Alexi Murdoch at El Rey

True to a man who had just spent a year in the Himalayas, Alexi Murdoch appeared like a spirit on the stage, fluid and intangible beneath the low glow of blue lights, which shined just enough to illuminate the outline of an emaciated figure – made more so by his skinny jeans and tight fitting long tee – and a beard as unkempt and as the hair atop his head. It was clear that Alexi had “lost all care for the things [he] owned,” and as such, was prepared to deliver a show devoid of both pretense and extravagance, in favor of one filled with soul and truth. He looked like a man who had just spent a year in the Himalayas, and he played like one too, endowed with a spiritual strength from the mountains that rose above his physical slightness.

He stood with his guitar as an extension of himself, and sang a mixture of songs from his upcoming EP/Album, as well as some of the more celebrated songs from TIME WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE.

Also as an extension of himself were his fellow band members (rhythm guitar, bass, percussion, keys/electronics/effects, and trumpet), whose individual instruments could hardly be separated as distinct parts of the whole. Like Sigur Ros, rather than layer harmonies one on top of the other or serve accompaniments to a simple melody, they created atmospheres and worlds where Alexi’s smooth and dark voice (a deeper version of Nick Drake) slipped in as undetected as the instruments. And the music emanated from them as from one source, organically flowing and building like a spring that starts from groundwater, which turns into a brook and then a river, culminates in a waterfall, and finally finds rest in its outlet, the sea. In that way, they seemed to “feel” the music rather than play it, which assumption can find support in the fact that their eyes remained closed 75% of the time, opening only slightly the other 25%, perhaps in order to verify that they were indeed on a stage in Los Angeles in the El Rey Theatre, as opposed to floating on a cloud somewhere in another dimension.

In general, Alexi stayed true to the arrangements that were laid down in the studio, but also showed his artistry in a reinvention of “Dream About Flying,” which took on a whole new rhythm and more intricate riffs on the guitar (he must have had time work on his skills during his sojourn in the mountains), and a more simplified version of “Orange Sky” that was perhaps even more fulfilling than the studio version, slowing down the tempo to allow every stroke of the strings, every beat, and every lyric glow in our hearts like a setting sun.

The new tracks, which will be released some time in the next two to three months, still have that Alexi flavor – the combination of haunting electronica and indie acoustic riffs, and of course, the pure and unmistakable voice of Alexi himself –, but he has moved into a slightly more upbeat and optimistic realm, while maintaining a few of those moments of awe or reverence that permeate his previous work. It sounds strange to say, but this new direction, especially as it relates to his finger picking on the guitar, points almost towards folk and bluegrass, in the same way certain tracks from Ray LaMontagne’s GOSSIP IN THE GRAIN do. Needless to say, it fits and works brilliantly.

The crowning moment of last night’s performance came during the encore, when Alexi performed his stirring rendition of “Orange Sky,” and the crowd, without being beckoned or called upon, joined him in singing the chorus: “my salvation lies in your love, my salvation lies in your love, my salvation lies in your love, in your love, in your love...” Incredibly, like Alexi’s voice and the musicians that made up his band, the crowd became part of the whole, in no way overpowering Alexi or the song, but becoming yet another element in the atmosphere. A subtle smile came across Alexi’s face and not so subtle smiles played on the faces of his fellow musicians, and it was clear we had all found salvation in each other and our love for Alexi and his music.



Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

TIGER MUST BE RACIST

I watched a report on ESPN’s Outside the Lines yesterday (which seems to be good for stirring up tensions where there previously were none), in which several white liberals and two mediocre black golfers (Steven Reid and some obscure golf instructor) complained about the lack of African Americans on the PGA tour, which, as a professional association, can only consist of golfers who golf at a professional level (as opposed to mediocre).

Once again, whoever slapped this little production together decided to ignore all the other minorities that excel in the sport (as they do whenever they bring up the lack of African Americans in NCAA football coaching positions, hockey, lacrosse, synchronized diving, etc.) – Asians, in particular, have taken the tour by storm (Choi, Kim, Maruyama), and the Spaniards and Latinos have always made their presence felt on the leader boards of nearly every tournament on tour (Garcia, Ballasteros, Olazabel, Villegas, Cabrera). I guess their skin isn’t dark enough to warrant any mention; either that, or the mention of that many successful minorities on the tour would undermine the report’s claim that the PGA (and golf in general) is backpedaling in this, the Golden Age of Diversity (which is another way of saying the PGA is racist).

