Versus Number Ten

NFL 1990’s vs. NFL Today

Many father-son relationships, particularly when the patriarch and Junior are curmudgeons, are enriched by seemingly meaningless similarities. This rings especially true for me and my father, who came from vastly different backgrounds. But, as much as I didn’t understand his love of motorcycles and Law and Order and he didn’t quite get my idolatry of David Bowie, we shared tastes in Literature, the Rolling Stones, alcohol¹, and football. Football was a looming presence in my household from Saturday drives to Lexington to see the exquisitely awful VMI Keydets get Holyfield-ed by teams that only alumni could be familiar with, to the few movements on the Sunday couch, where getting up was only tolerated if one was cursing the team the Redskins was losing to, taking a bathroom break, or going up to adjust the volume² on the TV set. Time has passed, and while much has changed in my life and in the game of football itself, I still find myself crippled on couches every Sunday, albeit usually a little more hungover and more financially interested in games than I was when I was twelve. Given that we are a quarter through the 2008-09 NFL Season, it seemed as good as time as any to discuss the substantial differences in the culture of the NFL from the 1990s to today. While Fantasy Football has lead to fans having a level of interest never before seen in the good-but-not-great NFL player, it has also taken away some of the panache of the NFL- people root for players now, not teams, which is a significant misstep. Now, before I start comparing the two, I need to acknowledge that a lot of the greats in both eras spent some time in the other- for instance, Jerry Rice played in the 2000s, but he is unquestionably a 90s player, and the vice versa goes for a Terrell Owens/ Ladainian Tomlinson type.

Part I: Best at Position

It is obvious that there will always be debate over who was the best at whatever position forever. So, for instance, when I say Brett Favre was the best quarterback of the 1990s, someone could easily rebutt with Steve Young, Troy Aikman, or Trent “The Dent” Dilfer³. I get that some of my opinion might differ from your’s- I suggest starting up your own blog.

Quarterback- Brett Favre/ Tom Brady- It is difficult to compare these two except for the fact that they are the kings of their respective eras. Brady is a stream-lined, model dating, beret/ scarf combo sporting mastermind of offense. His performance last year was unquestionably the best offensive performance in the history of the league- if he had won the Super Bowl, it would have been the best statistical season of a professional athlete ever. Favre is the most overliked athlete of the ESPN-era (besides maybe MJ), but it is for good reason. He’s a good ol’ boy from Mississippi with one of the biggest arms in NFL history. He has a playfulness that makes Madden-like types opine endlessly about his ‘boy-like passion for the game.’ He has won the MVP three times and has every major statistical quarterback record in football. While I stick by my point that he certainly isn’t as beyond reproach as some would make him out to be, Brady simply doesn’t have the little qualities that make Brett Favre what he is. And for those who argue, logically, that Brady has a good shot of taking all of those QB records I was referring to, he won’t have the most impressive one- 256 consecutive starts. Winner: Favre

Running Back- Emmitt Smith/ LaDainian Tomlinson- I’m already upset with myself for picking Emmitt over Barry Sanders, but Emmitt has those hypnotically huge Super Bowl rings and Barry just has faint memories of how sweet he was in the mid-90s Madden. Like Favre, Emmitt was the face of a dominant organization for much of the 1990s. He holds the record for all-time rushing yards… but it took him a lot longer than it took James Brown, the aforementioned Sanders, and Earl Campbell to get where they got. It can also be argued that Emmitt Smith had the best offensive line of all time, something that might come in handy when playing running back. Ladainian Tomlinson is the best football player of all time. While many could argue to me about his inconsistency, his lack of championships, or the fact he is still not that deep into his career, I’d say just shut up and watch him play. No one has a better combination of skill, form, desire, and class in the NFL. While Adrian Peterson might end up having me adjust this praise of LT, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Winner: LT

Wide Reciever- Jerry Rice/ Terrell Owens- I say Owens over Moss because Owens has been more consistent and been Pro Bowl caliber for every team he has been on, no matter the quarterback or offensive scheme. Terrell Owens is also what’s wrong with the NFL today, from his habit of throwing teammates under the bus, to his so-obnoxious-its-almost-disgusting self advertising⁴. But, I will give credit where credit is due and say he is an amazing talent, fun to watch, and as fierce a competitor as there ever has been. That’s cute and all, but Jerry Rice is Jerry Rice- if you don’t understand that logic, you don’t like football. Winner: Jerry Rice

Offensive Lineman- Larry Allen/ Jonathan Ogden- Once I actually tried to play football and got my unmotivated, unathletic ass relegated to playing Offensive Line, I started to watch the trenches a lot more. For those of you who still don’t appreciate the battle up front, specifically the paramount role a Left Tackle plays, I suggest reading The Blind Side by Michael Lewis. That being said, however, it is difficult to really compare these two OL-Gods, due to the less than flashy nature of the position. These two players were unmovable man-mountains, laughing at the idea of a sack and salivating at the sound of a running play. Hate to do this, but Draw.

