Kickin' Dirt In Your Face part ii.

Following my first excursion into trolling the underbelly of sports journalism I was dispatched to cover the reach-around on CCTV that is the Sports Emmy Awards.

I was unsure of the assignment from the jump and the dank, rainy weather coupled with the ceremony's location (Midtown) didn't exactly push me out the door. But a soldier must march and I am certainly considered front line material for such an assignment.




After my last (pssst! Look below) assignment I came to the conclusion that shaving was my best bet if I wanted to reap the benefits of PR benevolence. Clean-shaven I look like media jail bait
and I'll take any advantage I can get.

As I stood around waiting for the talking jocks to enter the networking/backscratching/sycophanting area (cocktail lounge) I kept myself busy snagging passed hors d'oeuvres and entertaining the smallish PR representative with my hilarious folksy ways.



As my restlessness grew, I strolled into the area designated for mingling and drinking. With newfound friend in tow we grabbed sodas and when my unsolicited chaperone was elsewhere I gulped down some cheap wine.

Showtime:

I jumped into line with the other media members as a smattering of former players and wishful former players stopped to chat with us lower-tier media members.

I was able to speak briefly with the Round Mound of Rebound, Charles Barkley, before he was scurried to the stage to present the night's first award. It was difficult to interview a boyhood idol but it could have gone much worse.



I was beckoned to the green room to watch the program on a monitor and interview winners during their trophy photograph set to the lovely Sports Emmy background: dream.come.true. Who doesn't want to chat up producers and cameramen?!

I was able to converse with Cris Collinsworth who turned out to be quite an intelligent man. We discussed what effects a U.S. boycott of the Beijing Olympics would have on the games and relations between the two nations. While I disagreed with some of Collinsworth's assertions (a nation shouldn't use the Olympics as a forum for protest) I was surprised he supported and advocated individuals using the games in such a fashion. We discussed the differences between prior Olympics* and the global communities' calls for boycotts and contrasted them with the Beijing controversy.

Cris was whisked away before I was able to discuss candidates grandstanding with calls for boycotting the Olympics or portions of the games. But I was able to listen to Sir Charles drop more knowledge on myself and the weirdos interviewing him alongside me.

(Note: One of the reporters actually looked like the pictured Laker, [is that Vlade Divac?] but with much less hair or jumping ability.)

Chuckster spoke more about politics (outsourcing of jobs and labor, immigration, classism, problems within the black community, etc.) than basketball which was interesting and still peppered with delicious quotables:

"I think gay people should be able to get married. I say that and they (never identified) try to get me fired. I tell them to kiss my ass."

When celebrities start spouting off about social or political issues, my eyes usually start circling, rolling, and/or squeezing in annoyance and disgust. But when a celebrity has his (or her) mind right and isn't simply squawking and sounding off with little to no authority or expertise on a subject other than notoriety, but because said person KNOWS THE SUBJECT, it's refreshing***.

Charles Barkley and Cris Collinsworth are knowledgeable people. They seek to attain knowledge on a topic and don't (as far as I know) present themselves as experts when they're not.

I'm not here to present these two men as idols other than models for trading cards to be attached to bike wheels for the purpose of "clickety-click" sound production. But I left my conversations with these men with a newfound respect for their intellects and classiness.

If only they can keep the coatcheck line (40 minutes waiting for my jacket?!) in order I'd certainly attend the 30th Annual Sports Emmy Awards if invited. I gotta bring a camera, though.

*I managed to spill a glass of wine on a woman descending the stairs a few strides behind me at this juncture, too. Smooth.
**Full disclosure: I totally flubbed a historical reference and somehow overlooked/forgot in the heat of the moment (haha-that sounds so sexual) that the U.S. actually participated in the Berlin Games. All apologies to Jesse Owens and the other courageous men and women who participated. What was I thinking? Apparently not too much.

***Funny how Mystic River featured my examples (save for Sarandon) from both camps of outspoken celebrities.

Kickin' Dirt In Your Face part i.

I'm inching closer to that coveted title of "writer-employed." I've now covered two events for New York Magazine and I gotta admit, I had a lot of fun. Friday was my first foray and I found myself in Midtown for ESPN the Magazine's Draft Party.

I left the evening with a newfound respect for David Banner's politics and his ability to lose a ridiculous amount of weight in a short amount of time.
Then:

Now:

Mind you he wasn't shirtless at the event (nor did he have facial hair--the man shaved!) but I wanted to illustrate the "transformation." There was some serious broing out in regard to a mutual love and respect for greasy southern cuisine.

This short Jewish cat next to me kept asking me who every rapper and athlete was at the party which got a little old; but can you blame him? He was entertainment, or something, the sports guy just threw him the story that afternoon, apparently. So I gave the little bugger some slack.

Mike Jones also lost a great deal of weight which was shocking but somehow less interesting. The guy did hug me though, thus bequeathing me even more street credibility, if you can imagine that.



