Thursday, September 30, 2010

It's Official: LeBron has Lost His Mind

I'm a 35 (soon to be 36) year old middle class suburb-dwelling white male. I was raised in the suburbs, went to school in the suburbs, and went to college. I cannot speak of racism from a personal standpoint, nor do I have the right. I am, however, a fairly intelligent, reasonable, and logical person. Therefore, I can confidently dispute Lebron James' and Maverick Carter's latest Decision - to play the race card in response to the bitter and angry reaction to LRMR's infamous spectacle, "The Decision".

I'm not naive in thinking that racism doesn't exist, even in the reality of mega-superstardom. That there aren't some who can't stand Lebron because of the color of his skin. That he, his mother, and friends didn't face it growing up in Akron. Those people were racists before "The Decision" and they will be racists long after the sting of "The Decision" simmers. But to say race played a significant role in people's REACTION to "The Decision"? Really?

Was race a factor when Lebron was arguably the most beloved athlete on the planet? Was race a factor when millions bought his jersey. Was race a factor when arenas sold out just see him? Or when he was on the cover of Sports Illustrated as a teen? Or when Dan Gilbert gave him and his entourage free reign and jobs within the organization? Or in the summer of 2010 when 6 organizations came to HIS hometown to beg him to play for their organization? See, you can't have it both ways. People didn't just wake up the day after "The Decision" and become racist.

The most unfortunate part of the latest Lebron blunder is that people who carelessly throw around the race card (or any other serious social/economical/political issue) like he and Maverick did, wind up making a mockery of the cause.

Lebron - the poor black kid, raised alone by his mom on the streets of Akron... who has also been coddled and fawned over since he was 14. Who's had more privileges bestowed upon him by the time he's 25 than most people will ever have in their lifetime.

The transformation from hero to villain is remarkable. Lebron is like the sheltered, quiet kid who goes to college and finally let's loose. He's the kid that was never allowed to have sweets and is now old enough to binge at will. He's the rebellious teen. No more mister nice guy.

In the most shocking heel turn since Hulk Hogan at Bash at the Beach, Lebron not only seems to be playing the heel role, he's the main eventer. Little did he know, when he decided to play for the Heat, he'd be the world champion at generating it.

Race didn't have much to do with the REACTION to "The Decision". Being a coy, disrespectful, self-indulgent, ego-maniac who cut the nuts off of his hometown? Now that may have played a role just a little. Playing the race card is as empty as "The Decision" itself.

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Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Movie Review: "The Town"

Charlestown is a blue-collar neighborhood in Boston that, at least through the lens of Ben Affleck’s slickly made crime thriller “The Town,” is rife with generations-long criminal activity – a malignant livelihood passed down from father to son.

Captaining complicated carjackings, bank heists and armed robberies is the legacy handed to Doug MacRay (Affleck), the brains behind a four-man team of white trash crooks with a penchant for getting away clean after each successive theft.

Streetwise Doug knows the gang’s luck can’t last forever, and after he and his boys take a pretty bank manager hostage following a particularly daring bank job, that already taut time frame tightens considerably.

It’s an interesting set-up, and Affleck, who co-wrote the screenplay and also directs, has an eye for the ugliness of the streets as well as the desperate and damaged people that populate them.

Where Affleck’s not so adept is forming a firm and coherent narrative to go along with those moody shots of Charlestown’s back alleys, bars and businesses. During its overlong two-hour run time, “The Town” doesn’t seem to know if it wants to be a love story, a character-driven drama, or a balls-out heist-and-chase flick.

Instead, all of these elements are incongruously mixed into a clich├ęd stew that borrows from “Point Break” and more obviously from Michael Mann’s far superior “Heat,” with requisite “Fahk you, ya queeya” South Boston accents generously nicked from “The Departed” and the Affleck-scripted “Good Will Hunting.”

Despite a couple of compelling performances, most notably Jeremy Renner as Doug’s sociopathic best friend, “The Town” goes down too many well-trod paths to stand out as anything more than another Southie-inflected, wanna-be-“smaht” crime caper.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Who's to blame for the 0-2 start? - Podcast

Here's a new podcast from Cleveland.com with Waitingfornextyear.com where they discuss:

Who's to blame for the Browns' 0-2 start? And what are realistic expectations for the Cavaliers?

Follow the link below to download or listen.

http://bit.ly/cRL0SL
Sent from my BlackBerry®

Sunday, September 19, 2010

The thinkable has happened

The NFL is eager to increase its schedule from 16 to 18 games. Patriots’ owner Bob Kraft has called the prospect “a win-win all around.” Kraft must not watch the Browns, an organization where the idea of “win-win” goes to die an agonizing demise each and every football season.