And conveniently, Vijay Singh is left out of the equation completely when the report mentions Tiger Woods as the lone African American on tour (ironically, Tiger doesn’t even consider himself African American, having coined the term “Cablanasian” to explain his racial heritage, which includes African-American, Native-American, Asian, and Caucasian ancestry). I guess when you consider that Vijay is from Fiji, the claim that he is not African American is technically correct. But I thought we were dealing with racism on tour, which has to do with the color of one’s skin, regardless of where or how they inherited that color, be it on an island, in the Far East, the Southern Hemisphere, or on real live African soil. Or does ESPN believe racism only applies to those of purely African descent (although I have a feeling the Chinese, Japanese, Irish, Poles, and Jews might not agree with that)? Maybe ESPN also had a hand in writing the L.A. Times article that claimed Barack Obama was not “authentically black,” seeing as they’ve also placed poor ‘ol Vijay into the same category.

But does all this talk about race really matter in this day and age? Especially in regards to modern-day sports? Julius Erving, the lone voice of descent on the show (which also means he was the lone voice of reason), suggested that “sports are a meritocracy that rewards those who succeed, regardless of their skin color.” Hmmm…what a novel concept! Does that mean the golfers who are on tour earned the right to be on tour because they are better than those who aren’t on tour? You mean Brian Whitcomb and Tiger Woods didn’t collude to hedge up the way for other aspiring black golfers to get their Footjoy’s onto the pristine fairways of the nation’s elite courses?

I have an idea: instead of wasting energy by trying to find others to blame for his lack of success on the tour (among the others he blamed was, shockingly, Tiger Woods for not using his influence to temper the flames of racism that rage among the PGA’s “powers that be”), Steven Reid ought to be working on his short game. After all, it was he who missed a 10-foot putt in a tournament on the 18th green that would have earned him his PGA Tour card; not Tiger Woods or the racist “powers that be.”

And instead of wasting money and energy on these haphazard featurettes, which seem to be little more than 10-minute nuggets of good old-fashioned propaganda, ESPN could spend it teaching and developing young black golfers, if they really were concerned about the lack thereof on tour. But ESPN is less concerned about the racial disparity in golf than they are about legitimizing their own network by pandering to the hyped-up, bloated reputation of racism in today’s society. By so doing, they give themselves a sense of morality that would otherwise not exist in this age of White Guilt.

So give yourselves a pat on the back, ESPN, for being champions of the cause, for putting Truth in its rightful place beneath the all-important virtue of Diversity, as you so often do.


Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

Watchmen

WATCHMEN

As soon as I got in the car after watching WATCHMEN, I sent a text message out to close friends and family. Normally, I wouldn’t risk my life and the lives of fellow motorists by texting behind the wheel, but getting this message out seemed more important than life itself. If I happened to crash into oncoming traffic, ending my life and perhaps a few others, then so be it, as long the send button had already been pushed. Our deaths would be a necessary means to save the souls of the aforementioned “close friends and family.” As I learned in the WATCHMEN, sometimes you have to kill millions to save billions.

Thankfully, neither I nor any other motorists died that night. I sent the text off swiftly and successfully. Now I just hope and pray that the close friends and family members will heed the message, which read as follows:

I beg you all, for the love of whatever good is left in your soul, do not see WATCHMEN.

That text message, in essence, is my review of the film. And I would leave it at that, but I feel that in order to at least partially cleanse myself of this experience, I must expel some of the most painful memories. I’d like to expel them all, but I can’t possibly mention every little thing that was wrong about this film, because it would take hours upon hours to do so (perhaps years if I really got going).

