age, was the humble egg.

Just in case you've never been hit with a thrown egg, I will describe it to you: it sucks. You probably could have guessed at that, so I'll describe it further: an egg is like a golf ball that is filled with snot, and being hit with this object is terrible. While I was a Junior, and, predictably, a senior, I was hit with maybe a dozen eggs, personally, although my car was hit by easily three times that number. Why, you ask, would people have thrown eggs at me, the author of this blog, and all-around good chap? The answer is this: I was probably holding an egg, and trying to hit them; maybe from the bed of a moving pick-up truck, or perhaps while chasing or being chased across a baseball field behind Pizza Sam's. These were ridiculous times, and I don't recommend them to the faint-hearted, or people that hate snot and snot-like substances.

"Egad," you are thinking, probably. "Why would you tell us this stupid story, which also makes you look like a complete jackass?" If you are thinking this, then the hypothetical exercise I am about to propose will probably not make you feel better. So, back to the top: Mike and I are riding in the car, and talking about how it eventually became illegal to have egg cartons in the car with you in Wauconda (they needed to be stashed away in the trunk), and one of us proposed this scenario: what if you could reduce the rate of homicide in Chicago to zero incidences, in exchange for an increased rate of public eggings? We both agreed that no person with a heart could refuse this swap. But how high a rate of public eggings would you accept in exchange? How about 25 times as often as the old homicide rate? 100 times? Let's put it in simpler terms: On a 10 minute walk to, say, the el, how many times would you allow yourself (and everyone else, of course) to be egged, on average? Even once? How about five times? Mike and I agreed on this: most people, we thought, nearly everyone, would still make this trade, and it would just be common practice to wear a raincoat everywhere, even in the summer, or else people would just get used to the sudden stinging pain and wetness of being egged regularly. People are generally good, we thought,and very adaptable. Mike and I agreed that we would both still do it, no matter the cost (if you define cost as a quantity of blows to the body with eggs), but that we may have lost more than a few people on the idea by now, people who are both very honest and have excellent imaginations. And then, finally, Mike proposed this: would I still do it, still make the trade, if they could get me...in the house? While I was sleeping? I think this is where I broke, but what about you? Don't worry, I'll try to make a poll.

For those of you who found this offensively stupid, just hang tight, because we'll do something better later in the week, and I hope you'll still be reading.

Obama's Phenomenal Swag

Swag, in terms of basketball culture, is an ill-defined term, but it's probably simplest to equate it with confidence: crazy, bet-a-million-dollars-style confidence. I first heard the term here, when this happened. To put the theatrics in context, I found this number: at the end of January that season, Arenas was 11 for 11 on shots that ended quarters or games, with a handful of game winners tossed in, and that is ridiculous. Arenas who plays in Washington, and has had more than his share of nicknames, has recently relinquished the title "The Black President", since president elect Obama now seems to have a stronger claim to it. To show his support, Arenas recently got this tattoo. I bring up the concept of swag at this particular time because this morning I read this article (via Truehoop). I'm pulling a section here, because I thought it was particularly interesting.
Obama, who is not without an ego, regarded himself as just as gifted as his top strategists in the art and practice of politics. Patrick Gaspard, the campaign’s political director, said that when, in early 2007, he interviewed for a job with Obama and Plouffe, Obama said that he liked being surrounded by people who expressed strong opinions, but he also said, “I think that I’m a better speechwriter than my speechwriters. I know more about policies on any particular issue than my policy directors. And I’ll tell you right now that I’m gonna think I’m a better political director than my political director.” After Obama’s first debate with McCain, on September 26th, Gaspard sent him an e-mail. “You are more clutch than Michael Jordan,” he wrote. Obama replied, “Just give me the ball.”
Obama's swag during this election process was, by all accounts I've heard, pretty phenomenal. Confident and crazy, but successful, and I think a lot of people recognize that you need that level of confidence to achieve that level of success. That is phenomenal swag, make no mistake. The rest of that article is a good read, especially if you are not depressed by hearing about the dirty and gritty machinery that get people elected. If you are like me, and it does depress you, then I recommend a healthy dose of Knut.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Nothing Can Stop Them

After watching the unbeaten (!) Statlanta Hawks put the icky thump on my Bulls last night, I decided a salute was in order. After all, I've been pretty wrong about this team so far, and though the season is long, this Atlanta team has certainly earned some delicious kudos. Besides, Atlanta goes into Boston tonight, and I predict a ferocious Celtics defense prevails.

