Double Down

On this day of royally wedded bliss, my mind wanders to thoughts of inbreeding. But also true love. And the commitment cemented by two willing (so I surmise) adults with good skin and many years of smiling and waving in their future.

I'm also reminded of some advice I once gave a friend who, like many men, could not decide if the one he was with was the one he should always be with. A difficult question fraught with complications.

The idea there is one person in the world we are destined to marry is a fantasy created by romance novels and Hollywood. Like an all-powerful diety in the sky judging us while creating fuzzy bunnies and causing earthquakes and tsunamis, it's nice but a little dangerous to believe in.

I'm as happy as I've ever been. I owe the vast majority of that happiness to my wife. We're as suitable for each other as I could imagine.

And yet there are 6.8 billion people in the world, 311 million in the United States. I took a job in New Jersey only because the one I wanted in Florida didn't come through in time. The girl I married just happened to work there. Fate? Bullshit. Just some good luck. But it's foolish to think if I didn't take that job that I couldn't have moved to Florida or Ohio or Mississippi (well, maybe not Mississippi) and found someone else suitable to marry. Or maybe I would have had to move around a little more before finding someone. Or maybe something else would have happened to lead me to shun marriage. Or to want to wait longer. Or to (I hope not) settle earlier for the wrong person.

Life does what life does. You can't really second-guess decisions while in the middle of making them. And by the time you know the right answer, years have past and there is no going back.

We only get one life. It would be great if I could spend one of them as a newspaper reporter married to a girl from Chicago and another as a touring musician married to the road and another as an organic farmer living off the land with five dogs and a pig. If we're lucky, we might be able to have two or three careers (though usually only excel at one).

Marriage is a little different. People grow old and grow apart. People die early. Some people aren't meant to marry. Men in particular, who seem hard-wired for a different template. I suppose living in a city exacerbates the problem, as you are surrounded by an abundance of possibilities.

It's like Blackjack. Many good relationships at first are like getting dealt 16 against a dealer showing a 7. Sure, you are supposed to hit, but that's a risk. And odds are you're going to bust before you even get to see his hand. But when you're young, you get more hands to play. So it's not necessarily a tragedy if you lose what you've got for the promise of something better. (Of course, in this analogy, you are tossing your hand away the second you decide to see another card. Very hard to keep what you've got while hitting on someone else, trying to reach that perfect hand).

Or maybe you've got something going that's more like 12 against a dealer showing a 4. Some risks are worth more than others. It depends on your mindset. If you like freedom, play it loose. But I think the point is that while you can almost always risk losing something solid for the hope of something better, at some point we all get tired of playing the game. And we settle.

This is a vexed word. Because while settling down -- in a relationship, in a shared home, in a more stable life -- we are also fundamentally settling on the person we're with. Some settle for someone less ideal than they should. This is for others to judge, more than the guy in question. But we ALL settle. There's something less than perfect about every girl on the planet. No matter who we are talking about. Jessica Alba, Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, Margaret Thatcher, Golda Meier, Scarlett Johansson, Maya Angelou, Janine Garofalo, Condoleeza Rice -- whoever -- there is someone who is sick of fucking her. And sick of talking to her. Sick of something about her. But eventually, if they're lucky, someone will settle on her, too.

(The same applies to guys, of course. Likely more so. Guys are scum.)

I'm no one to offer advice or insight. But I suppose what I want to say is that happiness should not be treated lightly. If you don't have it, get it. If you've got it, keep it going. And have faith that -- because you are a kind and thoughtful person -- everything will work out in the end. And that there really is no end, except the very last one, after which nothing really matters anyway.

Music, Music Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

This Bill Wyman piece from Slate last week struck a nerve.

Wyman (no, not that one) discusses the sheer abundance of music currently available on torrent sites, hubs and other nether-regions of the internet. And he muses on the current predicament of latter-day rock snob collectors who no longer hold a monopoly on rare recordings. These days, rarity is more of a state of mind. Almost nothing is difficult to obtain with some searching, the right software and enough cheap storage.