Around the league, many players are against making an already grueling season even longer. I’m with the union on this, because it’s two games into the Browns’ 2010 campaign, and I’m already tired of this team.

If anything, the season should be shortened by a few weeks. An eight game format would really ratchet up the tension, I think. Or, instead of even playing a game, players and coaches could vote on some other form of competition to decide that week’s contest: Cornhole, a round-robin style ping pong tournament, or a vigorous debate on a newsworthy topic would have the dual effect of replacing the on-field action with something more interesting while saving Cleveland fans from wasting their autumn Sundays. A true “win-win.”

At this point in the column, I could use a well-worn idiom to describe my current feelings toward the Browns. I could say “I’m at my wits’ end” or use some other stock phrase. To say such would be disingenuous, however, as this sorry franchise has long since taxed my mental resources and nothing the Browns do (or don’t do, more likely) on the field surprises me anymore.

My feelings have evolved into a kind of religious awe of a team that consistently contrives of ways to lose winnable games. Looking larger scale, these last two weeks stand as Exhibit A and B of the “culture of losing” that has latched virus-like to the Browns and seemingly won’t let go. Despite the changes at the top, we’re still watching a boring, mistake-plagued, talent-deprived mess 16 weeks a year.

No intelligent football fan should expect the playoffs in ‘10, but some modicum of mediocrity is not too much to ask. While the NFL schedule makes fools out of many would-be prognosticators, going at least 1-1 against Tampa and KC would have been at least some sign of incremental progress for this franchise.

At 0-2, just like that, the Browns are straddling the icy precipice of another chilling and lonely season on the lakefront. The sickening plunge into lightless oblivion may start next week at Baltimore, and as evidenced by the inconsistent and uninspired ball of the last two weeks, Cleveland is likely looking down the cold caldera of an at-best five win year.

Two short weeks, and the season seems to be over already. The saddest part is how comfortable the feeling has gotten.

A5UUQNY8N3ZT

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Sunday, September 12, 2010

Haiku of the Day

The U in the Shoe /
Brownies down in Tampa Bay /
Florida ownage.


Friday, September 10, 2010

The night of magical thinking



When asked, if given a choice, would I rather have Ohio State or a Cleveland team win a championship, the answer for me is always simple: Cleveland all the way, baby. “This town is my town” and all that.

An unhealthy, usually one-sided relationship with the Browns, Indians and Cavs will always take precedence in my personal athletic pantheon, it’s true, but Ohio State football is still a strong fourth on my list of favorite teams. And in 2002, the Buckeyes provided several generations of Cleveland fans (at least those who rooted for Ohio State) that long sought after, but never realized elation that comes with ultimate victory.

As we inch toward Saturday’s 3:30 early-season litmus test between OSU and Miami in Columbus, the 2003 Fiesta Bowl national title game has been getting a predictable rehash in media circles. The 31-24 Ohio State double-overtime win over the ‘Canes is probably the single greatest athletic contest I have ever witnessed – an emotionally dizzying, highest- of high-stakes affair heightened further by a month’s worth of media-driven smack talk against the 11-point underdog Buckeyes, all funneled into four-plus quarters packed with so many over-the-top dramatic moments that even the hackiest Hollywood screenwriter would have looked at the byplay and said, “Nah, this is too much.”

But we can’t bask in the glory of that memorable Friday night without remembering what came before. That “instant classic” title game was a microcosm of an undefeated season that never felt safe, precariously balanced as it was on a game to game knife-edge of “pulled-from-the-fire” moments, any one of which could have gone the wrong way and deflated our ambitions of seeing the publically stoic, buttoned-down Jim Tressel make this goofy face.

The ’02 Buckeyes were the collegiate Kardiac Kids, playing six games decided by a touchdown or less. With the advent of “Tressel ball,” where special teams and defense masked a purposefully vanilla offense, the Buckeyes couldn’t help but get involved in the bi-weekly nail biter. And man oh man, there were some twitchy moments: Will Allen’s interceptions during potential game-winning drives by Cincinnati and Michigan; Tim Anderson batting down a pass at the line in an excruciatingly intense OT affair against Illinois; and the "Holy Buckeye" Krenzel to Jenkins play on 4th-and-1 against Purdue, my personal favorite and probably “the play” of 2002.