Defensive Line- Reggie White/ Jason Taylor- I feel bad I’m not putting a Defensive tackle in the running for this, because it is the most underrated position in football (look how much better a Albert Haynesworth or Tommie Harris makes their respective defenses), but these two guys are pretty spectacular. Reggie White was more of your traditional pass-rushing Defensive End who would laugh at the suggestion of someone running on him. Jason Taylor is much more of a general playmaker- he gets his sacks, the occasional pick, and has a good nose for the ball. But, due to his under-sized frame, he was also a target for many offensive coordinators running the football. In my experience, you stop the run, you have a much better chance of winning the game- Winner: The Minister of Defense

Linebacker- Junior Seau/ Ray Lewis- While Seau has been reasonably productive in the 2000s, his decade was clearly the 1990s (he was a seven- time, yes seven, First team All Pro) when he was the dominate defensive force in football. His controlled recklessness, quickness, strength, and decision making made him on of the most complete football players on either side of the field. His passion made him an irreplaceable team leader, and his gheri-curl made even Ice Cube in sheer jealousy. But Ray Lewis is Ray Lewis- probably the most focused and ferocious player in the last decade, Lewis is always making plays and also orchestrating the Ravens Defense, typically in the NFL’s top five. The only surprise to me about Ray Lewis is that he killed somebody off the field before he killed somebody on it. Winner: Ray Ray

Defensive Back- Deion Sanders/ Ed Reed- First things first, I really wanted to put “Darrel Green/ Sean Taylor” but that would have been half-inaccurate (Sean Taylor was awesome but not ‘best of the 00s awesome’) and wholly showing of my Redskins bias. Deion Sanders effected the game of football like few have before or since. His “primetime” attitude coupled with his Bolt-esque speed⁵ lead him to be the most feared cover corner in the league for a long time. His punt return skills were not to shabby either- until he came to the Redskins, where he made it pretty clear that he would rather live in Arizona⁶ than contribute to the team. Deion will probably be better remembered, however, for his constantly running mouth and ludicrous lifestyle which far too many athletes have idolized in the last decade- if you think trouble magnet like Pac Man Jones would be allowed to suit up in this league without Deion Sanders, you’d be mistaken. On the other side, you have Mr. Ed Reed. My man from the U reminds me a lot of a Ronnie Lot type, except he doesn’t hit quite as hard but makes twice as many plays. I realize this is a once in a lifetime thing, but I was at FedEx when Ed Reed sacked whatever ghost was playing QB for the Skins, forced a fumble, picked up the fumble and returned it I think fifty yards for a touchdown. For reference, I think that is like seventeen points in my fantasy league- you simply can not have a bigger game changing play than that. I also know very little about Ed Reed the person, which makes me like Ed Reed the person a lot more. For Christ’s sake, I still read about Deion mentoring NFL players; I guess he has a hook in the media much like they were the game of one of his ESPN hunting shows. Regardless, Ed Reed is a defensive back that people can build a defense around, Deion seems more like a luxury.