Ever since I got my first cable modem eight years ago, I've been feeding a bottomless habit for bootlegs. There are guys with every single Dead show or every recording from Neil Young's 1976 tour. All for the taking with a click.

In the days I discovered my musical tastes as a teenager, life was different. I can remember scrambling for blank tapes after coming across someone with a decent low-generation collection and painstakingly dubbing them at 2x speed and then -- before I got a cable modem and a computer with a burner -- paying some asshole $75 for a 3 CD Springsteen show.

(The sites I frequent follow strict rules about what people share and how they share it. You can't post anything commercially available. Only stuff that the artists haven't officially released, so you aren't really taking money out of their pockets. And selling stuff that you should be sharing is complete crap. The whole idea is to let the free music flow like water.)

Now, I don't really want it all. Like Wyman writes, Lester Bangs' fantasy of having the worlds' music stacked in his basement makes little sense in 2011. But I do want the best of it all. Complete with artwork and CD cases, which leaves my wife wondering forlornly if every wall of our home will eventually be covered with shelves for music and DVDs. Perhaps.

I can't help myself. Just last year has produced stuff like: pristine Elvis Costello and U2 shows, both evenings of Eric Clapton's 1973 Rainbow Concerts with Pete Townsend, Ronnie Wood and Steve Winwood, an embarrassment of Springsteen material from his earliest forays with Child and Steel Mill to the sick full-album shows that finished up the last tour, Fleetwood Mac from the Rumours tour, Warren Zevon all over the place, Elton John solo and drunk but in full command in Scotland in 1973, Little Feat, REM, The Beatles acoustic demos for the White Album, lots of Lou Reed, even more Van Morrison, just about every worthwhile recording by The Band (including their complete set at Woodstock), Dylan from the earliest folk scene solo gigs to his fervent born-again phase (a lot more interesting than I ever thought it would be) to his grizzled musical rebirth in the late 90s), The Clash, Elvis, Wilco, and so much more I can't remember off the top of my head.

So yeah. Music life is good. And our next place might need a bigger basement.

Beautiful But Not Damaged

Tina Fey's prayer for a daughter. Funny and touching and true.

The Regal Beagle

An excellent profile of Andrew Sullivan, the world's best blogger. Better than me, even. Really. Hard to believe, but true.

Blow Job

Is there a more environmentally unfriendly device than a leaf blower?

Probably. Cars and cows come to mind (methane from cow and pig farts trap heat in the atmosphere more than carbon dioxide). But the idea of a dude hauling a backpack full of gasoline just to clean up the yard seems...unnecessary.

Don't get me wrong. Some jobs are too big for a rake. And the leaves and dead branches have to go somewhere or they'll clog our catch basins and whatnot. But walking the dog this morning, I passed a trio of dudes blowing all the winter remnants from yards, across the road to the woods. And then we passed an idling oil truck as the driver filled up someone's home tank with heating oil. Somewhere (I imagine) a cow farted. And I thought to myself: This just seems unsustainable.

I mean, if everyone in China and India continues to want their own cars and hamburgers and steak dinners, something has to give.

Anyway, that's what was on my mind this morning. I'm sure Donald Trump has it all figured out. Though the stuff that comes out of his mouth tends to be even more noxious than pig farts.

Where Can I Find A Woman Like That?

So I understand that Rick Springfield wishes he had Jessie's girl. But I don't know. Maybe it was the feathered hair or the skinny ties. But don't you also get the sense that he's got an unusual interest in Jessie himself? Just asking.

Big Time BS

So we're watching the Kids Choice Awards Saturday night with my 5-year-old niece and there's a popular boy band up for an award. Perhaps you have young children and know about this. But the band is called Big Time Rush.

Now I know kids today have no awareness of New Kids on The Block, much less the legendary Canadian prog-rock band Rush. But shouldn't someone in the corporate music and television world have told the corporate music and television moguls responsible for these pansies that they were co-opting the name a great and important music act?

