Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Five More Early Summer Thoughts

1) Has anyone noticed that the “Beach Reading” displays in most bookstores are really just the books you were forced to read in high school? I expect to see something airy and vapid and get “Moby Dick” and “My Antonia” instead. I don’t think I’ll be reading “A Tale of Two Cities” on the beach this summer, but don’t let me stop you. If you’re among the ones who read the Cliff Notes and feel you’ve cheated yourself, just about any Barnes & Noble will help to assuage that guilt. For me, despite being among the Cliff Noters, I still remember what happens to Pip, Captain Ahab, et al, and thus will go the more contemporary route. My guess is we’ve been through enough hard knocks to “get” life without reliving what transpired on the Pequod…especially in the summer. Maybe I’ll finally break down and read the “Da Vinci Code”, or the latest from Masha Hamilton.

2) Seems the biggest news of the NBA Finals was that nobody watched them. Oh, but there was the draft too.

3) For those of you who get thirsty walking around New York City, worry no more, Big Gulps are here. For the first time in my life I saw a 7-Eleven in Manhattan on the NE corner of 23rd and Park. At first I thought it was a sick joke, like, who knows, maybe it was a vintage clothing store with a convenience store motif. They do that kind of stuff in New York; like making shoe stores feel like subway cars and so forth. But no, this 7-Eleven is for real. It hasn’t opened yet, but God willing it should soon. Nothing better than a Slurpie during the dog days of summer. And you thought life was getting worse...

4) I think I’m conflicted about all these chains moving into New York. I talk about this a lot, so here I go again. Union Square Park, the main epicenter of all things Left, has this “Farmers Market” there all the time. For us Urbanites this is supposedly a good thing; a vast array of stands with “organic” products from little upstate towns. There are flowers and vegetables and cupcakes and syrup and all those wonderful things you’d buy next to a cornfield along a country road. After walking past this Farmers Market dozens of times without giving it much attention, I finally broke down when my insatiable sweet tooth steered me towards one of the bakery stands. I purchased a bigger-than-average, but not huge, cookie that was admittedly overpriced. I thought what the heck, splurge a little, it’s going to be yummy coming from the Farmers Market. Well, unfortunately, calling the cookie sub-par would be generous. It was extremely bland and crumbled in my hand like a dead leaf; hardly an auspicious way to get introduced to the Farmers Market. Nevertheless I went again because I wanted to like this Farmers Market the way a Star Wars fan wants to like Jar Jar. This time I was thirsty, and figured some cold cider would hit the spot. So I go to a different stand and, again, get an admittedly overpriced cup of cider that’s slightly bigger than what’s affixed to your standard office water cooler. It took only two gulps to finish and so I asked in a half- joking, half-serious tone if there were free refills. She says no, somewhat scoffingly, of which I get the most searing “what a dork” look since trying to boogie to “Rock Lobster”. Strike two.

So, earlier this week, I had bunch of loose change in my pocket. I had a craving for those Jamaican meat patties at Golden Krust. It’s a tasty, cheap snack, and very filling. But what drives me nuts is that, for the nine-millionth time in my life, something that costs $2.85 on the menu ends up being $3.08 with sales tax, and I NEVER have that @#&*#$! eight cents when it comes in handy. Dig? Anyway, with the 92 cents that’s destined to get lost in my shorts, I figured I just spend it on a little afternoon dessert at, once again, the Farmers Market. I got a mini gingerbread man (the fluffy, spongy kind) for 75 cents. Once again, it was admittedly overpriced; considering its volume and density were about the same as two and a half marshmallows...but what the hell. Much to my dismay, my mini gingerbread man had the flavor of an unsalted rice cake…and…dare I say it…was as dry as the Mojave Desert. For me that dryness is a real showstopper. Strike three for the Farmers Market.

