A Note to Selves

Hi,
Sorry I've not been that active on this blog for a while. I've been cooking something for the past week or so and now it's finally ready to launch. I'm starting a new blog, it's called Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler, it's a recount of my adventures abroad in Europe from last summer, and you can find it at ndyt.blogspot.com. All the details are there.

I'll keep posting to this blog, though they might be few and far between. School's becoming a uncontrollable train wreck as the final weeks of the term are upon us. The trip to Sasquatch, a three day no holds barred music festival over Memorial Day Weekend, is sneaking up on me like Ninja Cat and I can't seem to find the discipline to finish any of my assignments! No matter, madness is an ample reminder that we are indeed alive.

So if you don't hear from me for a while, bump on over to Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler, and you can get your fill of insanity for the time being. So adieu, until next time, bon chance mes amis!
-BTR

The Smelly Cave

It is a natural rite of passage to go to summer camp. Even if you hated it, summer camp holds a special place in everyone's heart. It's the first time most of us were away from our parents for more than a long weekend. It was the first time signing campfire songs while roasting marshmallows. It's where many of us had our first boyhood crushes. Mine was on the saucy arts & crafts instructor. Her Bermuda short-shorts gave me the first tinglings of manhood. I had the opportunity to go to a well funded camp folded into the Oregon's Cascade Mountains. Its name was Big Lake and for one week every summer I'd revel in the beauty of the landscape and mischievously run around with other kids my age. My softmore summer I signed up for Ultimate Rad camp. A week-long romping in the backwoods with promises of sore muscles and sun-burnt skin. The Ultimate Rad crew was regarded as superstars at Big Lake. The fact that we lodged in tents and partook in activities like rock climbing, rafting and mountain biking set us apart from other campers who enrolled in arts & crafts, basketball and sailing. Huh... I wonder why? On the first day while camping at Smith Rock, we found a good route to climb on and got to it. By late afternoon, we were all exhausted and the sun was beating down on us like a merciless team driver. So we took refuge in a small cave that cut right into the rock. Crowding into the cave was like trying to stuff an oversize sleeping bag into a fanny-pack. But we did it. Once inside we relaxed and started to shoot the shit. I had had gas all day and I was holding it so not to get the reputation as "the smelly kid" on the first day. However, with all of us crammed into that cave just seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. I discreetly let loose with a one-cheeker, so as not to attract attention and allowed the madness to ensue. Never had I seen a cave clear out faster than on that day. It was like watching a group of Film Study majors scatter at the mention of a math quiz. Everybody started blaming one another. Though, with my crafty diplomacy skills, I deflected the focus off of me and onto my friend Ari. She took the blame surprisingly well. I guess she'd been blamed before for other people's flatulence. And thus the week continued as did the controversy of the smelly cave. Until the last day... We were all back at Big Lake, heading to the final supper, when I jumped ahead of the group and confronted them. "I must say something," I said. "That fart, at the beginning of the week. That wasn't Ari. It was me!" And with that I definitely skipped down to the mess hall to the sound of gasps and awestruck murmurs. That was a fun week.

A Brutish Reality

In my writing discussion yesterday we talked about art. What is art? Is the message in art important? What gives art meaning? All of these questions are weighty. Old men with beards and bald heads were arguing the facts some 2000 years ago. And now, overly pretentious pseudo-intellectual University students with patchy beards and swoop haircuts debate the same questions. Where has it gotten us in this foul year of our lord, 2010? What benefit is there to try and define the undefinable? We, as humans, attempt to put a label on everything. This is post-impressionism. That is neo-realism. We create labels to define and categorize and standardize. However, standardizing human emotion is beginning to tread in the waters of dystopian literature. A scary prospect for sure. Nevertheless, that is what the end result would be if we force a definition of art on the public. My personal definition is that art is emotion, it's expression, it's vision. How a viewer interprets that vision is personal to them. Imagine a world where a person goes to a museum and see's a Jackson Pollack painting and instead of a description of the year and a blurb about the artist, there was a summary of what emotions said person is suppose to feel. Such a horrible dream seems to be the inception of Zamyatin or Orwell. And one I wish not to live in. So how do we define art? I say don't. Leave it to the person to interpret and draw a conclusion of their own. Leave it to the viewer to feel the emotion it evokes. And let the artist express themselves as they wish. For when you start to categorize innate human emotion is when you start to put the cap on the creative freedom everyone. A brutish reality and a necessary lesson.