I mean, really. Big Time Rush? You can't just take a band's name and tack on "Big Time" and then go about your business like this other, much better, band does not exist. Why not just name your boy band Big Time Beatles? Or Big Time Led Zeppelin. Shit, it would be just as bad if you chose Big Time Katrina and The Waves. Is all I'm saying.

Big Time Rush. Please. Next thing you know, they'll start wearing space-age kimonos.

Stock Shock

For no reason, here are 60 completely unusable stock photos.

Poor You

Glenn Greenwald dissects the self-pity of billionaires decrying Obamanomics.

I'm not sure I'll every understand why there hasn't been a populist uprising against these phonies.

Metal On Metal On Metal (On Metal)

I picked up this blog again because of all the crap going on the world. Earthquake-tsunami-nuclear meltdown crap. Wars and stuff. A seemingly intractable political divide here at home. The growing chasm between the super-rich and the rest of us. The complete abandonment of the poor.

But fuck all that. Watch "Anvil! The Story of Anvil." Appreciate what you've got and what you might not be destined to get.

The story of a long-suffering Canadian metal band, "Anvil" plays like a cross between "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" and "Spinal Tap." In fact, the documentary has enough peculiar "Tap" references that some reviewers even thought it could be an elaborate hoax. A record producer has gain dials that go to 11. The band visits Stonehenge. The drummer's name is Robb Reiner (with the extra "b").

But this is the kind of stuff that's too strange to be fiction. And there's as much hilarity as heart-rending honesty and inspiration. It's the story of a pair of talented (though I think their music is god-awful, at least it takes some talent to play) Jews from Toronto who love playing their crap music, love their families and love each other. Which leads to all the tension in a career that generates a parade of critical acclaim and plaudits from guys like Lars Ulrich and Slash but nothing to show for it beyond hapless European tours that offer nothing but a poorly-paying vacation from their regular non-musical jobs.

This movie has it all. Hair. Fighting. A surprising lack of drugs. And Steve "Lips" Kudlow plays his guitar with a vibrator.

"Anvil": The feel-good movie of a feel-bad year.

Fly Like A Beagle

Nothing like a dog almost too smart for his own good.

Married?

For some reason I've never gotten around to seeing any of Elizabeth Taylor's films. One of several glaring gaps in my film knowledge.

So I can't really praise her acting. And I didn't know her, though by all accounts she was a loving person loved by friends and family. Her charity work certainly deserves plenty of plaudits.

And yet the first thing that sprung to mind when I heard of her death today is her cameo as the voice of Maggie Simpson. And this crass entertainment news magazine video when asked about possibly marrying for the ninth time. Rest in peace, Liz. We all howl at the heavens tonight.

While I Was Away

Hm. It appears I may have missed some stuff this past year. Certainly nothing going on lately I can think of...

Nobody Wins Unless Everyone Wins

"There's something really dangerous happening to us out there. We're slowly getting split up into two different Americas. Things are getting taken away from people that need them and given to people that don't need them, and there's a promise getting broken. In the beginning, the idea was that we all live here a little bit like a family, where the strong can help the weak ones, the rich can help the poor ones. I don't think the American dream was that everybody was going to make it or that everybody was going to make a billion dollars. But it was that everybody was going to have an opportunity and the chance to live a life with some decency and some dignity and a chance for some self respect."

That was Bruce Springsteen, speaking from a stage in Pittsburgh in 1984. Not much has changed. Things got better and then got worse.

Here's a New York Times discussion about how people think (or don't) about the wealth disparity. I find the comments particularly interesting. People get so self-righteous about the working poor.

To me, you don't have to be a bleeding heart to think it's bad that so few people hold so much of the nation's money (and its power and influence and likely an out-sized proportion of its diamond-encrusted tweezers). I mean, doesn't it make sense that a better distribution of wealth would make rich people's fortunes more secure? Poverty and a growing animus toward the filthy rich creates crime, violence and some really horrible television shows. A more equitable society is a more stable society. People with more money have more to lose. Maybe they should pay more for that security? For the same reason it costs more to insure a $1 million house than one worth $50,000.