As a Cleveland fan, I was not used to this surreal repeal of Murphy’s Law. Here was a team my friends and I rooted for that actually got all the bounces. It got to the point where I didn’t believe the Buckeyes could lose, even against the heavily favored Hurricanes, #1 in the country that year and in search of their second consecutive national crown.

In my expert armchair analysis, aided by the fact that I was a graduate of Ohio State and therefore not at all biased, I determined that the Buckeyes could use their usual formula of simple offense and stout, playmaking defense to control the game. I smartly concluded that if the score was close at halftime, then the scarlet and gray would have a chance.

How the hell I’m not getting paid for this kind of keen insight, I have no idea.

Anyway, game night was spent at the home of CST contributor and fellow OSU grad, Kevin. The atmosphere was amped and electric, a feeling no doubt mirrored in many homes and watering holes across the state as it became increasingly evident that the experts were wrong and Ohio State was going to make it a game.

People act out in strange ways during moments of extreme stress, and OSU-Miami at Kevin’s followed this sociological pattern: Returning CST columnist/handicapper Sam, for example, nonsensically and fruitlessly screamed profanities at the television because he didn’t like the network’s camera angle on a field goal attempt. And when Krenzel completed a game-saving 4th-and-14 pass to Jenkins, a friend sitting next to me was so overcome with emotion (or something) that he grabbed me and kissed me on the side of the neck. While a Maxim-reading, cage-fighting, whiskey-guzzling badass like myself would normally be a bit affronted by such an intimate guy-on-guy act (not that there’s anything wrong with it), I was just as happy as he was and didn’t care about the unbidden smooch.

Indeed, the game was so full of outlandish and outright unbelievable plays, Buckeyes fans had scarce time to breath. It was like the gridiron version of “Can You Top This:” Maurice Clarett stripping the ball from Sean Taylor after an interception begat Wills McGahee getting his knee turned inside out begat the still-controversial pass interference call on Miami DB Glenn Sharpe where fireworks exploded and an Ice Age passed before the ref threw the flag (or so it seemed). Moments on top of moments on top of moments – one following the next in dreamlike succession.

Finally, on a play I’ve probably watched two dozen times over the years, a Cie Grant blitz forced Ken Dorsey’s 4th-down-and-goal pass into the turf, ending this endless game and sending fans into a euphoric whirlwind of adrenaline-fueled joy. I scarcely remember anything from those first explosive seconds after the final play. It was like a mini-nuke going off and flash-blinding everything but a feeling of ecstatic, man-hugging bliss.

Whatever, it was awesome and glorious, and I want it to happen again. For now, I’m happy to have witnessed at least one sports season end not in misery or apathy but the complete opposite of those depressing states of mind. Maybe tomorrow afternoon will be the first mile on a new road to glory for Northeast Ohio and Buckeyes fans everywhere. If you feel the same, dear reader, then join me in the battle cry:

Beat the U! Just like ’02!

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Vanilla Vox


Editor's Note: About a decade ago, I had an email exchange with The Plain Dealer's Paul Hoynes. He poked fun at Dwight Gooden after Gary Sheffield suggested the Indians make Doc their closer. I took issue with the beat writer's barb; after all, didn't Hoynsie know that Doc was the Tribe's best regular season starter in 1998? Hoynsie, one of the most talented writers at Ohio's largest (and very mediocre) daily, said he respected Doc for never ducking the media and always getting up for big games, but attributed Gooden's troubles to a fear of throwing strikes. He nibbled and nibbled, said Paul. Eventually you just gotta throw strikes and trust your stuff. Although I only half agreed with that assessment, it stuck with me. SamVox has recently been a writer in hiding, lacking drive and confidence. But, today. he is staring back at you- cracks in his face, weak arm and all-- finally ready to bring the heat.