Meanwhile, as previously mentioned, the Invasion of the Chains has dangerously encroached the main epicenter of all things Left. Just south of Union Square Park, a Whole Foods Supermarket made Fourteenth Street home a few months ago. I like Whole Foods, at least the one in Time Warner Center off Columbus Circle, but I assume the one on Fourteenth is pretty much the same. It’s perhaps the only supermarket in the world that’s also a tourist destination. I kid you not, I’ve seen clusters of people gawk at the porterhouse steaks like it was the Mona Lisa. The place is massive, where the ushered checkout process feels like going through customs at JFK. And, yes, once more the place is also admittedly overpriced, though if you know where to look some bargains can be found. The key difference is quality. I don’t shop there for groceries, but I’ve had a few meals from the variety of self-serve food bars and it’s been A+ every time (meats succulent and juicy, sauces tangy and balanced, breads moist and textured…good stuff). However, with Whole Foods being the Neiman Marcus of supermarket chains, the downtowness of Union Square has gotten chafed. If the Farmers Market is the yin of Union Square, Whole Foods is the yang. But at the risk of committing blasphemy, I must be fair and say that Whole Foods kicks the bejesus out of the Farmers Market. I already sense lightning ready to strike me. In fact, dark clouds are forming as I write this. Early rumblings of thunder make their warning sign, and I’m in search of some rubber-soled shoes. But the truth will always set one free. Whole Foods begrudgingly wins, chalk one down for the Chains. Time for a good long cry.

5) Was celebrating my mom’s birthday this weekend and took her and my girlfriend out to dinner at a place called Luigi’s in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. Anyone familiar with the Denver area will see where I’m going with this. Luigi’s is a fine place, real down-home and local, sans much of the inflicted quaintness found elsewhere. Huge, rich, delicious portions with friendly service from waitresses who call you “Hon” and “Dear.” Just about everything is great, but Luigi’s is especially known for their pizza. I had their pizza special Saturday night: barbecued chicken with bacon, onions and barbecue sauce (and my cholesterol level has jumped to???). It’s hard to describe, but the pizza has this special flavor that I’ve had only once before. I pondered the déjà vu my taste buds were experiencing and…eureka…it hit me…Beau Jo’s pizza in Idaho Springs, Colorado!!! They didn’t have the honey for the crust, but if you’ve been to Beau Jo’s you know what I’m talking about. We have great pizza here in New York, but it’s not as ubiquitous as Big Apple propaganda would like to suggest. Beau Jo’s is some of the finest pizza on the planet. Same goes with Luigi’s. Make the effort whenever you’re in those areas.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Some Early Summer Thoughts

1) I think I know why I’ve always regarded Spin Magazine as ersatz Rolling Stone. I’m having a very hard time with their declaring Radiohead’s “OK Computer” the best album of the last 20 years. I’ll admit it; I own this album because I connect some memories to the song “Karma Police”. Can’t say those memories come from the best period of my life, nor am I crazy about the album, but “Karma Police” does have some personal significance. I guess it’s a “bold” move on Spin’s part to praise a band that everyone loves to hate; as if they’re seeing the meaning through what many feel is a calculated and synthetic sound. Won’t matter, to me Radiohead will always remain as organic as Diet Mountain Dew.

2) I guess I’m not terribly surprised that “Cinderella Man” is dogging at the box office with a cumulative $43.9 million recorded thus far. Granted it’s competing with some heavyweights (no pun intended) like the new Batman and Star Wars movies, but I think the American public has had just one too many of these schmaltzy, nostalgic flicks pandering to Oscar’s agenda.

3) I think the harder the NBA tries to promote the league internationally, the more it’s disclosing just how disinterested people are about it at home. There’s a lot of subtext to what’s meant about “the implications of the Ron Artest incident;” stuff that nobody really wants to come out and say. But with ratings way down and nobody watching the NBA finals, some very tough questions need to be addressed about how the NBA will, if ever, deliver the type of TV audiences advertisers want.