A Crowning Acheivement

The NBA Playoffs are in full swing and I find myself putting off important school assignments. This could be the most exciting time of year, surpassing Christmas and football season. To watch rival teams battling on the hardwood is riveting. The crescendos of a boisterous crowd pour out of my 13” TV night after night. I’m determined not to miss one Pyrrhic victory or ice-cold execution. That being said, one thing has muddled this year’s ebullition and that is the performance of my broke-winged Blazers. The first game was a statement: “we are the Blazers and damn right we should be in the playoffs!” However, game two and three have more appropriately been a statement of: “maybe this whole playoff idea was just a megrim at best.” With their token shooter, as well as the two big men, sidelined, it’d seem the Blazers have no chance of advancing past the first round. Perhaps this is true, however, we must acknowledge the Herculean gauntlet the Blazers had to contend with to even get to where they are. Extremely short-handed and injuries as ubiquitous as student canvassers, the Blazers have applied themselves to every challenge and have worked miracles. Players of mention are Bayless and Howard. Bayless has led the offence with ferocity and explosiveness. He’s a tough bastard who’ll literally put his physical well being at risk to cut to the basket. Look for him to continue to improve his game and become a potent orchestrator in the coming seasons. As for Howard, I tip my hat. The guy has a son playing NCAA basketball and he’s still throwing elbows and crashing boards with players 15 years his minor. So despite the fact the Blazers won’t move past the first round, I can find solace in the crowning achievement they have already won, that of determination. As for the rest of the playoffs, I will watch them vehemently. I am addicted.

Midnight Callers at Satyricon

One of the few pleasures left today is no other than supporting local bands. I got to do just that at Satyricon in Portland when my friends band, The Midnight Callers, played a rockin' show on Saturday. I know everyone in the band and it was cool to see my old classmates doing exactly what they were born to do. There's Jeremy O'Connell, who's extreme enthusiasm on drums lay the groundwork for the pop beats the Midnight Callers have come to exhibit. Then there's Cameron Mazzia on bass, who's natural coolness gives his riffs that extra flair as he bobs back and forth. Next there's Sage Hill on lead, who's fast-working phalanges fly across the guitar neck producing face-melting solos. And lastly, but certainly not least, there's Dave Berkham, the lead man. Head honcho. Who's formidable song-writing is manifested into vocalized poetry as he wails the chorus of Faux Girl and Friday. The atmosphere of Satyricon, a little venue tucked far back into the folds of West Portland, was gritty and musty and almost antique. Though, its quaint appeal was a perfect match for the pop band whose roots are in punk. It, in a sense, extenuated their style by putting an exclamation point at the end of their performance; the way a Super-dome does for a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. I've seen the Midnight Callers 3 times now and each time their music, performance and presence has improved immensely. With the addition of Sage Hill, whose talent is otherworldly, the Midnight Callers have a working unit. A rapport if you will, which left me and my fellow concert goers thrilled and wanting more. The Ne Plus Ultra came when lead-man Dave donned a harmonica and went to town. His energy and ebullience left me awestruck. This, among other moments, made me forget I was watching my old buddies from high school. If you get a chance to see a Midnight Callers concert, go, you'll be beyond pleased. And the thought that you supported a local band filled to the brim with talent and ambition will leave a tear in your eye. It did to me. To find out more go to http://www.myspace.com/midnightcallers and listen to their singles, which are now available on vinyl. Cheers!

A Sad Predicament

The wasteland of popular music has reached a new low. I'm speaking of course about the absolute skyrocketing of Canadian backwoods singer Justine Bieber. Not only has this neophyte 16 year-old captured the eyes of some big name celebrities; he's also coveted the savings of every teenage girl from San Francisco to New York. His lackluster lyrics, mind-numbingly repetitive beats and pre-pubescent voice makes Miley Cyrus look like Maria Carey. Is this just another youtube overnight success story? Or is this a deep seated ploy by MTV marketing heads to make a buck off a teenage heart-throb with helmet hair? If it is, they've got it down to a science. Pluck a good looking kid, with some singing ability, out of the obscurity of the internet. Next, dress him up and give him a signature style. Then, cast him in high-budgeted music videos singing crappy recycled songs about love, which he then releases on an album featuring him posing as an edgy, young Justine Timberlake. Have him flirt with high-profile celebrities and make the rounds of late night talk shows. Next thing you know you have a teen heart-throb who has never dated a girl before and is making more money than he ever dreamed of. Ironic huh? Why can't we get back to the portentousness of the 90's? Call me nostalgic, but I think the 90's held something that has been lost on popular culture. That something is a sense of rebellion towards the process of consumerist music. A process clearly illustrated by Justine Bieber. So pop, please stop being so pretentiously aloof to your follies, and Justine Bieber please cut your hair.