Without further ado, I give you T. Grose and The Varsity.

Friday, November 7, 2008

MixTape Review: Nan's Eclectic Favorites


As promised (and explained) in this post: Nan's Eclectic Favorites. Let's not waste time.

SIDE ONE
Swingtown
Steve Miller Band
Let Nan set you a scene, this opening track says: it's a friday night, and everyone is meeting at the bar (Jake's, maybe, or just Frank's, but certainly the name of a man) for that first hard-earned drink of the weekend. What does this song say, as you steer an old Dodge into the small gravel lot outside Leo's (or whatever)? Swingtown is like an outstretched arm, a familiar hand on your hip, an invitation to cut a little loose. Not too loose, of course, just Steve Miller Band loose: button down shirts tucked into wranglers, regardless of sex; we all drove here, but only half of us have to drive home, and the night's most important decision will be something like 'who do I want to have to ride back to the bar with in the morning to pick up my car?' This is just one of many possible scenarios, of course, but when you commit to Steve Miller Band as your opener, you leave people little room for the innocent types of conjecture.

Keep On Rockin' Me Baby
Steve Miller Band
A little indulgent, perhaps, to lead with two songs by the same band, not my way, no, but the mood here might actually be one of indulgence, in which case the mysterious Nan makes a strong 'form follows function' argument. Actually, indulgent is an excellent way to describe this song when taken on its own merits; Mr. Miller decides to lay all his cool on the table as he vocally slithers his way through this song, until all his charm wears away. This happens at about the 27 second mark for me, but your mileage may vary. Personally, I would've preferred this.

Fly Like An Eagle
Steve Miller Band
Ok, ok ok ok ok ok ok. I think maybe we've been approaching this wrong. Since it would be (extremely) difficult to create a less eclectic mix (short of it having just one SMB song repeated three times), I think we have to assume Nan is approaching this ironically. By that logic, wouldn't these be Nan's least favorite songs? Then again, why would you want all of those songs in one place? Anyway, I feel like I'm in on the joke now, and that really helped me enjoy Fly Like An Eagle, which is, in fact, a joke of a song; anytime the more culturally relevant version of a song is performed by Seal, everyone loses: culture, the song, Seal, Steve Miller, everyone. Good one, Nan. Good one.

Hot Legs
Rod Stewart
Rod Stewart is a feathery, beaky, man-bird, and he is repulsive. Those are the facts, as I see them, but because he sang so many songs to so many women, I think this might go under-reported. I briefly considered posting the lyrics to this song here, but we try to keep it clean on the Clinch, and the lyrics to Hot Legs are both insipid and disgusting. This is a terrible song, one of the worst, and here is what is says to me, via Nan: do you remember those innocent moments, back when this tape was new to you? Before you knew how much Nan hated you? Remember Swingtown? Those were better days, all wine and roses, and beer and skittles, and peanut butter and toast. Now look at you: a shivering wreck as Hot Legs fades out, terror clutching at your heart and throat, terror at the very real possibility that this next song will also feature the Rod and the Stewart. There is a moment of silence, the soft hiss of the cassette winding the seconds away. And then?

Maggie May
Rod Stewart
I'm skipping it, just like Nan did, laughing all the while.

We're Having a Party
Rod Stewart
Go ahead, click that version. Painful, right? It seems like such a terrible song, just a stupid, lifeless, clumsy thing. It's like a refrigerator box, really, except that a fort made out of it would suck. And just try, I mean it, to watch those preening idiots on stage without getting angry. Now, listen to this version, and feel the pain melt away a little bit. This is a Sam Cooke song, and when you hear him sing it, you know it. It's charming, and innocent, almost naive in its joy. Do I seem over-effusive? The song is the same, I know, but one of these people uses their voice to create a believable, enjoyable little story, and one of them doesn't, and though I'm doing an awful job of explaining why, the proof is in the pudding. Also, I'm really sick of Rod Stewart. I'm not listening ahead at all, or reading a playlist, so my pain is yours right now if this next track is more of the same.