So how about it, all you shrugging Atlases. Maybe if you see yourself as part of the solution for a better functioning society, you can rest a little easier knowing a spiteful stable boy won't try to jam a Waterford candlestick up your Brazilian Sport Horse's ass.

Saints Freeze Hell Over

It's hard not to be warmed by last night's Saints victory in the Super Bowl. It was a terrific game. (We almost had that elusive overtime yet again.) Drew Brees is a great player and seemingly an even greater person. The city of New Orleans and the entire gulf region deserve this moment.

But when all the hoopla dies down (in New Orleans, that will be sometime in late summer, perhaps), all I can think of is this: The Jets will never win one of these.

Watching the Saints, here you have a team that had won two playoff games in 42 years before this year. The Jets have won 10 and appeared more often. Both teams have broken hearts and been laughingstocks.

But the Saints rose to the occasion and beat a Colts team the Jets could barely touch. They held the Colts to 7 points after the first quarter. They took advantage of a scaredy-cat timidity with the Colts' decision to run three times after a momentum-shifting goal-line stand at the end of the first half. The Saints favored boldness again with their suprise onside kick to start the third quarter. And for the first time in recent memory, Peyton Manning threw a late interception to lose a game.

Drew Brees cemented himself as an elite quarterback, winning the biggest game of his life without much of a running game. He outplayed the best quarterback I've ever seen play on the game's biggest stage.

One day that might be Mark Sanchez. But if that's the case, he'll probably be 32 years old and playing for the fucking Bills.

Three Sundays

My brother sent me the following quotes in an email today:

1. "Teams that have the top-ranked defense and running game in the NFL almost always enjoy postseason success. Since the NFL merger in 1970, of the seven teams that have led the league in both categories, two won the Super Bowl and three made it to the conference championship game." - Mark Cannizaro, NY Post

2. "This year's Colts are not a powerhouse, despite starting the season 14-0 before tossing in the towel, forfeiting to the Jets and Bills and fastforwarding to playoff preparation. In weeks seven through 10, they beat the 49ers, Texans, Patriots and Ravens by a combined 10 points. They won seven games with fourth-quarter comebacks, the most since the merger. It proves they are resilient. And vulnerable." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

3. "Manning is the best quarterback in the league, but he is only 8-8 in the playoffs. For all his numbers and terrific seasons, this is his 12th year and he has won just one Super Bowl and been to just one Super Bowl. He has not been nearly as good in the playoffs as he has been in the regular season." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

4. "The Colts are one dimensional: They were dead last running the ball. Wayne will enter Revis Island and never be heard from again Sunday. Then it's up to the rest of the secondary and the linebackers to control Dallas Clark, Austin Collie and Pierre Garcon. The Colts' leading rusher is Joseph Addai with only 828 yards." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

5. "One edge for the Jets: The Colts' new home at Lucas Oil Field is not as noisy as the old RCA Dome." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

6. "Forty-one years ago, another Colts team faced the Jets as a prohibitive double-digit favorite. That was Super Bowl III, the Joe Namath "guarantee," the game that essentially forced the NFL-AFL merger. Forty-one years ago, nobody in Baltimore and almost nobody in America thought the upstart Jets had a chance. Well, they have a chance Sunday. They absolutely have a chance." - Bob Kravitz, Indianapolis Star

He's abandoned a lifetime of hard lessons in Jets history to embrace Rex Ryan's steroidal optimism. While I know the Jets have a chance on Sunday, I'm forever haunted by the previous two AFC Championship games I've seen the Jets play in my life. The column below, published on the eve of the first home game in the doomed Eric Mangini Era, still stands as a solid assessment of my feelings about the green and white.