Hallmark Holliday

There are some things in this world that exist without explanation. Miley Cyrus, Dog Boutiques and Easter are among them. Easter is one of those Holidays in which small children are able to run rampant through the house looking for brightly colored plastic eggs containing candy. These eggs are supposedly left by the "Easter Bunny", an ambiguously mysterious character whom many regard to be the retarded cousin of Santa Clause. How did this tradition come to pass? Where in the history of Christianity does the Resurrection of Christ come to be symbolized by candy, eggs and bunnies? Some symbolist have procured the weak response that the egg represents "New Beginnings", in a sense the "Rebirth" of Christ. This is all malarkey. Everyone knows quite well that Easter has been robbed of its humble roots. Hallmark and American Society have consumerized this Holy tradition. Ultimately they have brainwashed us into associating Easter with buying cheap plastic eggs and watching as our kids flail mindlessly about searching for them. They have made us bedizen this humble acknowledgment to the point of disillusionment. My opinion is that you should throw out your PAAS Egg Dying Kit, your multicolored plastic Easter eggs and the practice of publicly humiliating your kids, for a more soulful experience. If your not Christian (like I am) spend it with family. If your not around family (like I am), spend it drinking and playing poker. However, don't get caught up in what is ultimately a Hallmark Holiday.

Downpours and Due Dates

So it's Monday and I've got a mad case of the Blues. Today began with classes and a torrential downpour. I must be in Eugene, I thought, as rain bogged down my boots. Its quite a shocker to come from the beautiful shores of a Tropical Paradise and find myself knee deep in textbook readings and puddles. It's not all bad. With each new term brings a chance for new beginnings. A chance for me to own the neophytes at French composition and wow them with my knowledge of verb conjugation. It's a good feeling, although fleeting. Because soon I feel the pinch of due dates and the pressures of pre-mid-term quizzes. There is one thing I look forward to, especially now while soaking from my last venture outside. And that is, nicer weather. Soon enough we'll all be able to say goodbye to the raincoats and broken umbrellas and hello to shorts and sunshades. So here's to the new term! Welcome back to reality.

I'm Baaaaaaack!

Tiger's coming back! Isn't that great news? It is if you are the PGA or one of Tiger's few remaining sponsors. The PGA will boost its ratings once again and sponsors will get a little air-time. There is a problem, however. The problem is, who will play with Woods? Stricker? Garcia? Poulter? Cabrera? The PGA can't legally make anyone play with Him, they can only ask those who might be interested and cross there fingers. Why does it matter? Take into consideration that whoever is in Tigers group at the Masters will be bombarded with cameramen and TV crews all vying for a shot of the Badboy himself. This is cause for a distraction to anyone, and with the most important Major of the year on the line I would believe that the other Pros would want to keep far away from Woods. If I were to ask anyone to play with Tiger in the first round, I'd ask either Harrington or Cabrera. Both of whom have played with him in high-stakes tournaments and it seems that the media frenzy doesn't get to them as bad the others. Again, this is only a recommendation. The PGA can't assign anyone to Tigers group so the line-up is still a mystery. What's not a mystery is that His return to golf signals a revival of viewership and a breath of life into the PGA. Welcome back Tiger, you were sorely missed.

Tech Trends

Ok, I was wrong about the iPad. It seems Apple has outsmarted the Tech curve again. Or maybe it's because they are the ones making the curve. Either way, they know exactly where the Tech market is going and they plan to be there when it hits. What is changing you may be asking? Features, baby, a lack of features. Stripped down versions of Tech gadgets are what the people want. Minimalistic Applications and websites like "Do This Now" and Twitter are signaling a change in consumer tendencies away from "The one thing that does everything" to "the one thing that does it's one job extremely well and will never let you down." So forget the iPad as a contender to Tablet PC's, and start thinking about it as a highly efficient text reader and innovative minimalistic piece of Technology. I've always believed that people who have too many choices will ultimately turn out unhappy and depressed. Take this for example, you walk into a Gap and ask for a pair of jeans. The sales representative asks you if you'd like low rise, boot cut, straight leg, stone washed, button fly, ETC. You decided on the stone washed boot cut zip fly. They fit great, but you can't help but feel like you've failed, because what if there was another combo that fits better? This doubt clouds your conscious and the jeans become an object of contempt for you. They signify your failure. The same thing happens when people are faced with overly complex application ridden pieces of Technology. Given, those of us who understand all the Gizmos on those items get off on being able to do some ludicrous tasks that have no pertinent function in real life. Unless said person is a programmer. As for the rest of us, we're stuck wading through the complex technical jargon of the Troubleshooting Guides. The iPad is battling this and it will be at the forefront once again when this trend catches on.