Wishing Well
Terence Trent D'arby
If anyone ever asks you about why 1987 was a garbage year, you can tell them that a man with the stage name (that means he chose it, on purpose) Terence Trent D'Arby released an album titled "Introducing the Hardline According to Terence Trent D'Arby", and then won a Grammy Award. You can also use this reason if anyone ever asks you why the Grammy Awards are garbage. To top it all off, he also declared that this album of his, this Hard Line album, was better than Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I'm certainly no fawning Beatles fan, but it's difficult to imagine a more ridiculous assertion. Even discussing it is laughable, but I can't help but make this point: listen to this song, or this song: there's a shine to these songs that time doesn't rub away overmuch, no matter how whimsical and light the subject matter may seem. You can hear the influence in so much contemporary music. I submit to you this quote, by the (no doubt horrified) Ezra Pound, who was almost certainly talking about books: a classic is a classic because of "a certain eternal and irrepressible freshness." I sincerely doubt that anyone finds this quality in the works of Mr. fake D'arby, but I know a lot of people who find it in those Beatles songs. I know that's a pretty fallible argument, but it's appealing nonetheless. If you think I'm wrong about this song, listen to it again. If you still disagree, you should be in jail.

Dance Little Sister
Terence Trent D'arby
Garbage with cheese in. Yuck.

Stir It Up
Bob Marley
I actually rather like this song, and the fact that it's on this mix makes me a little sad. We've got to shift gears again here, I'm afraid, and lend Nan the benefit of the doubt. Nan, and everyone Nan knows, was no doubt drunk and loud throughout the first section of this tape, living their weekend freedom up, and so the contents weren't as important early on, and maybe, just maybe, Nan was setting this moment up, after a few drinks and the initial fervor of the evening, as either the soft, seductive part of an friday night, to which this song is certainly suited, or to the hushed introspective part of a friday night, to which this song could also serve. I haven't lived so little as to imply that a friday night couldn't include both of these types of moments within the span of three and a half minutes, either, so there's certainly the possibility, too, that Nan just wanted to be prepared. Best of luck in your endeavors, Nan.

Son of a Preacher Man
Dusty Springfield
Another tidy little song, and a pretty good version, too. I know, I know, Aretha recorded one too, but the story goes that she passed on this one the first time around, so the writers handed it to Springfield. I actually prefer the Dusty version, because I think her delivery matches the lyrics better; she exhibits, if I might borrow a phrase from Douglas Adams, "the kind of self-possessed shyness which is a great trick if you can do it." Nan has probably slipped into the darker parts of the bar by this point, probably during that Marley number, and is being coy with someone. This is a good song to be coy to, of course, so her night is going exactly according to plan. I mean, we imagine it is, based on a mixtape we found at a thrift store.

SIDE TWO

I Feel The Earth Move
Carole King
Ah, Carol King. Your hair may have been silly, sometimes, but you wrote some fantastic songs. This one, with its thumpy, driven beat and suggestive lyrics, is the perfect song to imply that this, if it has turned into that kind of evening, is where the unmentionable bits go. We'll meet up with Nan later, or possibly tomorrow.

Beautiful
Carole King
I'm impressed a little by the serendipity of this track selection. It is morning now, in the world of Nan's Eclectic Favorites, and we are back in Nan's car, all by her (and our?) lonesome, and this song says all the things that don't need saying on a saturday morning after a long friday evening, and it says them perfectly. It's a little wistful, it's smiling and a little sad, even (especially) if you don't know why, and you take that moment in, the late morning on a disheveled saturday while you drive in the thin sunlight of autumn, and then it passes, and you go buy the dog's food, and pick up cream for the coffee, and maybe drop some things in the mail.