In three Sundays, the Jets might be playing in the Super Bowl. But this team doesn't strike me as ready for greatness just yet. This whole postseason has been a giddy bonus. So I'm bracing for the third Sunday in my collection of haunting Jets moments when everything almost comes together.

When you're a Jet you're a Jet all the way

9/16/2006

I am a Jets fan. In a dark and dangerous world, there are certainly worse things to be. Tom Arnold, for one.

But as another season starts -- teasing only the foolish with a pubescent coaching staff and a win against the feeble Tennessee Titans -- now is as good a time as any to examine the masochistic joys of living under a green and white cloud with a lining black as soot.

I've been going to Jets games since I was 4 years old and mostly interested in the pretzels and ice cream served at Shea Stadium. Those were the days. A jumbo pretzel hardly ever disappointed like the team on the field.

My dad would grease the ticket guy with $1, and I'd sit on his lap (my dad, not the ticket guy). As I grew older, I learned to love the Jets despite their regular disappointments. I imagine this is how Paris Hilton's parents feel about their daughter.

Oh, there were many brilliant, shining moments. I saw the 51-45 aerial shootout against Miami in 1986. The raucous home divisional playoff win against Jacksonville in 1998. The fourth quarter 23-point ""Miracle at the Meadowlands'' comeback in 2000. I rooted for the worthy Wesley Walker, Al Toon, Mickey Shuler, Lance Mehl, Joe Klecko, Freeman McNeil and Wayne Chrebet.

But then I witnessed a potential division lead shot through the heart with a Dan Marino fake spike. Watched as Dennis Byrd lay temporarily paralyzed. Caught Joe Walton picking his nose on TV and listened as Richie Kotite treated his team of losers like gentlemen. Saw Mark Gastineau commit a personal foul against Cleveland in a 1986 divisional playoff game on fourth and 26 that allowed Cleveland to tie the game and win in double overtime. Squirmed through the multiple concussions and premature retirement of our most prolific receiver. Twice. Sat motionless watching the 1982 AFC Championship Game as A.J. Duhe trucked his way through the Miami mud toward the endzone. Twice. In 1998, I saw a 10-point lead crumble just 30 minutes and 30 years from another shot at a Super Bowl. And I saw the best coach we would ever have skip town on his first day to build a dynasty in New England.

In my 27 or so years as a sentient fan, the Jets starting quarterbacks have included the likes of Bubby Brister, Browning Nagle, Glenn Foley, Tony Eason, Rick Mirer, Ray Lucas and Quincy Carter. The only thing these guys should have been starting was a list of alternate career choices. And the Jets choices on draft day are most remembered for the boos they generated among the New York crowd.

It says something about Jets fans that we have embraced ""Gang Green'' as our team nickname. Because there's nothing better to describe the squad than the bacterial decay of body tissue requiring amputation.



But I'll still be out there tomorrow with my dad and brother, my friends and girlfriend, grilling meats and tossing a ball in anticipation of anything to cheer about. There is something hopelessly hopeful and unintentionally cruel about cursing your children with the Jets in a town that demands winners. But I've never blamed my dad. When I was born, Joe Namath still glowed from his league-shaking Super Bowl III victory and wobbled his way through games on crippled knees. Traces of magic could shoot from his arm.

My brother should know better. He brought his 8-month-old daughter to a preseason tailgate outfitted in a pink Jets shirt and sucking on a Jets pacifier. The looming tragedy of this young life made me want to call Child Protective Services.

Luckily she's way too young at the moment to comprehend complex shapes and actions, much less the certain disaster of another Jets season. So until she's sitting on her dad's lap in the new Meadowlands stadium, I'm glad she's clueless and happy sucking on that pacifier.

There's just too much of that kind of thing on the field.

We already work around the clock!

As a life-long sad-sack Jets fan, I can hardly contain my conflicted emotions over this coming Sunday's AFC Championship Game.