Please allow me to re- introduce myself, I'm a blog of wealth and takes. A year ago, I thought I'd hit the proverbial rock bottom. I stood alone in sold-out Ohio Stadium (the place where two of My Life's Top Five Moments occurred) and watched a victory over SC slip away, ever so slowly. Consider that I have been to numerous OSU football and basketball games (including the '85 Citirus Bowl), and I had never witnessed a loss. After the Trojans game-winning drive, I realized there was truly nothing I could count on except death, taxes, and an obscene amount of traffic on Lane Avenue. Less than 16 hours later, I'd witness the annual defeat that is the Browns home opener-- and a reporter from The Weather Channel drive over a Browns fan's foot...twice actually, because he rolled over it AGAIN when he put his vehicle in reverse after the initial contact. I remember feeling quite surprised, at the time, that it wasn't my foot crushed by that SUV. Apparently that weekend was only a warmup for the real devastation LeBron Raymone James had planned for us, so humbly afflicting our town with his actions in Game 5, The Decision and The Press Conference (more on that below). About nine months ago, the Sports Guy listed all three of our teams in the top ten of his Fifteen Most Tortured Teams column. An easy choice, but Bill's rock bottom moments for the Browns, Cavs and Tribe now need some updating. This town was already synonymous with persecution and depression long before we even considered how low we could sink in the first two quarters of 2010, and here's where I normally talk about unprecedented scandal and corruption in Cuyahoga County, the Plain Dealer's Sheriff McFaul witch hunt, job losses, Mayor Welo's latest gaffe, ignorant GOP carnivores, and the death of John Hughes (all right, that wasn't impactful to northeast Ohio but if felt right to end that sentence...and, like Connor Oberst once proclaimed: if it feels good, then I'll give it a try). But I do have a word count tonight, so off with the horns and on with the column--

The Vox Rock Bottom State of Affairs (or Affairs of our State):

Indians: CC Sabathia and Cliff Lee facing each other in Game One of the 2009 World Series was hard to digest, and Simmons cited it as rock bottom for Tribe fans. It stung when CC won a ring but seeing Cliff Lee win both games he started for the Phils was particularly painful, especially when you consider that Lee couldn't even make the Tribe's post-season roster two years prior. If Lee finds his 2008 Cy Young form just a few months earlier, well then surely the Red Sox couldn't overcome a Sabathia-Lee-Carmona 1-2-3 punch in the 2007 ALCS. But the economic reality of MLB is not a problem exclusive to Cleveland. Fact is, we play in a winnable division ever year and the Dolans have invested millions in scouting, development and our overall farm system (and Matt's political aspirations?!). No reason the Twins should be out-executing the Indians, year after year. That's on Shapiro and his staff, it's that simple. Through trade blunders, embarrassing free agent signings, and Wedge's inability to manage strong personalities, the once proud and trendsetting Cleveland Indians ballclub has been relegated to a side show. And when I say side show I mean exactly that, having been a spectator to the first ever PuppyPalooza at Progressive field on August 26th. I went to my fair share of Columbus Clipper games during my OSU days, and never saw something so minor league. Bring Your Dog Night is a desperate promotion from a big league front office clinging dearly to any semblance of respectability. I stayed inside the Loge to escape the puppy hysteria and concluded pro baseball at the corner of East 9th and Ontario had officially hit rock bottom; the sellout streak seemed a lifetime ago. I would classify the rise and fall of the Indians as Shakespearean, but, by most accounts, Will hated dogs.



Browns: Simmons argues the Browns' worst moment was when the team moved in '95, but that would discount all of the suffering we've endured since they've returned and somehow morphed into the worst run organization in the history of pro sports. You could reason we bottomed-out mid-season 2009 when our new GM was escorted out of the complex, our new coach was shredded by a music magazine (and compared to Augustus Gloop), and our team was an unwatchable 1-11, including a last second loss in Detroit- which seemed to feel OK because of the "entertainment value." Look, if you found anything redemptive in losing to the Lions...that, my friends, was rock bottom. Except it wasn't. Perhaps the lowest of lows occurs when you can't even honor your franchise properly. Only the Browns could eff up a "Ring of Honor." Now this may seem insignificant when compared to the holes on the team's roster and performance the last few seasons, but how hard is it to bring a few living legends together to toast past greatness for fifteen minutes? For the Browns, even that turns into a tough task, and a PR nightmare. Clearly, Jim Brown can utter some ridiculous statements, but I'm not piling on him like the rest of the local media. Reggie Rucker got your back in the PD anyway, Jim. I don't even care who was disrespected in the Brown/BigShow power struggle. What's most bothersome is the usual lack of leadership out of Berea. Randy, speak up. Saw you in your suite during Aston Villa's recent win over Everton, and I don't begrudge you an EPL team- or the satisfaction of following your Villans. And I know that shyness is a curse, believe me. But, Randy, sometimes an owner is required to be a uniting presence among divisive competing forces. And Jim Brown is still a force, regardless of his delusions. We all know the Browns, in Mike Holmgren, finally have an organizational voice that appeases the media and fans. But ownership can't always hide behind Holmgren. Let's settle the stupid shit, and then figure out how we're going to start 2-0 this season for the first time since 1989. From rock-bottom to 8-8 this year. 9-7, if you're nasty.