Speaking of “hours upon hours,” I’ve never been to 2 ½ hour movie that feels like three consecutive nights. Perhaps it’s because the filmmakers try to cram nine different story lines into one movie (one for each character, plus one for each character’s mother, and a few for characters’ past girlfriends, boyfriends, pets, etc.). As if nine storylines aren’t enough, within each one of them are nine flashbacks that add hints of other storylines. Do the math on that, and you’ll realize you’ve got 81 separate storylines to follow – a severely difficult task, especially for your average comic book moviegoer, who usually doesn’t even want one storyline in his movie, let alone 81. Luckily, the use of super slow motion in every scene directs the viewer toward which story within the story he is supposed to be following at what time. Unfortunately, there are so many stories within stories that need attention called to them through slow motion that the scenes within scenes becomes incredibly slow, which makes the overall scene intolerably slow, which makes the movie so excruciatingly slow that you begin to think you’ve been there for three consecutive nights when you’ve really only been there for about 2 ½ hours.

In those 2 ½ hours, by the way, we somehow go from 1930 to 1985 (maybe I really was there for three consecutive nights). Obviously, that’s not an unprecedented amount of time to cover in a film, but it is quite the chunk. Maybe what is more baffling is not that the film covers six decades, but that it only uses songs from one of the six, no matter which decade the film is in. It’s as if they wanted to pull off the Forrest Gump thing, using iconic artists and songs to depict the era, but instead of using songs that were applicable to the times, they went with the most played out 70’s rock songs in movie history (All Along the Watchtower, Sound of Silence, The Times They are A-Changin’). Considering most of the film took place in 1985, they ought to have been playing Billy Ocean and Duran Duran.

In case you think I’m only harping on minor issues of the film, allow me to move on to the meat: performance, script, story.

Actually, the performances weren’t all that bad. I might even go so far as to say every actor gave a decent - good performance. Unfortunately, the characters themselves were so completely juvenile that even the most brilliant actor may as well have been trying to portray Barney in a serious light. The costumes were about that quality as well. At one point, I thought I recognized a pair of tights that I used to wear around the house playing dress-up at age five. And I know they got into my childhood costume box for Nite Owl’s goggles. And there was a serious casting mistake in Adrian Veidt. I’m I really supposed to believe that a 90 lb. Swede is strong enough to manhandle the Comedian, and wouldn’t “the world’s smartest man” have enough sense to get his hair cut by a competent stylist? I’ve never seen a more absurd hairdo, especially on someone I’m supposed to believe as a superhero.

While we’re on the subject of Mr. Veidt, I must mention is purple pet lynx, which has to be the worst CG character ever created, even surpassing the ridiculousness of one Jar Jar Binks. Take a bow, Jar Jar. You had a good run at the top. And actually, while you’re moving down on the list, you might as well go to spot #3, because Dr. Manhattan will be taking the #2 spot. Dr. Manhattan is basically a blue version of the Silver Surfer, but without the decency to cover his genitalia. I was so distracted by his glowing schlong wagging all over the place that I almost didn’t realize how ridiculous the rest of him was.

But even the lynx and Dr. Manhattan combined can’t compete with underlying themes so preposterous, it made me think Syriana was evenhanded. 1) People kill people because it is their nature, and 2) the world would be one giant commune filled with love and peace if the two superpowers, the U.S. and Russia were brought to their knees. I will not dignify either of those themes by attempting a response other than to say that they contradict each other. If people kill people because it’s what they do, then it doesn’t matter who’s in charge or if no one’s in charge at all. In fact, you might even take the first theme to justify the existence of superpowers, seeing as a superpower’s military might is the only thing to keep a murderous human population at bay.

Nice try with your political propaganda, WATCHMEN. Why don’t you go hang out with your purple lynx.


Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

Joaquin Phoenix: Voluptuous Beard, Hoax of the Century

Joaquin Phoenix:
Voluptuous Beard, Hoax of the Century

When I heard Joaquin Phoenix publicly declare that he was through with acting, my heart groaned within, and I shed a tear. I felt we had lost one of our finest performers, and so soon after one of the greatest performances of all time as Johnny Cash in Walk the Line. What a shame! For a time, I sulked, and even went days without food, my appetite having disappeared as quickly as this great actor disappeared from the artistic community.