I mean, I've been down this road before with what I at least perceived to be better teams -- in 1982 and 1998. Anything can happen, I suppose. But in the NFL playoffs, the better team usually wins. The Jets might have been better than the Bengals. We've got a great defense, but I think overall, the Jets only played better than a bumbling Chargers team. And they'll need to do everything right and catch similar breaks to beat the Colts.

But whatever happens, however horribly it unfolds, I think we can all agree on this: After this weekend, CBS MUST stop showing the commercials for that fucking pathetic Harrison Ford-Brendan Frasier flick. Right? Pretty please?

Merry Christmas

And Happy New Year!

T.V. Gaga

OK. It's taken a few months here. The honeymoon is over. Time to get something off my mind. And yeah, maybe it wouldn't hurt to move the freeze frame of my wife's boobies a little further down the page.

But what's on my mind, sadly, is Barbara Walters' 10 Most Fascinating People of 2009. God help me.

No one respectable has ever bothered to accuse Barbara of breaking the integrity bank when it comes to her celebrity interviews, specials, involvement with "The View," or anything since she interviewed the Shah of Iran in 1979. The woman really is a shameless panderer. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.

But watching her show last weekend out of pure boredom, I could hardly believe her definition of "fascinating" could be reconciled with my understanding of the English language. I mean, a turd baking on a hot stretch of highway can be fascinating. The pain from a kidney stone attack -- of which I've had five -- while excrutiating, tear-inducing and homicide-impulse-inducing, could also be described as fascinating.

But look at this list:

Michelle Obama, Lady Gaga, Glenn Beck, Tyler Perry, Kate Gosselin, Adam Lambert, Sarah Palin, Brett Favre, Jenny Sanford, Michael Jackson’s three children.

Holy bucket of ass hairs.

I'm trying here. It's not easy. But I'm trying hard to come up with a list of people who might have aggravated a larger quantity of the living shit out of me in 2009. I mean, Joe Lieberman took most of the year off before recently resurrecting his campaign as my state's biggest, most rancid human-shaped enema.

But these others? Other than Michelle Obama, and the blameless Jenny Sanford and the Jackson kids, this is a list of horrible, horrible, pathetic jackasses. And listen, I'm going on the record to say I'm fascinated by the orange self-proclaimed guidos of "Jersey Shore" and the human wrecks of the Dr. Drew rehab shows.

Kate Gosselin is a harpy fame whore whose loathsome qualities can only be surpassed, sadly and amazingly, by her doucherific ex-husband.

Adam Lambert looks like Dracula in drag and sings like one of those head phone hearing-test beeps at the DMV.

I'm not in any position to judge, so I'll let Spike Lee filet Tyler Perry as basically the manager of a modern day minstrel show.

I'm glad that until about two months ago, I'd never even heard of Lady Gaga. Now that I've seen her, she makes me want to gaga all over the floor.

Glenn Beck is Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity's retarded kid brother. Only more unhinged and possibly more likely to insight the kind of violence his type always seem to insight during times of economic hardship.

Sarah Palin is a know-nothing celeb-u-tante masquerading as a deep thinking realist. She quit her elected office to make a fortune. More power to her. But the only thing fascinating is how anyone could possibly continue to take her seriously.

Which brings me to Brett Fucking Favre. If he had spent the rest of his most recent "retirement" on his Mississippi lawn tractor, I would have no feelings about him whatsoever. Maybe he could have retained a handful of the fond feelings I had for him when he was the plucky, infectious winner in Green Bay. But after his endless public soap opera over the first retirement/comeback, it was hard enough to root for him playing for my own team. After the Jets and his right arm imploded last year, I was glad to be rid of him. His ego could hardly fit in the new stadium.

Now he's fucking 11-2. Looking better than ever on a team with Adrian Peterson. If he wins the Super Bowl the only thing more fascinating might be whom I might kill as a result of my homicidal rage.

Do you think Kate Gosselin would come to my Super Bowl party?

Somebody's Getting Married

A teaser for the full-length wedding video I'm almost finished cutting...