Cavs: Look, it was hard not to blog about Bron when it was all going down. I suppose, at some point, I reached a wretchedly numb status. Or maybe it was just pent-up anger, and the Vox won't write angry (see Gilbert's letter for reasons why; even if it excited the fan base, it was amateurish and hypocritical).


But seeing LeBron dance was the most pathetic thing I've seen in 25 years following pro sports. The most disturbing and provoking image from the Heat's WWF Press Conference was how happy LeBron looked. That was honestly the happiest I've ever seen LeBron. I studied him for seven years, and never saw him happier. And that includes his Rookie of the Year and MVP ceremonies, his bullshit documentary, and the Cavs winning the Eastern Conference three ago. He was finally in is element on that stage, with his boys, in a new jersey surrounded by fair-weather fans that will never worship him the way we did. That Press Conference will be ingrained in my mind for years to come, the unexpected symbol of my hatred for LeBron and other select members of Generation Y. To reiterate the obvious: you don't dance until you win something The Drive, The Shot, The Fumble, The Move, Mesa, Lofton Held at 3rd Base, Game 5, The Decision...those events slowly chipped away at my existence. But The Press Conference was MY rock bottom. So where do we go now? North, Miss Tessmacher, North. 

---

Vox has always streamlined the personal, so we can't overlook that Mrs. Vox is now Mrs. ExVox. Since it sort of sounds cool, I suppose she'll stay on as a supporting character in my column. Not as relevant as, say, a Mr. Furley, but maybe a very restrained cross between Lilith on the later seasons of Cheers and Principal McVicker from Beavis & Butt-head. (Please, someone consult my lawyer before I write that sentence. Oh wait, I fired him and then went on to the set the new standard for self-representation in the court of family law.) Also, excuse my innocent flirtation with another notable cleveland sports blog this summer. I thank them for the opportunity and greatly admired their tenacity, but I'm home now. On the hallowed grounds of ClevelandSportsTorture, in the heart of VoxVille. I am, and therefor, I write. Finally, I can't ignore that we are toiling in a different world since I published the last Vox in the Box (#21 on May 21, 2009). With social media dominating the planet and suddenly making every blog so infinitely accessible, I'm coming to terms with the dangerous reality that my audience will be increasing from 6 readers to, like, 16. As much as I enjoyed catering to my original, faithful half-dozen, I'm going to have to branch out a bit. Not unlike Pearl Jam, who were sadly and reluctantly forced to exchange intimate club shows for sold out stadiums and front-running fans just waiting to hear Daughter. Eventually, even Eddie began holding the hand that held him down. WIth that admission, I give you the always diluted and never tarnished Random Top 10:

SamVox's Top Ten Movies of the Decade (2000-2009)

Honorable mentions include: The Patriot, Oceans 11, The Woodsman, The Wrestler, No Country for Old Men, Revolutionary Road, Unfaithful, Brokeback Mountain, Monster's Ball, The Departed, Meet the Parents, Crash, Closer, 2 for the Money and Angels in America.


1. 25th Hour
I wrote in my review of Inside Man that Spike Lee keeps kicking convention's ass, while most Americans want the same old movie cliche for their $7.50. And 25th Hour is THE joint- Spike's finest hour, based on David Benioff's underwhelming novel about a convicted drug dealer's last day of freedom before a seven year jail sentence. Spike was the first director, of course, to take on 9-11. He doesn't specifically deal with the events, but reminders of the tragedy often serve as a scene's backdrop, and permeate the mood of the film. As always in Spike's movies, the city of New York is another charcter- this time, a metaphor for Montgomery Brogan's sadness and confusion. During the closing credits, Bruce Springsteen's "The Fuse" uncompromisingly reinforces 25th's layered message of a broken humanity quick to blame, at war with it's own regrets, friendships and selfish visions, and somehow coming clean throughout the process.
Vox Definitive Moment: Montgomery Brogan's (Ed Norton) hate monologue before owing up to his own mistakes, talking to himself in front of the mirror:

2. Vanilla Sky
Caught Cameron Crowe's adaptation of Abre Los Ojos with Mrs. ExVox, and it kept me in a nervous trance from the second I sat down. Critics junked it as a jumbled vanity flick and most movie-goers totally dismissed it, but, boy, I'm a sucker for a morality play on a playboy's mortality (don't steal that line Peter Travers, it's mine). Years later, it would remind me of Girl6. Girl6 is neither Mrs. ExVox, a Spike Lee Joint, or the blonde bartender at Parnells (the only other person I know that owns the film). Girl 6 won't be revealed so cheaply, and neither will Cameron's masterpiece.
Vox Definitive Moment: The supremely suitable soundtrack, complied by Crowe's wife, Heart guitarist Nancy Wilson

3. Match Point
Leave it to Woody Allen to craft a murderous thriller about old fashioned greed and lust, and then tautly present the film's theme as luck, pure luck. Allen spares us a moral commentary, deflects his protagonist's sins, and show's us the difference between success and failure really is a few random inches, here and there.
Vox Definitive Moment: Umm, Scarlett Johansson in the rain?