Best Team- Cowboy Era vs. Patriots Era- If these two played on the moon when they were both in their prime and the instant-replay option was not enforced but Bellichik could still watch signals but….. It is pointless to compare football teams as though there was a time vacuum in which you could get all of these guys in their prime- if there was such a thing, you’d hope we would get an Einstein or Jefferson in there over Michael Irvin, but I digress. Since I have been watching football with a fervor that few others do things on Sundays⁷, these have been the two teams that have jumped out and been suffocating the competition. Needless to say, I hate them both for different reasons. The Cowboys, well, because they are the Cowboys, and they were feeding me things to dislike about them during the 90s like Columbia was feeding stock brokers the motivation to stay up for those hundred hour weeks. Arrogant, overrated receiver? Check. Quarterback who always seemed to annoyingly make the right play at the right time? Check. Obnoxiously aggressive defensive lineman (bonus points: he went to JMU)? Check. But as much as I could try to justify disliking the separate pieces of the Cowboys, the reason my hatred was in full check during this era was because the Cowboys were good, like amazingly good. While their record may not suggest the Patriots-era dominance of last year, the Cowboys put fear in the hearts of their opponents- they were mean, fast, talented, and most importantly, hungry. The Patriots took a completely different approach to their dominance by enforcing team-work, role playing, and a secretiveness that teeters on CIA-level (in other words, pointlessness). Tom Brady had the ability to pick apart defenses using an ever-dwindling supply of nobodies (I think their best receiver when they lost to the Colts in the 2007 AFC Championship was Jabar Gaffney- that is pathetic/impressive) and the defense, who annually seems to lose a huge role player, continues to dominate because of their emphasis of strategy over individual players. Now that Brady has the offensive weapons, I’d predict this era is merely taking a break for a year⁸ before it’s a bloodbath next year. But, their questionable approach, particularly Spygate, leaves a pretty crappy taste in my mouth. Also, while the Patriots certainly have the all-stars, Belichick’s focus of team over person leads them to come across flatly. With Randy Moss having been so muzzled in his time in New England, it is clear that Bob Kraft wants to run an organization far differently from the Jerry Jones I-don’t-give-two-shits-about-character-let-him-run-fast-and-sell-jerseys Cowboys teams (of old and new- Tank Johnson + Pac Man + TO= something bad will happen. How did Jerry Jones get so much money with this kind of risk taking?). While it has been somewhat boring that the Patriots era has been defined by secrecy, efficiency, and teamwork, it also speaks well to the game itself- you don’t have to be obnoxious to be dominant. But, that being said, I can’t tell you how much fun I have had watching old Cowboy players get arrested, puzzle me with their career choices⁹, and flat-out embarrass themselves trying to commentate on ESPN. Still though, I think the Patriots of last year, which wasn’t one of their three Super Bowl teams, would have destroyed any Cowboys team ever.

So overall, I think when it comes down to it I acknowledge that the 00s is the best era in football. While the bigger-than-life personalities have become a little sickening, they have also made the game a 24-hour drama. Add the internet, the NFL Network, and the full realization of ESPN as a sports powerhouse, and its amazing to be a current NFL fan. Sure, I will probably always say Brett Favre was the best QB of all time, but my old man used to go on and on about Johnny Unitas, so I guess ignorance in sports fans is here to stay. Its good to be sentimental and defensive about players of old- other wise, how could I get in a near fist-fight over who was better the 1990 Giants or 1991 Redskins?

1 Except I stopped drinking bourbon when I was twenty- last time I had a drink with the old man he was sucking down Crown Royal- this might explain the diabetes…

2 My father was a big dude who usually sat in a leather recliner during games- him trying to wiggle his way into finding a remote was humorous, but usually just to awkward/ painful too watch

3 Actually, I was just looking at statistics, and there is no way Trent Dilfer could be considered the best QB of anything (he wasn’t even the best gunslinger named ‘Trent’ while he was in the league), besides the Super Bowl he won with the Ravens

4 His Line of “i’ shirts on Hard Knocks was hilarious because of the poorness of the idea and the desperation of the spokes-person. “iPractice?” More like “iInfringe” on Apple’s copyright.

5 Or does Usain Bolt have Deion Sanders-esque type speed? You decide

6 See Boys Will be Boys

7 Religion?

8 God knows Brady has some nice things to go home to

9 Remember when E. Smith went to the Cardinals?

Versus Number Nine

I Love Money versus G’s To Gents

In his explanation of the Communist ideology’s suggestion of the elimination of all major religions, Karl Marx justifies these limitations with the quote “Die Religion ... ist das Opium des Volkes,” or to those not familiar with Romantic-era German, “Religion is the opiate of the people.”¹ Apparently he never caught an episode of Tila Tequila.

Reality television is ubiquitous. I hate the crap, and yet I still have three reality shows that I watch with a vigor that is shameless. But, much like the religion in Mr. I’m-too-good-for-capitalism’s quote, reality television is characterized by two things- the cheap thrill of the product and the addictiveness of said thrill. While watching this sludge isn’t necessarily bad in of itself, it does deter one from some of television’s denser, better selections, much like that bag of Ruffles when checking out at the 7-11 might dissuade you from having to sit down and taking the time to order a steak dinner. This becomes especially clear when it comes to repeat viewings: to prove how backwards this all is, I have seen this clip about 250 times more than this one. But, in all fairness, I rarely have the time or the needed focus to invest an hour in watching a drama-drenched indictment on America, particularly when Gordon Ramsey is about to shit a brick. Fortunately my arrogance has lead me to divide Reality Shows into two categories: competition and lifestyle- this is solely so I can call one “subtly relevant”² and the other “why terrorists hate America.”