But then I caught him at a Vegas nightclub on YouTube, donning a stocking cap like T.I. and a beard that put Kris Kringle’s to shame, both in length and tonality (although Mr. Kringle may yet have Joaquin beat in fullness). Enveloped in this strange, new image, Joaquin began to rap, the words flowing from his mouth with such ease and fluidity, “spitting rhymes” (as Puffy Combs might put it) as well as any of our modern rap artists, and even throwing in the hand gestures and limping swagger to boot. As I watched, mesmerized, it slowly occurred to me that if this fine performer ever did leave the artistic community, then not only is he back, but he is back and better than ever!

The Academy and the general public recognized and praised Joaquin for his portrayal of the late Johnny Cash, and rightfully so. But let’s face it; he simply didn’t have the build or physical prowess to accurately portray the real Johnny (unlike Will Smith, for example, who actually put on 50 pounds of muscle to play Mohammed Ali). So let’s hope that the Academy and the people at large will come out in droves to give this performance – far greater, in my opinion, than any of his previous performances – the acclaim that it deserves. For not only does he get into the psyche of the character, but he also fits the physicality to a tee.

So convincing is his performance this go around, that he has succeeded in making nearly everyone believe that this is indeed him. Whereas, no matter how hard he worked at becoming Johnny Cash, he couldn’t actually convince a reasonable human being that he was in fact Johnny Cash. And for this, he deserves our praise. Who, other than Andy Kaufman and 2-Pac, has ever been able to pull a hoax off like this??

And as if the performance in the underground club in Vegas wasn’t enough, he goes on live national television for an interview with David Letterman! If you haven’t seen the interview, then do it now:

http://www.cbs.com/late_show/video/video.php?cid=446418043&pid=TOnYWLFIAq4k8vA0Me2lpEWu5ovWrJzB&play=true&cc=1

Needless to say, this performance catapults this hoax to a whole new level, rivaling that whole Y2K thing, and perhaps even Al Gore’s reception of the Nobel Peace Prize.

So let’s all give a round of applause to Mr. Phoenix for his incredible accomplishment; nay, a standing ovation. Bravo! Bravo! Or perhaps in honor of his new persona, we ought to raise the roof. Either way, let’s all show our appreciation.

If you’re wondering how you might show that appreciation, consider going to a theatre near you when Casey Affleck’s new documentary is released, which just so happens to be about his brother-in-law’s hip-hop dream (Casey was reportedly at CBS studios, filming the landmark interview with Letterman).


Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

Obama Hates White People

Obama Hates White People

As we all know, FEMA has been under the microscope ever since the Bush administration's “botched” response to Hurricane Katrina in 2005, which Barack Obama and other Democrats made a favorite topic on the presidential campaign trail (because, of course, the devastation that swept across New Orleans had very little to do with a hurricane, the residents were not sufficiently warned beforehand to get the heck out of there, and the rescue efforts were not at all impeded by those same residents now armed with Uzis aimed and firing at the helicopters sent in to rescue them). One of the first items on President Obama’s agenda has been to reorganize and strengthen FEMA, in order to avoid another catastrophe like Katrina.

Well just as soon as the organization was reorganized and strengthened, as only federal organizations can be, it got the chance to show off its new muscle in Kentucky, where the recent winter storm (which happened to be the worst natural disaster in the state’s history) killed 24 people and left another 300,000 residents without power.

A week after the storm hit, Christy Horne, a resident of Kentucky and personal friend of mine, changed her Facebook status to “Finally! We have power!!!” Her sentiment was echoed by hundreds of thousands of fellow Kentuckians, now basking in the warmth of fluorescent lights and the flames of gas stoves.

But now that the power is back on and the good citizens of Kentucky no longer have to worry about how to cook their food or not freeze to death, many of them are wondering why it took FEMA so long to act. Indeed, four days after the storm hit, FEMA had yet to send any aid workers to the areas most devastated, which coincidentally (or maybe not so coincidentally) are populated predominately by Caucasians.

I just hope that at this year’s Grammy Awards ceremony, one of our artists has the strength and courage to follow in Kanye West’s footsteps and proclaim to the world what we all now know to be true about our once beloved president:

Obama hates white people.


Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

The Real Curious Case of Benjamin Button: 13 Oscar Nominations

THE REAL CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON: 13 Oscar Nominations

Sure, it was well-crafted, the performances great, the cinematography gorgeous, and the special effects out-of-this-world, but what does it matter if the characters are no deeper than a kiddie pool, and the story is a poorly recycled version of the classic, Forrest Gump?