4. Little Children
The brilliant title works on so many levels. Most obvious, the grown-ups in the film acting as little children. Or maybe the adults in the film use their children as a guise for their own poor choices and motives? Moreover, the serious issues are just a vehicle for a sly satire of suburbia- the over-the-top protective parent, the stay-at-home mom's club obsessed with judgement and gossip, and an entire neighborhood existing under the self-righteous facade that society has created for couples with children. And in the end, the audience is surely more sympathetic to the plight of the mentally ill man who had exposed himself at the public pool.
Vox Definitive Moment: Do I even have to write it? Kelly Leak in the passenger's seat...

5. Sideways
I don't laugh much at the movies. Too busy people-watching, analyzing and stuffing my fucking face with popcorn. But Thomas Haden Church was beyond hilarious, and I laughed my ass off WIngs-style.
Vox Definitive Moment: Miles. Can't we just... go back to the motel... and hang out... and get up early, play 9 holes of golf... before we head home?
Jack: Listen, man. You're my friend, and I know you care about me. And I know you disapprove, and I respect that. But there are some things that I have to do that you don't understand. You understand literature, movies, wine... but you don't understand my plight.

6. Training Day
A countdown without Ethan Hawke? Not on Vox's watch. (Please, I was tempted to sneak Before the Devil Knows You're Dead and Brooklyn's Finest on this list.) But the real triumph here isn't Hawke's underrated and introspective performance, but rather young director Antoine Fuqua putting a unique charge in the normally stale cop-drama genre. Denzel Washington was born to play Detective Alonzo Harris, and supporting cast Eva Mendes, Macy Gray. Snoop Dogg, Raymond Berry, Dr. Dre and Tom Berenger are all given the latitude to excel.
Vox Definitive Moment: Perhaps the greatest scene in film history: Reluctant rookie detective Jake Hoyt playing cards with his ruthless gang captors, fearing his death may be minutes away but not ready to play his hand. What happens next is now just movie lore- a desperate fight, the well-acted bathtub scene, the irony of karma...and the viewer experiences every turn almost as piercingly as Jake does.

7. Hustle & Flow
There's something disarming about a badass Memphis pimp, cutting a track in his living room on a makeshift PA with his whiter than white producer-- DJ Qualls from Road Trip

8. We Don't Live Here Anymore
Nate from Six Feet Under burns the only working copy of his novel, writes a "shitty poem," and it gets published by The New Yorker. This inspired a number of poetry submissions by yours truly to The New Yorker...after all, this film is proof they publish stuff by average writers!? Well, they don't. And fuck The New Yorker. Did you guys even read The New Orleans Diaries? I sent it four times.

9. Cast Away
I'm not a huge Tom Hanks fan, but you can't deny his skills here. An actor in full command of all of his tools. And, in the end, it was all just a love story.
Vox Definitive Moment:
CHUCK NOLAND WAS HERE
1500 DAYS ESCAPED TO SEA
TELL KELLY FREARS, MEHMPHIS, TN. I LOVE HER

10. Almost Famous
I walked out of Crowe's love letter to rock-n-roll a bit disappointed, but God bless repeated viewings on HBO. It gets better and better every time I watch it. You may want to try that approach with this column.
Vox Definitive Moment: "Russell. Jeff. Ed. Larry. I really love your band. I think the song "Fever Dog" is a big step forward for you guys. I think you guys producing it yourselves, instead of Glyn Johns, was the right thing to do. And the guitar sound... is incindiary. Incendiary."

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners, saints
As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer
'Coz I'm in need of some restraint


I am Mick Jagger in the box.
Parting is...inevitable.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Lebron and Dwade...Married?

I saw this posted on http://www.SI.com this morning and thought it was pretty funny and creative.

Check it out

http://mrslebronwade.com/

I really like the Chris Bosh Baby announcement.
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