Natural Woman
Carole King
Then again, maybe it doesn't quite pass. Maybe you get home, and the house is mostly empty, and the evening seems a little empty, and you're possessed to put this song on. This type of afternoon can be the absolute worst thing about living alone, all heaviness and reduction, giving rise to a sense of purposelessness that can be near-impossible to shake. Maybe this song isn't that kind of song, though it seems it to me; there aren't many songs I feel wholly unqualified to analyze for sentiment and emotional plausibility, but this is one of them. I know the lyrics are a little more uplifting than the picture I'm painting, but the music, even in the chorus, has always struck me as a little sad, and lined with a bit of that heaviness I mentioned before. As a sidenote, I've been carefully neutral with Nan's gender, but this seems like a bit of a roadblock to that. On the other hand, you just never know, so I'll continue to be careful, I suppose.

Johnny Come Home
Fine Young Cannibals
Does anyone else want to compile a list of all the songs featuring Johnny? I would love to see this list. Get to work, internet. The late afternoon/evening bit for Nan, and things seem to be picking up. I predict a return to the vapid party anthems of Side One, very soon. Not that I've got anything against party anthems, mind you, just these ones.

Baby, Now That I've Found You
Alison Krauss
Well, off by a mile there. First of all, you can probably guess that I much prefer The Foundations version, and not just because it features my favorite type of instrumentation (small horn section, hand claps, exuberant harmonizing...I guess I only like soul music?). Ignore that, and instead focus on the mix: this song may seem an odd fit after that last one, or more specifically, it might make that revved-up Fine Young Cannibals song seem like an odd fit, but maybe only musically, because they all three have this open and unabashed yearning to them that won't be put aside, and perhaps that's the unifying theme here on side two. I like themes, so I'm willing to continue to ignore my preferences for now.

Something To Talk About
Bonnie Raitt
More yearning, here, so that seems to hold up. Personally, I can't hear this song without thinking about this movie, and radiation poisoning.

Blue
Leann Rimes
Oy vey, enough with the yearning, Nan. We get it, you ache, yes, but misery loves company, even if that means more Steve Miller Band. I'm not editing this, so if the tape ends on a down note, you'll make fools of us both, Nan, and no one wants that. Incidentally, this song was apparently written for Patsy Cline, but she wasn't having it. Bit of a theme going there, too: covers and rejects, this mix could be called.

Ave Maria
Aaron Neville
Huh? What? I guess we've been wrong all along, as this has now become a story about the Christian powers of redemption. Give Nan a little credit: you never, ever saw this coming. The song appears like a strange (and peculiarly warbly) message from above, shocking you free from the small trials of daily life, and/or, confusing the whatsit right out of you. True story: I saw the Brothers Neville in concert, once, opening for this man. This song actually sounds sillier without Linda Ronstadt, if you can believe that.

Butterfly Kisses
Bob Carlisle
This is the last song. It's the last song. I can't believe you're still here.
Okay, so I don't have the time or ambition to go back to the top and re-contextualize all of this for you, so you're going to have to do what I do, and pay it forward: the next time someone complains to you about something, or recommends something to you, or even eats lunch near you, you have my permission to label these things a function of that person's "Daddy Issues." Go ahead, it'll be fun. Oh, and If you ever see Nan, you have my permission to kick him or her in the shin.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Mixtape Review: Introduction/ Boring Personal History

When I was in middle school, all baggy pants and skate shoes and terrible, terrible haircuts, I treated mixtapes like rare and powerful magic. I invested absurd amounts of time into crafting them, spent hours sitting on the floor of my room beside the stereo and all my cd's, with notes and plans sketched into my school notebooks, songlist planned out during Mr. Novak's social studies class, with a handful of edits from study hall. I designed perfect little snapshots of my heart, and then left them in the lockers or bags of friends, or girls I liked, so that they could hear what I heard and feel what I felt. And when I got a mixtape, I analyzed every song for personal meaning, listening for some kind of message, some clue to the feelings this person had for me. And the songs, on tapes both incoming and outgoing, were often rubbish, because we were kids with terrible, terrible taste. Once, after a brief courtship in which the young lady in question moved away, I closed out a tape I mailed to her with this gem. Ouch. In my defense, I was 12, and she liked this song.