I’ll spare you the specific Gump parallels (the bloggers have jumped on that dilemma with reckless abandon), but let me mention briefly the thought that popped into my head when Benjamin decided to join the drunken fish boat captain on his exploits in Russia: “This captain guy is a lot like Lieutenant Dan...Benjamin’s a lot like Forrest…his love interest sure reminds me of Jenny…Wait a minute!” I felt like I’d been tricked. “I’m watching Forrest Gump all over again, except this version lacks the charm!”

The best example I can give of lacking charm lies in the theme of the film itself, which is repeated by nearly every character at the end of some life-changing scene: “Nothing lasts,” they say with a heavy heart. As inherently false as that statement should be, it rings true within this narrative, because every character lives their life in a way that ensures no lasting impact on anyone or anything. The line they ought to be repeating throughout the movie is:

“Nothing lasts, that is if you live your life like Benjamin Button. But if you live a life even remotely comparable to someone like Forrest Gump, the friendships you develop, the service you render, the lives you improve, and the memories you instill in everyone around you, adding up to an inspiring legacy, will actually last quite a long time, probably even forever.”

Instead, the depressing refrain of “nothing lasts!” gets repeated over and over, not only in action, but also in deed.

Consider the fact that Benjamin, at the ripe old age of 11, begins frequenting a brothel, where finding an enduring relationship isn’t exactly the goal for a good majority of the patrons and/or suppliers.

I’m sure it was the life-lessons he learned at this reputable place of business that inspired him to have a recurring affair with an unhappy woman while they lived an old Russian hotel together (why either of them were there in the first place remains a mystery). While the affair was inevitably cut off when the woman and her oblivious husband moved back to the States, at least it lasted a little while, which was longer than his previous relationships…

Maybe what he learned from that somewhat longer lasting experience is what prompted him to start a family with Daisy (played by Cate Blanchett), the love of his life, which lifelong love was based on sleeping under a make-shift tent in early childhood, followed by a 20-year separation, followed by sleeping in, under, with, and around various other locations upon being reunited.

This was actually the longest lasting of Benjamin’s relationships, which could have lasted even longer, had Benjamin listened to the pleadings of his fair Daisy. But alas, with a man like Benjamin, NOTHING LASTS. And so, soon after the birth of their beautiful baby girl, and out of the sense of “duty” and “honor” unique to Mr. Button and his code of ethics (perhaps acquired in a brothel somewhere or maybe a dark hotel in Russia), he decides to high-tail it outa there, leaving his wife and child to fend for themselves in the world while he roams the streets of Calcutta and other third-world cities in search of more fleeting experiences.

Indeed, nothing lasts, including the impression this film leaves on its viewers. It will be forgotten as quickly as ‘ol Benjamin can pack a knapsack in the middle of the night. And the awards it inexplicably garners at this year’s Academy Awards ceremony will soon be erased from our collective memory along with other ridiculous winners of the past: Crash? Chicago???

If anything remains from this movie, it is the memory of Benjamin’s poor life-choices, which may be even more curious than the fact that he ages backwards!



Douglas W. Bailey
dwadebailey@gmail.com

Ending the Racial Injustice in College Football

Now that the College Football season is finally over, it’s time to stop simply talking about the egregious racial disparity in head coaching jobs and actually do something about it. Out of the 119 schools that have Division IA football programs, only seven have coaches that are African American (an abysmal 6%). One coach is Latino and one is of Polynesian decent. In a country as diverse as ours, where racial boundaries have been pushed back on so many fronts (including, most recently, the office of President of the United States), these statistics are appalling. It begs the question: why can’t we get a fair representation of our national racial profile in the sport of college football?

The answer is, we can! And here’s how:

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the estimated population of black residents in the United States is 36 million, or 12% of the total population, which is double the percentage of black men currently coaching. In order to raise the percentage of black coaches in college football to 12%, 7 of the current positions need to be vacated and filled by African Americans.