"I love my Thugs"

Friday will be a busy day for the Lane County Circuit Court. Not only will they be hearing the assault case for U of O Runningback Lamichael James, but also the theft charges involving Quarterback Masoli and Wide Receiver Garret Embry. Back on January 17th I wrote a blog concerning Lemichaels assault. In it I stated the U of O was out a star Runningback and our Student Body was nonplussed about what would happen next. Well now we have at least a few answers. Lamichael recently changed his claim from Non-Guilty to No Contest. The result? A plea bargain. He can now come onto campus (initially he was banned due to a restraining order), he can return to classes and athletic programs. This means he must attend a Batterers Intervention Program along with other punishments. As great as this seems, the victory is bittersweet. The charge still stands that James assaulted his girlfriend and that's something that stay with him his whole life. Football star or not. As for Masoli and Embry, the story remains the same. Either players clean up their act or come next year students shirts will read "I love my Thugs" instead of "I love my Ducks".

Cameron, Bigelow, Martin, Baldwin and Bridges

Forget it. These are the words that should have been said to James Cameron last night at the 82nd Academy Awards. Forget Best Director, forget Best Motion Picture, forget sweeping the Oscars. Case and point, the better movie won. Kathryn Bigelow's vision and drive toppled Cameron's budget and technology. It was Goliath versus David once again, that is if David was a woman and also Goliath's ex-wife. I will say, Avatar got what it deserved. Art Direction and Special Effects were a no-brainier. Since most of the cinematography was done on a computer, I was unsure about Avatar receiving the Oscar for it. But, just as well, I was happy with this years momentous awards. Kathryn being the first woman ever to receive an Oscar for Directing or Best Picture could not come at a better time, or for a better movie. It just goes to show how progressive those stuffy Academy judges have become, or maybe their just acting... However, one thing I must gripe about was the selection of Martin and Baldwin double emceeing. They seemed unrehearsed and the languor of their performances cause a crucial delay in delivering their punch lines. Overall it was half-assed and disappointing. Nevertheless Jeff Bridges made up for their folly, by showing he truly is "The Dude". He broke the record for the number of times someone said "Man" in their acceptance speech. Far out man, far out. That's all I have today.

Take Your Bets

With the lights low and the electric atmosphere of being at the Kentucky Derby, a pack of Chicago Natives are packed around the center table at Big Joe's dive bar. People are yelling, shouting obscenities and making bets. Money is exchanging hands and the bar is alive with excitement. The same crazed excitement one would feel at the Super Bowl or the NBA Championship. But this isn't the Super Bowl or NBA Championship. The players aren't dressed in jerseys or pads, but in shells and green skin. See, the newest gig for Chicago bars now-a-days isn't Beer Pong or Quarters, it's Turtle Racing. One drink buys you One raffle ticket and come race time Six lucky contestants are assigned to One of Six turtles. The winner gets a T-shirt, the loser, a complimentary shot. I guess the shot is to help drown the sorrows of losing a Turtle Race. One would think that watching a bunch of Turtles lazily crawling around on a table would be somewhat, uh, Boring? But it's not. With emotions running so high, oftentimes the results come down to a dead heat with One Turtle emerging as Victor. Now, PETA be advised, this practice is perfectly legitimate. Before getting your Birch-Wood Undies in a bind know that there is a trained Turtle Handler who sees to it that no Reptiles are harmed in the making of this truly exciting pastime.

The Naked Co-Ed Shopping Spree

Portland is known for a lot of things; bridges, coffeehouses, hipsters, outdoor market places and nudity, are just a few. Porlanders love to be naked. So I wasn't surprised when I heard what happened last weekend at the Red Light Clothing Exchange on Southeast Hawthorn. It's called the Naked Co-Ed Shopping Spree, where 4 lucky contestants strutted their stuff in hopes to win some free clothes and a $100 gift certificate.
The gig was that contestants must start out completely naked and when the whistle is blown they have 3 minutes to dress themselves with as many articles of clothing possible. There is an option to wear underwear, however you get docked 1 article of clothing from your total at the end.
To deal with the anxiety of being naked in front of a store-full of people, Felisha Ledsma, a 22 year-old musician, said she played Chopin and Satie on her piano all day before the competition.
All the contestants dressed furiously, hands flashed in a crazed blur as each grappled for shirts, shorts, robes and shoes. The winner, a 37 year-old writer named Rich Vailmackin won with 20 pieces of clothing, which he counted while doing a strip tease to "Foxy Lady".
This just goes to show that the motto "Keep Portland Weird" has been taken to heart. These Portlanders pride themselves on having Naked Shopping Sprees and being liberated from the taboos of Public Nudity. It defines them. It's who they are and nothing, not even the law, will stand in their way.

Is that Grandma?!?!

Never say never. That should be the motto of 90 year-old Lydia Scheltes who woke up after a night of partying with a tattoo on her arm and a hazy recollection of how it got there. She seemingly had gotten it the night before when her and other members of the Bethesda Retirement Center went out for night on the town. They stopped at the Evil Olive, a nightclub in Wicker Park, Chicago for a night of dancing, flirting and even dancing. It was a fundraiser put on for the residents of Bathesda and by the sound of it, they had a blast. Dressed as hardcore bikers, complete with pink wigs and bandannas, Lydia and 8 other senior citizens walked straight up to the bar and ordered "Dirty Martinis" and that's when the mayhem began. There was much talk and flirting, and a few of the old grandmas turned biker babes got up to "cut a rug" on the dance floor. Many others showed up as well. Members of the Latino American Motorcycle Association and the Chicago's chapter of A.B.A.T.E appeared to show their support and left with a new outlook on these lively "old people" from up the street. The cause was good enough. Ruth Werstler, the Life Enrichment Director for the home, set it up so that all the proceeds would go to buying a Touch-Screen Computer to help the residents learn how to use the internet. But the old ladies couldn't care less about the computer, they were too busy living life as it's suppose to be lived... With pink wigs and no holds barred. I applaud Lydia and her over-the-hill peers for saying "Fuck You" to age and showing everyone that being old doesn't mean you need to act it. So I raise my "Dirty Martini" to all the Lydia Scheltes of this world. To all the Wig Wearin', Harley Ridin', Bandana Toutin' grandmas out there. Because for some, age is only a number and we are only as old as we let ourselves be.

Rambling

30 minutes to deadline and I have nothing to say, rare for me as it is. I guess by setting these deadlines for myself I believe my writing will get better or somehow more coherent. Maybe it's just for practice that I do this to myself. So I'll be "more than ready" when the time comes for me to write my first piece. A true Horatio Alger hero, from rags to riches, riding the crest of a magnificent creative wave that will carry me to the top. Of what? The blogosphere? The front page of the New York Times? As a bystander and visionary I'm not entitled to say, I can just sit back, observe and report on the daily happenings of a minuscule life. A doomed life, a life at the mercy of conviction with the chance of being emasculated by some Femme Fatale Figure who turns up in my office one day saying "There after me, those pigs, those swine! You're my only hope, will you help me?" And with those doe eyes how can I say no? It'd be Unamerican, in this drizzly year of our lord, 2010.

Evil Basketball Gods, Grudges and Gambles

Can we take a moment and break down the breakdown of the NBA's most cursed team, the Blazers? Last year at this time the young and ambitious Trail Blazers were vying for a playoff spot, the first time in what seemed like ages. We got that Playoff spot and we were happy; because we knew that next season would hold greater achievements, as Portlanders gossiped about a possible Division Championship. Then the injuries came. And came. And came. However, whenever one Blazer went down, there would be others to fill the gap. Spirited rookies and veterans alike took hold of the reins and helped maintain moral on and off the court. However, all the spirit in the world cannot battle what seems to be a hateful grudge against the Brazen Blazers by the Evil Basketball Gods. Boneheaded trades don't help either. Today, in his second game as a Blazer, Marcus Camby went down with a sprained ankle while playing the New Jersey Nets. The same Marcus Camby we traded Travis Outlaw and Steve Blake for. If it's depth McMillan is looking for, why then did he trade away the visionary Blake or the up-and-coming Outlaw? Granted we're hurting in the height field. With both Oden and Pryzbilla on the bench our rebounds are down and we're getting muscled around by the bigger teams. But does that necessitate rash action? If I had the option, I would go back in time to Two days ago and physically stop McMillan from executing this trade. Keep the point-guard Roy plays with best and invest in the future. Because with things looking so bleak for the Blazers, the one thing we have on our side is Time! Has McMillan forgot that? Or has he been temporarily blinded by the Evil Basketball Gods? It still remains to be seen.