I carried on like this all through high school, taste inevitably improving (though some would argue that, I'm sure), still quietly and studiously working out song orders and adjusting levels to match the volumes of independent and/or local releases, loud, slick-mainstream production, and the muffled things recorded off the radio, increasingly from this show. I made mixes to introduce my friends to new bands, new types of music, to make a point about some band or other, and sometimes (still) to communicate feelings. I made friends who did the same, and I can honestly say that most of my musical loves of the time were introduced to me via the mixtape, and I loved the way it gave everything context. I still remember which friends gave me which tapes, and sometimes why, and in a few lucky cases, I still have those tapes, and these almost always have stories.

And then I entered college, and got a computer, and put a metric ton of music on it. Someone showed me how itunes worked, and that was it. I still made mixes for people all the time, and I still do now, occasionally, but the effort required is so reduced as to be nonexistent: the computer will match the levels for you, and you never need pen and paper to plan things out, and--and this may be the biggest problem--you don't even have to listen to the song while it burns. You don't have to sit on the floor, and agonize over every line, and wonder if the song you carefully picked out for this person says too much or too little, because it takes so little time. You just drag it onto the list, and it goes on the cd. You mess with the order for ten minutes or so, and then you hit burn, and the whole thing takes 30 minutes. For someone who used to stay in nights to make one tape for one friend instead of going out to do whatever it is teenagers do, this should be a liberating, freeing thing, but I can't really see that. I feel so much more disconnected from my music than I used to, so much less possessive or proud of my collection. No one needs their friends to recommend things, really, because itunes will do that for you, based on what you own already, and how you rate things, and that's a complex system worked out (presumably) by experts. Gone is that personal context, and the thrill of discovery, and the long nights with a stereo and a rug. Do I sound a little codgery? A little embittered by the march of technology? I suppose I do, probably, but this is a blog on the internet, so I'm a little with it still, right? Regardless, I'm sure you're wondering where this is all going. This week, Clinchpin is going to try something fun, hopefully. I've a stack of mixtapes, home-brewed by strangers, probably ten or more years old, all purchased from thrift stores in the area, and we're going to review the heck out of them. I doubt that this will take the serious, moody tone of this way-too-long, call-the-waaambulance, you-kids-get-off-my-lawn post that this one turned out to be, so maybe check these out. I'll list the songs, and hopefully find them online, and then we can talk about if these particular mixes are any good. I've a quick guess: no. I'm probably just trying not to get my hopes up, but we'll see. First on the docket: Nan's Eclectic Favorites. Stay tuned.


UPDATE: A little sniffing around on the internet turned up this article, which says many of the same things except with quality writing, and a quote, from Geoffrey O'Brien, in which the personal mixtape is declared "the most widely practiced American art form." I don't know anything about Geoffrey O'Brien, except that he apparently has written a book with Jeffrey Clark, who is a poet who wrote another book that I quite liked.

Culture Is Like A Tree, Probably, Somehow

If you have more than a passing interest in movies or pop culture, then maybe you'd enjoy wasting a few of your valuable minutes looking at this? I'm naturally a little compulsive, so these kinds of things drive me to distraction. This painting is by this person, who seems pretty alright. This all comes via Ryan North's dinosaur comics, which you should already be reading. Shame on you if you still aren't.

Oh, and don't look now, nerds, but it looks like Greedo is going to shoot first.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Clyde Drexler: Dwayne Hoover?

I'm watching the Celtics/ Rockets game from last night, and I've got the Portland broadcast, which is excellent, because I'm partial to the sometimes silly ramblings of announcing team Bill Worrell and former NBA great Clyde Drexler. Here's an exchange from this game that I couldn't stop thinking about:

BW: Aaron Brooks hits a three! There's where your offense is coming from now, he has five quick points.
CD: Well he can play the game, you've got to guard him...he's not a robot.