Navy’s football program is run by, Ken Niumatalolo, the only Pacific Islander in the entire FBS. But considering Pacific Islanders only make up .14% of the general population, it would seem reasonable to relegate Ken Numa…Whatever-his-name-is to some sort of Assistant Special Teams Coordinator or something like that, and place the recently fired Ty Willingham (African American) in his stead (Willingham went 0-12 last year, making his record at Washington a respectable 11-37).

That leaves six more spots that need to be vacated. But rather than go through each spot one-by-one, it will suffice to say that each of the major conferences could use one more black coach in order to ensure that no one geographical area maintains a white monopoly.

We’ve now solved the black coaching problem in college football! But wait…Have we, in our fervor to rectify this horrid situation, overlooked someone?

Hispanics are now the largest minority group in the United States at 37 million, or 13% of the population. The fact that only 1 of the 119 head coaching positions is filled by a Latino is downright inexcusable, and ought to be unspeakable in this day and age. How could we have forgotten the nation’s largest (and hardest-working) minority during this debate?! Well consider them forgotten no more. 16 white coaches must be canned immediately to free up some space for the Latinos.

Also, Asians make up 4.4% of the U.S. population; so perhaps 5 more white coaches could step down right away to make room for these perfectly qualified Asian coaches.

And what about Multi-racial Americans, who make up 2% of the population? I’m sure we can create one more job for them somewhere.

( Since Native Americans make up only .8% of the population, we don’t have to worry about them at all. Besides, they have their casinos. )

Now that we have a perfectly diverse field of head coaches – one that accurately reflects the beautiful rainbow that is America – we must move on to the players themselves and their positions on the field, in which exists an even greater racial chasm than in the job of head coach!

In 2008, only 9 of the 119 FBS schools had a white starting tailback. That equals 7%, and in a country where whites make up 68% of the population, the statistic is staggering! Surely, in a country with over 200 million white men, there are more than 9 who are athletic enough to take a handoff, hit the hole, and turn up the field. Surely! The fact that there aren’t more white tailbacks in college football can only point to one thing, and it begins with a capital R.

And don’t look now, but the numbers are even worse for the cornerback position!!

So, in the name of racial equality, 71% of currently starting black tailbacks must now ride the pine to make room for 80 white boys, 15 Hispanics, 5 Asians, and 3 Multi-racial Americans (and maybe 1 Native American too, to assuage the guilt we all still feel for the way they had it handed to them). And 86% of currently starting black cornerbacks must relinquish their positions to equally qualified Whites, Hispanics, Asians, and all the rest. And so on and so forth down the line, each position governed by the same standard (except for kickers – everyone knows only white boys can kick), until the FBS is thoroughly cleansed of its racial inequities, and all people, regardless of race, ethnicity, or gender are welcomed under the beautiful umbrella of tolerance and love.

Speaking of gender, how is it that there is not one female head coach in all of college football??? I am appalled and flabbergasted.

Mammal Mullets

I looked in the mirror this morning and realized it was time for a trim. The thought depressed me. I’m going to have to get out the clippers, cover the bathroom in garbage bags to prevent a mess, scrub the bathroom afterwards because the garbage bags don’t really prevent a mess anyway, take a shower, realize that I didn’t actually get all the long hairs upon getting out of the shower (especially the ones around the ears), at which point, the scissors have to come out to trim around that impossible area, which will lead to the inevitable discovery that not only do have to shave, but also pluck around the eyebrows, which is a whole other depressing story.

To make my moment in front of the mirror even worse, I realized that I was the only mammal on the planet that had to deal with this madness. Why do I have to go through this? Why don’t other mammals have to get haircuts?

Like a bolt of lightning, the answer was revealed:

Could you imagine what would happen to the little bear cub that is forced to wear a mullet? Not only would it be ridiculed and bullied by its peers, but there’s a good chance of it being mauled by its own mother as well, confused by its resemblance to some hideous miniature lion. And if the mother didn’t get to it, the father certainly would. Father bears are dangerous enough to their cubs. Just imagine how crazed it would make him to see his own child donning a mullet. Add that to ravenous hunger and you’ve got yourself a dead bear cub.

And what would become of the jaguar that has to traverse through the dangers of the jungle with a rattail dangling from the back of his head. I’m sure a bird or a lizard or something is gonna snap hold of that thing…

And what of the elephant with the mustache?