4) I think Michelin, the French tire manufacturer, is a convenient scapegoat to the Formula One fiasco earlier this week in Indianapolis. I mean, when in doubt blame the French…right? Putting F1 on an oval track in the American Midwest is about as backwards-assed as hosting the Daytona 500 at the Nürburgring. Bad idea all the way around. Everyone just chalk this down as an expensive lesson learned and move on.

5) Seems that the most notable thing to come out of Wimbledon so far is Serena Williams smashing her racket. Well, at least that’s the New York Post’s standpoint. At least she won.

6) What is it with tornadoes always hitting trailer parks and helicopters always falling into the East River?

7) Was on the 11:07 Tuesday from Grand Central going to South Norwalk, Connecticut. Message to Jane from Rowayton: sorry that you made the early morning trip to Manhattan only to then discover that your meeting was canceled, but life’s full of these nuisances, so please get over it. I doubt your friends are overly concerned about this, and I can promise that your fellow passengers on Metro North aren’t concerned either. So next time, if you feel so compelled to use your cell phone for the entire 59 minute train ride, do it quietly, or in the doorway, or just read the newspaper. I don’t get a sense that life has dealt you that bad of a hand …thanks Jane.

8) Was also on the 11:07 Saturday from Grand Central going to Fairfield, Connecticut. Very crowded train for some reason. Couple of twenty-something’s, a guy and a girl, plow their bicycles down the busy isle while unapologetically grazing other passengers with their bikes. They find two coveted seats and stash their bikes in two other coveted seats before an elderly couple politely asks if they could move their bikes and sit down. The twenty-something’s give some flack about this, and a moment later the conductor comes to make order of this escalating matter. Voices get raised, and the conductor quickly decides to haul the bikes out to the platform and kick the twenty-something’s off the train. Way to go Mr. Conductor. The male twenty-something cowardly yells “F.U.” while the conductor has his back turned and storms off. Message to you two twenty-something’s: get over your f***ing sense of entitlement and show some courtesy. If you’re in shape enough to ride a bike, you’re in shape enough to stand with it in the doorway area. Better yet, since you have a bike, just ride the damn thing to wherever you have to go. There was nobody siding with you on that train. NOBODY!

9) Does anyone know how Quiznos, once the epitome of also-ran sandwich chains, found in Denver’s most forgotten strip malls, has planted itself in some of the most plum locations in all of New York City? Good God, they're smack-dab in the middle of St. Mark’s Place in the East Village. I mean, have their sandwiches gotten that much better? I thought for sure they’d be stuck among the lowest echelons of the fast food world; forever in the company of Chi-Chi’s, Arthur Treachers and Orange Julius. Shows what I know, but I’m still loyal to my boys at A&F Deli.

10) I think I’m having a hard time admitting how entertaining the Village People were the other night outside of Lincoln Center.

Monday, June 20, 2005

WIMBLEDOOM

I don’t know, it could be me; growing up on the East Coast where Anglophilia came with the same conditioning as eating your peas, but Wimbledon was once a really big deal. Nowadays, it sneaks in and out like yet another Peter, Paul & Mary revival. The tournament is underway, lots of foreign players with polysyllabic names grunting their shots down the line. There are some Americans too, but most of them come from Florida and have no edge. Who these people are is anyone’s guess. The revolving door spins so fast that fans can’t even thrust their nationalism in time before the next teenage flavor of the month takes over: She’s from where, Doc, Lithuania? No, Latvia…I think. The only player that currently sticks out is Maria Sharapova. Don’t ask me about her game. I don’t know if she’s even right or left handed, I just know that she happened to win Wimbledon last year…and, oh yeah,…that’s she’s hot. Admit it, she may be good, but she’s not the sport’s poster girl because of her forehand volley.

Tennis, God, if there were ever a sport where bravado was king and decorum a curse it’s tennis. Where petulance reigns endorsements thirty years past one’s prime. I mean, who wouldn’t buy shaving cream from Ille Nastase? I blame the demise of tennis on the Swedes, with Bjorn Borg being Public Enemy Number One. Yes, I know, I’m sounding like a gringo-jingo. One of those ugly Americans that performs an expletive filled tirade because he can’t wear shorts into the Sistine Chapel. The one’s who eat McDonalds after a morning promenade along the banks of the Seine. But I’m right on this one. Tennis ruled when crass, ornery Americans dominated the sport. It wasn’t about playing a tenacious baseline game or storming the net. It was about bawdy swagger.

I blame the Swedes because they were the anti-Connors and anti-McEnroe; the kids who put apples on the teacher’s desk. The ones who sat in the front row and wouldn’t let you copy their geometry proofs when you were in a jam. They were what Herman’s Hermits were to the Rolling Stones. Matts Wilander and Stephan Edberg were simply sissies. But it was Borg’s mild mannered ways that anesthetized tennis to Orwellian levels; playing like a cat on carpet with his small wooden rackets…allegedly raising the bar with his passive on-court demeanor. As a result the sport slit its throat by debunking the shenanigans of Connors and McEnroe; unknowingly killing the golden goose of attitude that put Wimbledon on par with the Super Bowl. In its wake we got syborgs like Ivan Lendl, Boris Becker and Pete Sampras driving the ball with stolid blitzkrieg might. Our interest waned.

These days Wimbledon is just a nice little tennis tournament, dying with the WASPs on rainy Edgartown mornings instead of enticing a new generation’s worth of interest. Wimbledon, Wimbledoom…pass me a taco Bucky.

Monday, June 13, 2005

OLD HAT

I can’t hold it in anymore. Just can’t. I don’t like to use this site to bash other writers; one’s that get paid to do this sort of thing. But alas, I can’t take it any more. The voices in my head, the tossing and turning at night, the pent up need to exorcise these emotions is just too overpowering. So here we go: I love Sports Illustrated, but I can’t stand Frank Deford.

I know this is somewhat sacrilegious to those who hail from the old school. It’s along the lines of assassinating the integrity of Walter Cronkite or panning the latest schmaltzfest by Ron Howard, but so be it. Longevity and awards hardly make one sacrosanct, in fact, if anything, it demonstrates adherence to established journalistic norms rather than challenge the system. And Deford, who writes with the provinciality of a tweed-laden English professor, couldn’t be more of a “yes man.” A token wonk to give sports rags some Ivy League cred.

One story by Deford that really struck a chord (no I’m not trying to write in verse…thank you) was called “Heap Big Hypocrisy”. The piece was a recycled rant about the continued defilement of the American Indian thanks to nicknames like the Redskins. To be fair, there is some legitimacy to this argument. Even I, who at times can be “sensitivitally challenged”, will agree that logos like that of the Cleveland Indians are pretty disrespectful. But that’s not the point. The point is forging ahead after 15 years of self-censored speech. The thing with offensive team nicknames is old; rehashing the days when political correctness reached its zenith in the early 1990s. Some organizations, sadly, did cave under the pressure. The Portland Oregonian, for example, enacted a policy that abolished the use of “offensive” nicknames in its stories. When writing about, say, the Atlanta Braves, the paper would simply refer to them as “the baseball team from Atlanta”. St. Johns University, formerly known as the Redmen, became the Red Storm.

Deford goes on to say, “Now, at last, the NCAA has begun a review of the situation, with an eye toward considering whether it indeed might possess the authority to force member schools to change their dubious nicknames.”

Dubious nicknames? Where do you draw the line? Lets throw famous brand names like Indian Motorcycles, Cherokee Clothing and Red Man Tobacco into the mix as well.

Maybe the Boston Celtics should modify their “cartoonish” logo in order to stay PC among the Irish. How about the Minnesota Vikings? Someone in the Twin Cities must find them offensive; besmirching the folklore of the area’s Scandinavian heritage. Is the fleur-de-lis on the side of the New Orleans Saints helmet a sign of French disrespect? Perhaps the Saints should change their name altogether. After all, the Church could hardly be thrilled about a team called The Saints paying grown men to knock the crap out of other human beings. The Chicago Bulls anyone? PETA members get your placards out. How dare a nickname suggest bovine zeal when it’s really about killing cattle in the old stockyards. It’s offensive and sneaky, not to mention glorifying an industry synonymous with worker exploitation. Awful.

Where does it end?

Houston Rockets? Could be construed with exacerbating the Cold War; a war that put America trillions of dollars in debt. Pacifists and fiscal conservatives should unite until a more suitable nickname is found.

Pittsburgh Steelers? Anyone know how harmful the steel industry was to the environment? Why haven’t the PIRGs led a siege onto Heinz Field? A name change is clearly in order.

San Antonio Spurs? Naming a franchise after an implement used to impale horses is vile; even for Texas.

Kansas City Royals? Lots of fine, red-blooded Americans died to keep our country liberated from monarchy oppression. And to have a team called the Royals in our heartland isn’t just offensive, it’s contemptuous.

New York Knickerbockers? The name refers to New York’s blueblood upper crust; a ruling society that thumbed their nose at the working class. It’s an outrage to have a name promoting class envy like this. Amazing we haven’t seen race riots outside of Madison Square Garden…at least not yet.

Ridiculous? That’s the point.

Deford also says, “sport nicknames may seem like a small, even foolish, thing, but their visibility helps keep Indians trapped in history, cartoon figures frozen on the warpath." I agree, it is a small, even foolish thing, however for years these small foolish things have grown into monumental warts on our society; leaving self-inflicted gag orders to keep things innocuous and vanilla. Political correctness has already made American sports that much more banal. Names like the Jacksonville Jaguars and Washington Wizards (formerly the Washington Bullets) reflect the focus-group-friendly world that Deford craves. Enough with taking the safe route.

Maybe teams should just abandon competition all together. Just email each other’s game plan and call it a draw. That way no one gets hurt, or worse…offended.


OTHER NOTES:

A few thoughts about, well, things going on. Granted I’m sort of “borrowing” Peter King’s “Ten Things I Think I Think” from his outstanding Monday Morning Quarterback column. But Peter King is open about what he borrows too. So what goes around, comes around.

1) I think New York City’s soul was saved thanks to the West Side Stadium getting nixed by the state legislature. New York City has been the last frontier for America’s corporate chains, but thanks to stratospheric rents, only the chains can afford to move in here now. There are already two Home Depots in Manhattan. TWO! And with the Disneyfication of Times Square well entrenched, a West Side stadium would provide a hugely fertile swath of asphalt for the likes of Ruby Tuesday and all its clones. For the first time in my life, something significant happened in Albany. Lou Reed should write a bad song about it.

2) I also think it’s a blessing in disguise that New York will likely not get the 2012 Olympics. We don’t need the prestige and we don’t need seven years of jackhammers, traffic, and every official on the planet telling us how to make the city “safe”. Big Brother has already found a home in our fair city, and he’s not very welcome. In terms of making money, the city is better off selling lemonade on the street than hosting the Olympics. Get over it New York, we have nothing to prove to the world. Work on Ground Zero instead.

3) Saw Pedro Martinez pitch live for the first time on June 2. It was an unseasonably chilly night for early June, but for five bucks we put up with the discomfort (yes there actually are some bargains in New York). Was too far up in the right field upper deck to gauge Pedro’s stuff, but his charisma belted us like fresh menthol pellets placed in a steam bath. He’s got the “it” factor, that’s for sure. He’s been a fantastic acquisition for the Mets. I’m on the Pedro bandwagon.

4) I agree with the consensus that Eli Manning will have a big season with the Giants. I also think that Chris Snee will again show how the Giants have historically drafted better in the second round than in the first.