Other highlights: chatting about basketball with Sports History God the Schwab. He picked the Suns to win the championship this year...I guess no god is infallible. This wild-eyed black kid shouting "Hey Ashton! Ashton Kutcher!" at me for a good thirty minutes straight. Chatting up women at the event with the intent of trying to sex as many football players as possible. Watch out, dudes!

To close the night out I tried selling my V.I.P. pass to some asshole waiting in line outside in the rain but he and his friends just gave me a blank stare.



Another day, I suppose.

Oh, James, How Could I Have Forgotten You?

I stumbled upon this video earlier today of Clint Ruin a.k.a. Foetus a.k.a. J.G. Thirwell and I was ashamed at how long it's been since I've sat down and listened to some of the man's work. Fucking incredible musician who's been churning out the "hits" for nearly thirty years now--amazing.

To give you some more context, this is a video of Soft Cell covering the Suicide (the band, not the act) song "Ghostrider" with Thirwell, during his Clint Ruin years, hopping in to provide some spine tingling guest vocals. The man is a howler and I mean that as the ultimate compliment. Enjoy.


Addendum: Clint Ruin/Thirwell is one of a select few able to get away with wearing sunglasses at night or indoors. That boy is BAD! End mancrush.

Regurgitate your ingested "musings" elsewhere

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HAT TRICK, BITCHES!

I was just let in on another secret of the internet: Muxtape. Create, upload, and have your own mp3 mixtape, sorry, MUXTAPE hosted. You're only allotted 12 songs which kinda sucks, but that's nitpicking on my end. Great concept and I am sure it will be shut down soon once L33T H4X0RZ (I don't know if that's even funny anymore) find a way to download the hosted mp3s and Metallica or U2 end up on a muxtape.

Mine is pretty raging and total pissed off hardcore/punk/metal goofiness. You'll enjoy it if you've got these.

If not, make your own.

Keeping with the "theme"...













Mishka, you've done it again. But fix your Doombox, it's fucking terrible. Bring back fun stuff and leave the nu-rave for the other dudes.

Goodnight all, time to fall asleep to nicotine withdrawals

Get your metal gear, it's headbanging time

I weaseled my way into a concert tonight after taking part in a few open call interviews for jobs I wouldn't want in high school, and the same goes nearly ten years later.

I actually completed an interview for a position within Dialogue Direct's "Street Team" (my wording, not theirs) to pester New Yorkers on the street in some feeble attempt to badger them into donating money to a good (assumption) cause: Children.

I'M TRYING TO BE ONE OF THESE GUYS--WHAT HAS BECOME OF ME?

The other interviews were for restaurants, but what struck was that the female interviewer was likely pushing fifty and absolutely rocking a nose ring. The fuck? I'd go on, but I think I just jinxed myself out of the running for that job. Then again, if that's the case, I'll proceed.

Nose rings are pretty terrible for men and women of any age; isn't a person supposed to realize as they grow older that trends don't last because they lean toward the moronic to begin with?*

But that isn't where the day got interesting, come to think of it the day never DID get interesting, activities simply developed/appeared.

A quick rundown of the day's highlights and lowlights before I pass out and strip this entry of what little cohesion and direction it possessed already:

• $2 margaritas? In New York? You bet! And if you show up at the right time, they'll let you make your own BEHIND THE BAR. Feel free to stiff yourself on the tip--you didn't earn it.
• Tecmo Superbowl is back with a snowed-out (in appearance--remember when you tried watching scrambled porn? Add some controllers.) vengeance. If you're unfamiliar with this game, then fuck you. Bo Jackson is the truth and a beast.
• Entirely too much pizza, how do the Italians do it? Give me a fucking burrito, I want to shove pizza up my ass. Why? I have no fucking idea, I'm just tired of eating it.
• The favorite part of any day for me is really when I get to surprise my girlfriend by dropping in on her at home and sharing some cuddling, eskimo kisses, baby talk, and then trying to convince her to let me penetrate newfound orifices. SO CLOSE!

After alllll this** I proceeded to the rock show.

In retrospect I'm glad I didn't pay $16. I missed half of the show and of the halve I witnessed you could lop off another half to keep the just the tasty parts.

Red Chord-Boring, sloppy, and derivative. Who would strive for a trifecta of this nature? If you're going to be sloppy be interesting, the same can be said for derivative sounds.

Genghis Tron-I was trying to get laid.

Baroness-Look up. I heard I didn't miss anything.

Converge-Unless you're not a fan, then you know they were great. A little sloppy*** to start but it was to be expected seeing as this was the opening night of the tour. After the rust was shaken, the shred was on in full force and I even got to partake in some moderate headbanging--which I always enjoy. The kids were going bonkers and I swear some bird who crowd surfed her way to the front was gonna try to instigate onstage bukakke on herself had security not grabbed her. She had the rape eyes, for sure.

All in all a good night. Someone take me bowling this weekend and someone else do my taxes. Hooray!

