Or the wildebeest with the Afro?

I guess there’s a good reason why God decided not to curse the rest of His creations with ever-growing hair.

The Positive Effects of Fist Fights

The Positive Effects of Fist Fights

Much like the debate over the BCS and whether there should be a playoff system at the end of the season or a “plus one,” etc., the question about whether fighting should be allowed in the National Hockey League gets recycled and rehashed every single year. And every single year, the arguments are the same:

Pro: A) Fighting is part of the game. B) It happens rarely, and when it does, it’s consensual, and C) it gets viewer ratings.

Con: A) Fighting is archaic, gruesome, and B) adds nothing to the game. C) Real hockey fans don’t watch hockey for fights, they watch it for the hockey. D) Above all, it’s dangerous both for the players involved as well as E) children who might be influenced by the violence they see on television.

All valid points and worthy of some consideration, but if you are to make a decision based on those points alone, you might be left stuck in the middle (as we have been for the past several years). Perhaps the following opinion (mine) on the matter will tip the scale in favor of fighting once and for all:

Fighting makes Hockey safer! Sounds like an oxy moron, I know. But just think – if the penalty for swiping someone’s knee with your stick were getting your nose busted by your opponent’s bare fist, you would probably think twice about swiping at someone’s knee, right? Wanna take a cheap shot at the opposing team’s best player? Well before you do, consider the fact that the opposing team also has an “Enforcer,” whose job is to punish those who take cheap shots at their best player with his concrete knuckles.

There is no question that chippiness between hockey teams is drastically decreased because of the unwritten penalties that are applied.

I would also like to see this unwritten rule be applied to the National Basketball Association. There is nothing more irritating and frustrating than the “flopping” that occurs on the court nowadays. In order to remedy this problem, I propose that a person who fakes an elbow to the face ought to receive an actual elbow to the face (after it has been determined through instant replay that he indeed faked the elbow to the face). The rule could also be instituted for teams that choose to employ the “Hack-a-Shaq” method. They can still hack Shaq, but with the caveat that whoever hacks Shaq will also be at the mercy of Shaq and his forty-pound fists. I’m certain that if Hockey’s tolerance of fighting were adopted in the NBA, flopping and spineless (albeit intelligent) fouling would decrease, if not cease completely, drastically improving the purity of the game.

And while we’re on the subject, it occurred to me that we ought to adopt this rule on California’s freeways as well. Who would dare cut someone off without so much as a blinker if they knew the person they cut off had the legal right to throw a right across the jaw?

I think the NHL is really on to something here…

Messina for President - 2013

Messina for President – 2013

I went to a JoDee Messina concert a few years ago during Cheyenne Frontier Days, a week-long rodeo-themed booze festival. During the evening hours of Frontier Days, a stage replaces the bucking bulls, broncos, and rodeo clowns, and the nation’s top country singers come out to play. They are lit not only by the lights on stage, but also the distant beams of carnival rides and the orange glow of cigarette butts, and of course the obligatory waving lighters that appear at the beginning of every slow song. And in addition to these various light sources, the one and only JoDee Messina was lit by a righteous fire from within. Her cheeks radiated goodness and her smile outshined even the brightest swaying flame, which was actually a lot brighter than you might think (someone must have changed their lighter for a blowtorch). And she lit a fire in the heart of every listener as she spoke in between songs:

Jo Dee: You know, I think the world would be a much better place if we would just love a little more and hate a little less.

Crowd: Yeeessss!!! Yeeeahhhh!! Jo Deeeee!!! [The fans raised their voices with their glasses and drank to the brilliant words spoken by their fair JoDee]

Jo Dee: You know, I don’t know why we think we need to buy expensive clothes from Armani or Goutier or any of those other designer labels. You know where I bought this shirt? Wal-Mart!

Crowd: Yeessss!! Yeahh!! I love you JoDee!!! [The roar bellowed from the crowd and tears gushed from their eyes]

Jo Dee: You know, I think if we just stopped fighting these wars and started loving one another, there would be peace on earth.”