At this point, Luis Scola came up with a steal, and the conversation changed directions. I felt a little robbed by that, because I would love to know what Clyde was getting at. As near as I can tell, here are the possible implications of that statement:

  • Aaron Brooks is not a robot, but some basketball players are
  • Robots are unable to play the game well
  • You don't have to guard robots

Sam Cooke Has Your Back Today

Election over, breathe a little easier. I'm no dem, as my politics sit further left, but I'm immensely relieved this early morning, and the hope and promise in the air is a little bit contagious here in the city of wind. Here's a classic that holds that feeling up to the light, where it can sparkle for a moment. Congratulations to everyone who feels like those are in order.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Cosmetic Changes

I got a few complaints about the color scheme I was using, so I dulled things down a little. I'm not at all sold on the new look, so feel free to chime in with your suggested color scheme. Emails or comments, it's all the same to me. Bear with us, please, while we fiddle with these silly cosmetic issues.

Election Day

Today is election day for the old US of A, and, as you've probably heard, there's a certain amount of historic precedent about to be set, regardless of the outcome. Symbolically, North America will take another (long overdue, still smallish) step towards righting a long and embarrassing history of gender and racial discrimination. But that's pretty abstract, right? Because that's a symbolic change, it will probably affect your life very little, if at all, other than in terms of your understanding of history. And you don't live your life with this sense of historic perspective anywhere near most of the time, because, on top of being a poor conversationalist, you would have a difficult time, say, doing your laundry. And then these big things come up, election day sized events with far-reaching cultural implications, and it can be a little jarring to try to comprehend the importance of the moment while also washing your socks; your world will not be profoundly different on wednesday, specifically, except that this moment in history will have come and gone, and you'll be feeling either miserable and cynical or optimistic and excited, or, I suppose, stoically resigned, if you happen to dislike the two-party system. The actual changes, well, those are slow, and they take a lot of time and happen incrementally, even in the best cases. The cogs are very large, and very difficult to move, and they will outlive all of us, and that's what history is.
This song is a particularly beautiful story about that kind of jarring and abstract historical moment that intrudes on the laundry parts of our lives, and I advise you to listen to it, because I think it hints at what I'm trying to say with a great deal more elegance and subtlety than my heavy-handed rhetoric, and because it's a pretty piece of songwriting. I've been humming it to myself for a week or so, and thinking about the upcoming election, and how (other than the obvious and besides-the-point fact that they both concern the job of president) they relate. It will also give your day a bit of the ol' art and culture when you might otherwise forget that this is what we protect with all these complicated politics. This song is a few years old, but it's from a remarkable album that I wholeheartedly recommend. I hope tomorrow brings you some peace of mind, everyone, and you all get everything you want.

UPDATE:
After rereading this post, and judging it harshly (shallow analysis, still miraculously overwrought) I have learned one thing: I am behind in my laundry, and it is apparently affecting the quality of my work. We can fix this; we can make it right. Tuesday: laundry day.

NBA Preview: Western Conference, Northwest Division

Denver Nuggets:
Because I took so long to finish these predictions, I have the benefit of knowing about the Allen Iverson trade before I start here, which was not the case last week when I wrote about the Pistons. As for the trade, my reaction was closer to this then this, which is to say that I don't get the Nuggets. Having Billups will free up an extra green light for JR Smith, though, and Anthony should continue to fill it up like a top five scorer, so this team won't be worse in the short term. The problem is the long term plan, which is, I fear, almost nonexistent. If I'm Melo, I'm not sure I stick around to watch this team rebuild around me again after my contract is up, and Billups is 33. The only real keeper on this team other than Melo is the aforementioned Smith, a gifted offensive player who hasn't shown much interest in the game's other aspects. The Nugs have big money committed to Nene (boy does he need to have a good year), and no promising young talent at all. All that future talk aside, I predicted this team would make the playoffs, and I still think that's true. Give Billups his due: he's a quality point guard, below all-star caliber but very good, and he's a much better defensive player than Iverson, and he'll probably come in with a bit of a chip on his shoulder. Kenyon Martin will be solid-ish, and Linas "my mind is like a" Kleiza is a decent tweener in the frontcourt. Plus, this guy, and who doesn't love that guy? Seriously. He needs his own shoe, and badly.

Minnesota Timberwolves:

Oklahoma City Highjackers:

Portland Trailblazers:

Utah Jazz: