Thursday, July 26, 2007
Goddamn Japanese scientists. They just can't leave well enough alone.
Men are like shoes. The shoes that you absolutely loved during your high school years you eventually outgrow, and sooner or later dump. Years later, you look back and say to yourself, “What the fuck was I thinking?” Some shoes hurt you immediately. As soon as you try them on for size you cringe with pain. There are shoes that you’ve invested so much in that you decide to live with the torture. You put up with agony, until one day, you decide that your heart and sole can’t take it any longer. You walk away, barefoot and happy. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a keeper. The perfect shoe that will remain so, at least in your eyes, until death do you part. These are the quality ones that lasts a lifetime. The ones that you love so much you won’t ever throw them out no matter how old and worn out they’ve become.
If men are like shoes, then 1906 is like a shoe closet. You have,
There’s Nate, the limited edition, very expensive sneakers (just ask Kristi) --- the Fukijama of Michigan, if you will. These sneakers are quick to jump on you for your lame remarks and run you out of town for your stupid actions. The Holy Grail of footwear that is too cool for school and too legit to quit (again, ask Kristi). A shoe of this caliber is worth the sugar.
If boots are made for walking, then one of these days Alec Gross is gonna walk all over you. Once you discover the greatness and spectacular qualities of boots, you’ll absolutely love them. Boots are of a distinctive style that footwear fashionistas admire for their flair and appreciate for their beauty. If you own a pair, you’re like a cowboy at dawn, a soldier at
Tom, of course, is the flashy 3½-inch stilettos. The shoes that scream, “Look at me!!!” and “I need attention!!!” The ones that you’re wearing when strangers stop you on the street and ask, “Super cute but aren’t they painful?” Heals that you wear on special occasions when you want the spotlight, but not too often because you can only handle such ostentation in small doses. They’re definitely the shoes of choice when you want to have a really good time.
1906 is the shoe closet where you throw all your different pairs of shoes and get this great eclectic footwear collection. Whatever their drawbacks may be, whether they’re dirty, or smelly, or loud, they’re definitely all keepers.
What shoes do prominent members of pop culture remind you of? Dick Cheney an Army Boot (rigid and militant, no sense of humor or room for comfort) - John Bobbit a pair of High Tops without any laces (Look masculine but without the proper equipment to do the job) Or what types of shoes do you fancy yourself as being? Leave a comment making some footwear comparisons of your own…
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Obviously, ESPN’s new breed of shit throwing monkey’s are in heaven this summer with Vick, Bonds and Donaghy immovable from the headlines. I suppose these stories are somewhat important, but honestly I can’t take it anymore. According to reports “Atlanta Falcons owner Arthur Blank must factor protests from PETA and the negative publicity generated by them when considering disciplinary action against Vick.” Protests from PETA? Have I lost my fucking mind? These are the same people we tell to go fuck themselves when they block the sidewalk in front of Nordstrom’s. Remind me again of the public response to PETA’s ongoing crusade to “free” live mascots from their domesticated prisons. Last time I checked, Uga was still wearing a sweater and licking his own balls. Go save an Elephant bitches!
I concede that the destructive behavior of athletes and referees warrants some attention, but the media chooses to shove this stuff down the consumer’s throat until we choke, cough and vomit blood. I thought it would be in ESPNs best interest to protect athletes, after all, who will Skip “I was born with a Vulva” Bayless condemn when every black athlete is banished to attend classes at his “Nurture Your Vagina” detention center? Skippy is the only employee I’ve ever heard of who’s allowed to trash his own company’s product incessantly and still keep his job.
I can’t understand, is it ESPN’s goal to destroy every sport, to make me feel guilty about cheering for 756 or hoping that Vick stays out of jail? My generation – the current “it” generation and advertising’s target demographic – just wants the chance to experience a little bit of greatness. Instead, these bitter old media dinosaurs attack the morals, flair and attitude of their successors and diminish all of our accomplishments:
“Eighty points? What a ball hog. There will only be one Jordan.”
“How I long for the glory days, when white Americans could actually dribble the ball.”
“I’m so fucking old; I can’t make new memories, everything I see today is inherently shittier then when I had a functional brain.”
SportsCenter anchors and contributors have turned into the most predictably cliché group of American employees. Seriously, Mark Cuban has a better chance of being rejected at a whorehouse than an ESPN viewer has of making it one day without hearing drone Stuart Scott say “He’s straight ill wit it.”
That’s right; the sex workers of America have more backbone, integrity and balls than the newsroom in Bristol. By the way, I’m putting the over/under at two years for Ryan Seacrest becoming ESPN’s highest paid employee – in addition to his daily fluffing responsibilities (carried over contractually from his current job), he will replace Mr. Scott as the “edgy, almost black” anchor on ESPN.
This tirade could continue at infinitum, raising questions like why doesn’t the reputation of the Screen Actor’s Guild suffer when Lindsey Lohan is photographed snorting coke out of Nick Nolte’s shitter? Or what might happen if the media spent as much time investigating the crimes of our current Presidential Administration as they do on Pacman’s botched Rain Dance?
I shall call it a sanctuary for positive sports energy; a place to rival to ESPN’s constant hate mongering, where true fans can honor their heroes and ignore their human flaws.
Here are some classic clips to remind the true believers just how enjoyable sports can be:
The Big Unit has Kills
Sunday, July 22, 2007
It is this glorious piece of legislation that we celebrate every April 20th. People around the country, often times not even knowing what it is that’s compelling them to celebrate, nonetheless fully indulge in commemoration.
This past Third Force Act Day I found myself in
Work was the only reasonable explanation I can have for being in
I was ready to began my odyssey, or pilgrimage if you will, to go to the place where the Third Force Act (a.k.a. the Ku Klux Klan Act) had been passed by a brave new Congress.
But first, after I was done working, I had to take in the sights of
I found a decent place to walk, where I’d be away from people and could park the ride, and took a walk. I walked through a parking lot, between a fence and over a bridge across a creek.
There was another factory on the other side of the creek. I stopped on the foot bridge and took in the sights of the running water. There was an abandoned ATV four-wheeler lodged in the side of the embankment on the left, a shopping cart on the right and what appeared to be an oily substance throughout the creek.
But I chilled.
Then I saw a car – it was two girls in a ride. I thought perhaps they were out celebrating Third Force Act Day too…They were chillin…I figured after awhile I ought to hit the road…so that’s what I did.
As I began walking back across the bridge, a man started walking from the factory on the other side of the creek towards the bridge…guess he was coming to enjoy the sites of abandoned ATV’s and shopping carts.
I found my car and made my way to the parking garage, where the parking attendant had a dent in the middle of his upper lip. (It reminded me of that girl’s lip in Kill Bill II when Uma goes to
Whatever, got my money back went to the car to chill…train wasn’t coming until 6:35 PM. It was about 6…I enjoyed some music, celebrating Congressional action against the KKK.
Drank some beer, ate a few appetizers and hit the road. I was near appropriately lit before the train ride. Luckily they sell Heineken on Amtrak, I could finish the job.
It was a 10-hour train ride…or maybe 9…whatever the case I was on that train for a damn long time, and didn’t sleep for more than 3 hours at a time, so from my perspective it wasn’t technically a new day when I finally arrived at the
I was greeted at the Metro stop at about 7:30 AM by Vogel, who was still rocking his threads from the night before. He’d had a rough night of boozing, but he made it…so at least I wasn’t stranded in
I entered 1906...it was like a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. I had left my bed in
So I was beat, caught about another 2 hours at 1906…so I guess by the time I woke up at noon I’d had about 7 hours…but I was not ready for the madness to ensue.
I’d never been to a rugby match before. I had no idea what I was in for.
Granted I brought some of it on myself, no one forced me to accept the outstretched icy cold Bud Light, that had water dripping off it…it was hot, about 90 degrees. Hot. I accepted the beer and I drank.
Not just one, but no more than 12. Somewhere in between.
After the rugby match, it seems to be a custom to go to the bar, where a strange game is played…a game involving a golf ball and pitchers of beer. I don’t think I ever figured the game out, except that it involved being required to drink pitchers of beer if you happen to hold the pitcher with the golf ball…or something…
I was about half in the bag before entering the bar, so I think that I was easily susceptible to trickery involved in such silly games. But I drank, like a champ. Smashed about two pitchers of beer…something like that. It was a lot.
I was pretty well wrecked by the time I left the bar…it was maybe 4 PM.
But the night was not over, sleep would not be had as of yet. Keep in mind that because I hadn’t slept for more than 3 hours at a time, I considered this to still be the day before – therefore I could justify such excessive drinking due to the fact that I was still celebrating Third Force Act Day.
There was a party to go to.
After food, shower and other attempts to sober up we prepared for departure to the party.
We made it to the party…and drank more. Don’t remember preciously what I drank. There was tequila involved, perhaps in a margarita…then also maybe some shots. I’m a little unclear about this. I do remember sitting down on the couch, there was tiered seating in front of me, it was a crazy living room. I thought to rest my eyes.
I’m not exactly sure how many hours later it was that I woke up, but I woke up. I just opened my eyes, there were two guys sitting there, and I stood up, stumbled, in a dazed fashion towards the kitchen and found a beer. Walked outside and there was Vogel. He looked at me like I’d risen from the dead, which I guess in some ways I had.
I’d say that falling asleep on the couch at the party marked the end of my April 20th celebration…and although I’d traveled through nine states, I made it to
Friday, July 6, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Here is the picture I would like to paint for you before actually hearing the fruits of my labor. A large sunburned man walks into class twenty minutes late. It is obvious he has been drinking, and his odor only solidifies this fact. He apologizes for being late, sits down and waits for his turn to record a podcast for a class assignment. After being awoken from a quick 5 minute nap, he enters the recording booth. After about 10 minutes, and what must have been at least 5 different takes, he exits the recording booth with a drunken grin on his face. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. McNutt's first and only podcast.