Crowd: Oh yeahhh!!! Yesss!!!! JoooDeeeeeee! [Hands burst forth from the crowd, all raising the sign of peace toward Heaven, and strangers fell upon strangers, offering free embrace in the spirit of good will]

Jo Dee had transformed the heart and soul of every individual in attendance that night. That is, until the concert ended and those individuals hit the town. Bottles were popped, cans were cracked, and drunken debauchery ensued in all its forms.
For some reason, as fundamentally pure and good as JoDee’s words sounded, and as inspired as some in attendance felt, it all added up to nothing, because the words were never applied to real life.
So please, let’s not shed tears over the slick words spoken by our new President, Barack Obama, until his words get applied to real life. Remember, he still hasn’t done anything.

Please allow one more analogy:

As I looked at the faces of those present at the Presidential Inauguration, I couldn’t help but think back to clips of the Beatles on tour, and the mania that gripped the teenage girls in their presence. Their worship of these musicians led them to complete hysteria, almost to the point that it looked painful for them to be there, screaming, crying, pulling their hair…
I have seen that reaction from fans only one other time, and it was at an Oasis concert. That’s right. Oasis. The difference between those two bands (among many) is that the Beatles actually had a few platinum records under their belt, while Oasis had succeeded only in convincing a few poor saps that they were as big and successful as the Beatles!
Obama has succeeded in convincing the world that he is The One, or at the very least, the new Lincoln. For all we know, the mass hysteria might be getting spent over just another one-hit-wonder…

Honesty is the Best Policy Unless Your Life is in Danger

Honesty is the Best Policy
Unless Your Life is in Danger

I have justified many a white lie over the past few months in dealing with a self-absorbed, paranoid, devious freak for a boss. They have all been difficult to justify, as I whole-heartedly believe that Honesty is always the best policy, and has been since the dawn of time, or at least since God commanded men, “Thou shalt not lie.” And then, as if the commandment wasn’t enough (perhaps because men were constantly justifying breaking it) He reiterated it in the 119th Psalm: “I hate and abhor lying.” And as if that unequivocal statement wasn’t clear enough to those who continued to justify their dishonesty, He promised that liars would be thrust down to the burning lake of fire and brimstone in hell unless they ceased all fibbing, lying, scheming, and cheating.

If I were to take God up on His word, which I assuredly should, seeing as He does NOT lie, then it becomes extremely uncomfortable living through the lies I’ve told. How am I supposed to enjoy a family stroll through the park when the burning flames of a lake of fire are licking at my subconscious? How am I supposed to feel comfortable in skin that will soon be scorched to white-hot ash? How am I supposed to laugh at the ESPN commercial that shows the mascot of the New Jersey Devils descending to hell on an elevator? It’s impossible I tell you!

That is until I came across the following verses of scripture:

And it came to pass when I [Abraham] was come near to enter into Egypt, the Lord said unto me: Behold, Sarai, thy wife, is a very fair woman to look upon; Therefore it shall come to pass, when the Egyptians shall see her, they will say – She is his wife; and they will kill you, but they will save her alive; therefore see that ye do on this wise: Let her say unto the Egyptians, she is thy sister, and thy soul shall live.
(Abraham 2:22-24)


In other words, “Hey Abraham, these Egyptians are going to kill you so they can get their hands on your wife. That is, unless you tell them she’s your sister. So my advice to you as that you tell them she’s your sister.” Abraham heeded that advice. And guess what? His life was spared.

And so, it seems that God is okay with a lie as long as it saves a life. And so, perhaps my repeated “doctor’s appointments” during working hours were necessary falsehoods that allowed me to interview with other companies without the risk of being hunted down and massacred by a cagey and psychotic egomaniac. And so, I’m now comfortable strolling through the park with my family, and in my own cool skin, and can even give a whole-hearted chuckle at ESPN’s jest at the devil and his supposed fiery hell. Ha ha-ha ha…

On the other hand, maybe Abraham’s lie was justified because it literally saved the life of Abraham – the Prophet and Patriarch – through whom virtually all mankind has been blessed. And furthermore, it wasn’t exactly Abraham’s lie, but God’s. I am neither a prophet nor a patriarch (except in the sense that I have one child, which can’t possibly be compared to Abraham’s numberless seed), and did not receive a directive from the Lord to deceive my boss. Hmm…


I think I’m starting to get a little hot under the collar.