*Fuck your highwaisted jeans/pants. You look dumb, frumpy, and ridiculous. Errr...oops.
**"LOL"?
***For the record, I LOVE sloppiness, overly precise music or vessels of expression as a whole (haha, I suck) seem inhuman to me without the occasional human error. Organic is good. I have a problem with it when the sloppiness detracts from the overall presentation.

How 'bout that March?!

Sorry readers but it's been a bit of a hectic month for your favorite antagonist. I've been fired, mugged, and aged since our paths last crossed. Let's begin at the beginning, eh?

I was fired for allowing a co-worker to fool around on my server number (the code an employee used to sign into the server to tally up orders) and as a result I was shit-canned. Could have been worse, they coulda beat me up. Wait, they left that to four kids from my neighborhood!

The following Monday I had stopped back in at my now-former job to grovel for my shitty, mediocre-paying serving job from the queen who had been all-too-happy to give me the ax that prior Saturday. After being told to return the following day I exited my bygone diner of dreams and shuffled into the C train back to Brooklyn. The only problem was that some young'ins wanted to slow my trip home a bit by tackling me and taking whatever belongings they could snatch out of my pockets: not much.

Somehow, the police were able to retrieve my iPod and capture one of my attackers; alas the same couldn't be said for my beloved teal Banana Republic wallet that I fear I will never be able to replace.

Theft robs you of more than the physical people!*




The annoying fallout of this debacle wasn't so much the loss of property (don't get me wrong, it sucked) was the dealings with police and the District Attorney's Office. I had the police (initially unbeknownst to me and subsequently unwillingly) parading me around my neighborhood where these cats roam and I'm typically averse to making myself known as being in bed with the police. I never outgrew my punk records, I suppose.

These dipshits were driving me around in what was an obvious unmarked car in broad daylight to try to make a positive ID on the kids that jumped me FROM BEHIND. The only positive identification that was transpiring was of me as not only the Token White in the area but also as the incandescent neighbor who's in bed with police. That goes over swimmingly in a "strong heroin and crack presence with frequent robberies"-type neighborhood as the police who drove me home the night of the incident described my street.



But wait, THERE'S MORE!!!

The youngster they captured was repeatedly shown my face in close proximity, occasionally without my knowledge and at the police precinct. How about you guys give them a copy of my house key next time? Can I count that as a tax write-off if "hoodlums" use my laptop to make shitty Flo-Rida-derivative beats on my stolen laptop? What about royalties? Fuck it.

The most abhorrent behavior I encountered occurred at the court room, however. I was coaxed into spending an entire day waiting to give five minutes of slanted and misleading Grand Jury testimony. It was disgusting the way this Assistant D.A. was maneuvering in an attempt to get the best testimony out of me. Vile creature he was, even after admitting earlier in the day he thought there wasn't a case to be made. We all have to swallow our pride and our ethics to a certain degree at times to put food on the table; I'm a realist and I will concede that to myself and others, but this was egregious. Pulling out all the stops on a 15-year-old** first-time offender makes you a despicable person and it makes me glad I made jokes during my testimony to undermine the entire affair.

But it hasn't been all misery and loss...


I also got to ride a bull! Fun night for sure filled with surprise visitors, copious amounts of whiskey, new friends, and ridiculously drunken karaoke...even by drunken karaoke standards of inebriation.

So, now I've been kicked out of the 18-24 party and thrust into the immediately lamer and inferior in the eyes of advertisers 25-30/35 demographic which hurts a little to be honest. The 18-24 group has ALL the cool birthdays unless you're a girl*** stuck in the Eisenhower years or you're a Jew and, well, we disregard them here.

• Fuck, I can't wait until I'm able to rent a car!
• The wisdom gleaned from navigating through my twenties is invaluable. I'm glad that time is done and I can now enjoy adulthood.
  
• Every birthday is another year closer to attaining my goal APR!

No one says these things honestly. These are statements made by folks in denial. No one sits at home when they're grounded and 15 thinking to themselves, "I can't wait until my late twenties so I can be expected to make sound decisions all the time while being burdened with these same expectations (as well as my own) every day!" Fuck that! When you're fifteen, all you want is to be 21 so you can be getting drunk, fucking chicks (or dudes), ad partying with no one (at least in your adolescent mind) telling you different.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not some douche on my way to finance a Camaro I can't afford and a blond I can't satisfy.**** But for whatever silly reason, be it self-imagined or inflicted on me by popular culture and the media that mirrors, creates, and magnetizes it, I feel like the jump from 24 to 25 has been a much longer motion than my last step forward. But that's all I have for you at the moment, but it's probably more than you needed. I'll try to douse you in posts this upcoming month. Then again, it is the first of the month.






















*I'm just fucking with you, only pussies say that. You're not pussy, arrreee youuuu?
**Shut up, they had an aggregate age of sixty. Wait, fuck! Let me rephrase that, it was like a four hundred pound 15-year-old with freakish athleticism attacked me.
***To spoil any eurocentric accusations I will mention Quinceanera and in the interest of mutual inclusion I will proclaim them lame too.
****The latter is impossible, anyway.