5) Saw the movie “Lords of Dogtown” despite being ten years north of the film’s target age. Damn good flick. Sort of where “Friday Night Lights” meets “Boogie Nights” on skateboards. This movie should make anyone feel deprived of not growing up in 1970s southern California. Heath Ledger borrows a little from Sean Penn’s Jeff Spicoli and a little from Val Kilmer’s Jim Morrison. Nevertheless, he plays a very likeable and memorable character. Check it out, even if your MTV was the one that showed videos.

6) I think “Hustle and Flow” will be the summer’s surprise movie hit both critically and at the box office.

7) Anyone see the Tony Awards recently? How about the French Open? Anyone? Anyone?

8) I think the Texas Rangers will get really hot in the latter half of the season.

9) I think the Mets are on the right track, but won’t be a playoff team in 2005.

10) I’ve always thought Starbucks coffee sucks.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

NO WAY L.A.

If Peter King is writing about why he thinks the Minnesota Vikings are a Super Bowl contender, then the well for football news must be pretty dry. The Vikes have had a good off-season, especially with all the bumps involved with their ownership change, but I have just two words as to why Minnesota will continue to sputter: Mike Tice.

Another NFL topic with the shelf life of canned beats is putting a team in Los Angeles. The stakes seem high for NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue to have a team in LA. After all, it is the second largest television market, and despite legions of Angelenos “escaping” to less frenetic locales, LA is still a growing metropolis. In addition, it looks silly, even embarrassing, for the NFL not to have a team in a market that has two franchises in each of the remaining three major sports. But for a city that’s notoriously fickle about, well…everything, LA seems more fertile for a Capezio revival than pro-football.

Though the Rams and Raiders are what first comes to mind, the Chargers, too, had their inaugural season in LA in 1960. And while you may not have drank Lowenbrau since the USFL, LA had a team there as well called the Express, where Steve Young began his pro career. With the exodus of both the Rams and Raiders in 1995, LA has had four teams leave or go bust in just a 35-year time span.

For years some of the more obvious reasons for pro-football flailing in LA have been mentioned. The weather of course is a big one, as catching rays on the beach is preferred to catching rays in the decrepit LA Coliseum. Another is the town’s transient nature, where football deprived transplants generate ratings, but swear allegiance to their hometown teams. But what’s sorely misunderstood by the NFL is that teams comprised of hefty, thick-necked men are far less appreciated in a town that’s enamoured with professional beauty more than anywhere else in the world. Los Angeles sells people like Proctor & Gamble sells shampoo, and thus the city is conditioned to see, hear and connect with stars in mass consumption; hence its love affair with the Lakers. Hard to do with guys covered in helmets and pads. You can’t serve steak to a town feeding on sizzle. The NFL thinks it can.

The NFL has tried to ratchet up its sex appeal for several years now. Players such as Michael Vick have been placed on a national pedestal for us all to “ooh” and “ahh” about. But despite the NFL’s efforts to create an A-list of players, football will always remain a team-oriented sport. Los Angeles, however, still remains an anomaly in this regard, where they’re used to seeing an individual’s sparkle turn bombs into blockbusters. This ingrained culture trickles to sports as well, which is why the NFL conflicts with the ways of LA. Anyone remember the Kings before Wayne Gretzky? After?

If not already, the NFL can surely find a billionaire or two to pay for a new team. A new stadium shouldn’t blemish the sprawl too much, but God forbid they have to “settle” for a guy like Peyton Manning. Nothing fancy, just a guy with a golden arm, but unfortunately lacks the charisma to even endorse tires. Would La-La Land give him the nod, or is he dining at Red Lobster in Garden Grove?

Julia Roberts and Magic Johnson will always shine in the klieg lights better than armored giants banging the hell out of each other. What works in Green Bay doesn’t work in LA. Rule number one in Tinseltown is never be desperate. The NFL is starting to look that way. Perhaps Paul Tagliabue should take heed to one of Hollywood’s greatest lines… “A man has to know his limitations.”