Bragging Rights and Regret

What a weekend for sports fans and Americans alike. I'll start by saying congratulations to our U.S. Hockey Team for their momentous victory over the stacked Canadian Team. Special Kudos are in order for Ryan Millers who staved off a relentless Canadian Offense. His 42 clutch saves allowed our US Team to come out with the win during Sundays game. But what does this mean? By toppling the stacked Canadians the US has for the first time in 50 years beat our neighbors to the North and secured a Bye into the Semi-finals. Canada must now go head-to-head with a formidable German Team for a spot in the upcoming playoffs for the Gold. But, bye or no bye this was about pride. It was about bragging rights; and on the eve of the 30th anniversary of the Miracle On Ice game, I couldn't be more proud for our guys up in Vancouver. Next, I must mention the PGA Accenture Match-Play Tournament held this weekend in Arizona. Ian Poulter played some incredible golf to secure a win over Paul Casey in the final round on Sunday afternoon. An apparent underdog for the Tournament, Poulter's odds for wining were a slim 28 to 1. My hunch, however, going into Sunday's round was that since Casey was coming off a grueling sudden-death playoff against Villegas that went late into Saturday night, necessitating a one hole Playoff early Sunday before the final round, I pegged Poulter to win. So why didn't I bet? Good question. If I had gone with my gut and had put $100 on Poulter, the payout would've been $2,800! And in the words of my friend Brett: "Think of all the Criterion Movies you could buy with that!" I have, and now I'm kickin' myself for not taking the plunge and sticking with my gut. No matter though, there are a number of NBA Games to be gambled on this evening and I'm feeling real good about Milwaukee, Dallas, Washington and Utah; but as with all gambling goes, the payout comes after the final Buzzer.

It's Tiger Time!

As we all know Tiger has announced he will give a press conference tomorrow at 11am Eastern. There's much talk about what exactly we expect from him. Many say they just want to hear sincerity in his voice. That it doesn't matter what he says, only that he is sincere in saying it. This is bunk, he owes us nothing except a date for when he plans on returning to Professional Golf. I couldn't care less what Tiger does in his spare time. My only interest is when he's snubbing the field on Sunday. That aside, the press conference is a pretty half-assed concoction. Here they're going to have Woods talking to a handful of loyal supporters in a closed conference where questions aren't even allowed. Now I've learnt two ways to combat the negative press as a result of personal action. One way is to go on Barbra Walters or Oprah and give a heart wrenching explanation of why you did it. Another, much more simple approach, is just to let it go by the wayside and allow yourself to get on with the program. For Woods, this means picking up the golf clubs and getting back in the game. Personally I think this second option is much more viable for Tiger, who is by habit not one for tabloids. So, let the press take what they will from the incidents that happened late last year and be done with it. On the same note I wholeheartedly believe that as soon as Woods hits the fairways again this whole thing will become a blip in the vast achievements of one of America's greatest athletes. He needs it and Golf needs it.

Lamichael Behind Bars

Tisk tisk, the rat bastards of this country are at it again. What has NCAA football done to our all American athlete? Star running back Lamichael James of University of Oregon’s explosive offence has been charged with a crime; a crime of violence and of menace and of lust. Where does that leave us? Floating among the bitter resentment of a student body that deserves better? I think so. Great things were in store for James and our Football team. Misouli was maturing, Chip Kelly was jellin’ good. James was a rocket ready to explode, a leading performer on a national scale. Yet, he’s thrown it away with a single act of aggression. There are rumors he will be out for a year. That takes him out of next years fall games and out of contention to help us make it to a Pac-10 Championship. What was he thinking when he pushed that poor women to the ground Monday night? Why had he done it? It’s all questions and no answers. Perhaps in a rage he felt as though he must put forth his dominance, in a sense commanding attention from his fellow peers. Now he has that attention, and it has landed him in handcuffs for assault. So what’s the moral of the story here? What’s the score? U of O now is out one star running back until further notice and our Student Body is nonplused. We demand answers and quickly!

Why I Write.

I was somewhere around 13th when the thought began to take hold. How long had I been in the midst of these Collegiates and like minded youth? We, the unbridled youth, on the threshold of something great and unrealized by anyone from Greece or Athens or Jesus Christendom. I remember thinking "Boy my feet are tired." and when I glanced down to look, I saw that they bore 2 gigantic leather encased sneakers bearing the ominous Nike Swoosh. I need to change my shoes, I thought, as I gazed out into the vast sea of faces. Faces, faces. Where did they all come from, these faces? With looks of consternation and ambiquity. Did they know? What if they did, they must have been on the same wavelength as me. Must have. "Buddhism", someone mentioned as they passed whimsically by my face. Yes Buddhism, where does it lie in the midst of my indoctrines flowing from my past? No reference comes to mind. Though, it does punctuate a stream of consciousness that must have been tapped by all those Bohemian types of Haight and Asbury while grillin' to Ginsberg and listening to the rhyming and rhuming of a natural born poet, Bob Dylan. And like a poet, I must write. It is what's in me that is in constant flux and undulation. Writing is a way to Broadcast the innermost insights of the authors mind; and in doing so it sheds light on the lives of their readers. Thompson, Dylan, Bukowski are all examples of those able to unlock the doors of our perception. Though, as with any spiritual existence, they can only open the doors, we are the ones who have to walk through it. They are the keys to our locks on consciousness, they supply the word, we supply the meaning. This is what I wish to achieve. In a sense, I wish to "Nail Down" the intricacies of the human experience, we so unabashedly let fall by the wayside and expose my innermost insights with my readers.

Setting of the NFL Sun

Not many weekends on TV are able to compete with our fiend-like addiction to Super Bowl Sunday; but last weekend did come close. With the opening of the 2010 Winter Olympics, the Daytona 500 and All-Star Weekend the hangover from Football Season wasn't so pronounced. Though, instead of watching 300 pound 'roid raging Bastids smashing skulls, the public will switch gears to speed skating and 12 car pile-ups. So, although millions of men grieve over the setting of the NFL sun there is still much bloodshed to be had on the airwaves; because lets face it, people like heartbreak. As long as it doesn't include themselves. So, when 2 racers on the Korean Short Track Team tripped each other up on the last turn of the Men's Finals, resulting in the loss of 2 Olympic Medals, people gasped, cringed, hollered and cheered. For, no matter how nervous we get, it's like a Train-wreck and we cannot look away. There are some who complain we pay our Professional Athletes too much in this country. That all we're doing is churning out pampered Divas who are poisoned by the trip of an American Ideal. I say they aren't. They aren't being paid for just putting a ball in a basket, or through the uprights or in a cup, but rather to be players in an allegory of life. The microcosm of the American Dream. We know their stories, sympathize with them, their dreams are ours and because of that we cheer with them, laugh with them, cry with them. It's they who live and die by the trade, something we do everyday.

Brooklyn Decker and Valentines Day

Thank God for Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Victoria Secret model Brooklyn Decker has, for the first time, made the cover of this most sultry of all SI's publications. Good for her, she deserves it. Shes been working too hard and her legs are too long for her not to make the cover. However, being the most widely read publication on the planet, the Swim Suite Edition provokes a lot of controversy. The most heated debate on all the sports channels is Brooklyn vs. Roddick. Who deserves the cover more? Is this even a question? I mean, granted Roddick is the best tennis player in the nation and yes the only picture of him on SI's cover is a tiny stamp-sized photo of him at the U.S. Open; but did he win the U.S. Open? No. I'm sorry Roddick, but I'm going to have to go with Brooklyn on this. Maybe next year buddy. Oh hey! I've got an idea, how about we give Roddick the cover if he beats Federer or Nadal in an Open Tournament? That will be cause for celebration won't it? I however don't feel that bad for Roddick, since he's married to Decker and all. And with Valentines Day just around the corner he'll probably forget all about magazine covers, if you know what I mean.

Anyone Else Freaked Out?

I've always wondered what it would be like to live in Orwells 1984. Not for any prolonged amount of time, but just to get the feel for a different sense of things, a new perspective if you will. Hell it might even pull a few heart strings and make me miss home. Of course I cannot transplant myself into Orwells socialistic society, however, there is a place where such a future is a reality. That place is North Korea. I just got done watching a documented trip done by 2 Brooklyn journalists from Vice, a small independent media company, of which Spike Jonze is the creative director. Anyways, these 2 brazenly courageous men armed with a handycam went fearlessly behind the New Age Iron Curtain in hopes of revealing the myth of North Korea to the world. And reveal they did. Never before had I seen such anti-American propaganda from a people so regimented and cold. Control in North Korea is so tight that they literally don't allow cameras with telephoto lenses, recordings of any kind, publications other than the National Paper and they don't even allow music. For example, you couldn't go to North Korea and bring an Ipod. Insane you say? Take this into account, these two journalists, one being Shane Smith (founder of Vice and diehard Bronski Beat fan), under strict supervision of government official guards, got taken to a Tea Shop to show the commercial side of North Korea. The guards woke the journalists up at 6am, placed them on a bus and drove for 2 straight hours pass scenic mountains and dilapidated villages, not once seeing another car on the road. They arrived at the tea house, which turns out to be a huge 4 story fortress complete with 200 rooms and a Tea Vender. This Tea Vender, who's a middle aged Korean woman, stays at this Tea Fortress all year long selling Tea to the tourists. However, these journalists are the first people she has seen in 6 months and as Smith says, it will be another 6 months before she sees another group of tourists. They play a few games of pool, drink some tea and get a tour of the place and then they leave. It's so surreal that nothing normal ever happens in that country. It's like 1950's Russia, a land locked in a time. The departing shot is of the lovely socialist Tea Vender peering out of her Tea Fortress with a look of resilient solidarity. Sacrifice for the Fatherland! Complete allegiance to the Party Leader! Death to the US Imperialists! But don't move, Big Brother is watching.

Hungry for an Apple?

Don't go towards the light! Or should I say, Don't go towards the giant blinking Apple! As any techie knows Apple has just released its Ipad, and I'm sorry but I just cannot muster any support for this horrendous flop of technological half-assidy. It's true that when I heard Apple was releasing a rival to the Tablet PC, I was genuinly excited to see what Jobs had in store. However, after witnessing the waste of technological opportiunity that the Ipad is, I had to fall on my knees and yell to the heavens "WHY!?!?!?" What does Apple have in mind with pushing this oversized iPod touch on the American Consumer? Why are they laying traps for their loyal and valiant buyers? The so called "Apple Fiends" who have an insasiable hunger for overpriced machinery sporting that ominous piece of fruit are being preyed on by their own supplier. The same story can be said of your local drug dealers. They reel you in with promises of acceptance and then BAM! They have you for life. Its as if Apple is trying to carve out a market where there is none; you know the odd twighlight zone between full-fledged Flash enabled tablet computer that would rival those of HP, Toshiba and Fujitsu and a glorified, oversized version of the Iphone (without a call function or camera). Ultimately, this Ipad is a step down from everything that we were expecting from the Californian based innovator. Its like buying a Betamax player just because all your friends are doing it, after VHS has taken control of the market. So please don't be like the sheep being led to the slaughter, stand up in the face of socially demanded material things in the name of Logic; because frankly what you could do with your Iphone, Ipod or Macbook is exponentially more than you could ever do with this inconsequential paperweight.

Big Game Gamble

So what the heck has happened to American advertising? Do the big wigs at Agencies everywhere think Americans are all a bunch of brainless slobs who like to eat potato chips and get fat? Granted, that is the case for most Americans these days and granted Ad companies are into maximizing their public appeal; but America is also about the minority, it's about championing the underdog, and routing for the little guy. So, I ask, Where are my commercials? Where are my witty 30 second comedy sketches? I tell you, nowhere! I am stuck on Superbowl Sunday watching pantless men parading in a field and hearing pathetic dialogue about men being comfortable in their skin. Where have the balls of the Ad agencies gone? The best thing they have now are screaming Dorrito fiends and Troy Palamalu as a tiny man living in a hole. It's pathetic. You'd think with companies ponying up a cold Mil to air a commercial during Superbowl Prime Time, they'd come up with something better than a backtalking 5 year-old who doesn't want his Momma or his Dorritoes to be touched. Also, with having a year to plan, they could at least get good writers to turn out something worth spending millions on. Even a mediocre writer with an idea would suffice. All I'm saying is the Advertising in this country has been dumbed down to a point of contentment by the minority who deserve better; because frankly we do.

Palm Reading

The lights blaring, cameras from all the major networks on and buzzing like collections of beehives all pointed at one person; Sarah Palin, sitting with her hair more rambunctious than usual is seated opposite of a Fox News interviewer. The stage, the Tea Party Congregation. A friendly rally for conservatives and a opportunity for Palin to prove she isn't in fact a complete moron. Easy questions are lobbed up into the air like pop-fly baseballs by the interviewer in hopes that Palin can catch them and nail the answers. Unfortunately, the blaring lights and glistening eyes of all present looking on seemed to be too much for our lipstick-wearing pitbull; and her already lackluster speaking skills suffered from it. For at a moment of naive innocence, the wide eyed interviewer asks Palin "What are the 3 main things that must be done when the conservative party takes over the White House?" This pre-screened question must have taken her by suprise, or perhaps she was just at a loss for words (which seems to be the likely story), because at that moment Palin, like a 7th grader who didn't study for a test, consults "cheat-notes" she had jotted on her hand. She palm read her banal answer, which came out as superficial fluffy backtalk. In other words, in the heat of the moment she cheated, she dropped the ball, she fell off the bandwagon. In what should have been an easy assist, Palin falls farther still from the respectability of those who she is trying to reach. She lost sight of the ultimate goal of the rally, to not make yourself look like a bumbling idiot. She must have lost the memo or rather forgot to write it on her hand, because she has effectively ended any inkling of hope (which was essentially non-existent to begin with) harbored by myself and hopefully by the Republican Party. The fact that she still plans to run for office in 2012 is pure comedy to me, for if Palin is the strongest candidate for the Republicans, they might as well say "Goodbye White House, Hello hockey."