Lifestyle shows are just as they are titled, little windows into the “lives” of somebody (ies). Typically these shows are based around a celebrity, like the unfathomably depressing The Two Coreys or the no-adverb-needed lameness of Run’s House. Currently, The Hills is the leader of this pack, something incomprehensible, like how people can like the Dallas Cowboys, the Dave Matthews Band, or Tyler Perry. The show, centered around the livlihoods of three eccentric siblings, deals with their tireless trying to stick together after the patriarch is incarcerated for… oh wait, that’s Arrested Development, one of the best shows of all time. The Hills, on the other hand, proves two things: first, for some reason, people will find you more interesting if you are attractive³ although the opposite is typically the case, and secondly, this show actually might prove the opening quote of this article because The Hills systemically proves that there is no God. If there was, wouldn’t Bernie Mac still be alive and all of these mouth-breathers picking condoms out of the water at the water treatment plant?

Competition reality shows, on the other hand, are my jam. Whereas The Hills just shows you why my generation will be the one where China becomes the world’s super-power, shows like Flavor of Love and America’s Next Top Model actually show these imbeciles competing with one another. Due to this competition, as well as the desperate nature of the contestants, we see quickly how bad people can be to one another, which provides many hours of laughter. People on shows like The Hills try to show these socialites as gorgeous, innocuously flawed people- in reality, L.A. is made up of a lot more Buckeeys and Heats, and seeing terrible people treat each other terribly kind of gives these shows the air of a Chekhov play. The two current kings of the schadenfreude television industry are VH1’s I Love Money and MTV’s From G’s to Gents. If you haven’t been watching these shows, I give fair warning- the remainder of the article is sagging with spoilers.

Premise: Although my convoluted rhetoric may suggest otherwise, I am actually a huge fan of simplicity, and in terms of titular straightforwardness, I Love Money is the The Godfather of reality television. The show takes some of the more memorable characters from VH1’s “ode to birth control” series (Rock of Love, Flavor of Love, and I Love New York), hoses them down to get that post Tiki Bob’s⁴ stank off of them, and suits them all with push-up bras, hair gel, and clothing that can show off those awesome barber-wire and lower-back tattoos. The show takes away the absurd suggestion that people actually want to have a lasting relationship with Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels, or New York, and proposes to the viewer that hey, maybe some of these people solely came onto the show for monetary gain more than trying to have cringe-inducing make-out sessions with this man. To win these elusive monies, the characters all have to engage in competitions ranging from spitting for distance to who can throw a tomahawk in a mannequin’s back (I know, I know). Add in a fair amount of lying, alliances, Megan, cheap spirits, and the great country of Mexico, and all I have to say is that my Sunday nights at nine o’clock are spoken for.

If I Love Money takes a “we know these people are shallow tools, might as well watch them crawl for money” approach to reality television, From Gs to Gents takes a far different approach based entirely on the egotism of Jamie Foxx⁵ and Farmsworth Bentley⁶. These two well regarded (I guess? Don’t really follow the hip hop scene) men have decided to take their reputation as two clean-cut African American gentleman (hence the “gents” part of the title) to help current ‘Gs,’ which for all you white people means ‘gangsta⁷,’ change their thuggish ways. For the reformed ‘g’ who performs well enough to dodge the ebony spheres and cruel wrath of Bentley, can look forward to becoming a member of the undefined “gentleman’s club.” Oh, and some big cash prize, the only reason any of these Master P Wanttobe Ps even act like they are faintly interested. The show, unlike I Love Money, did not have an established character base, which remained a problem for roughly 20 minutes before my man Pretty Ricky hit the scene and escalated this show into the national conscience. Much like I Love Money, the contestants range from the utterly pathetic to the remarkably stupid, as the audience must go on the roller-coaster that is life in a rented- MTV house.

While both shows’ strength come from its execution more than the premise itself, I have to say From G’s To Gents wins this round because of the laughably weak attempt to suggest that they aren’t merely exploiting these assholes, but rather they are trying to help them make positive change to live an achieving life. While many times better than the show it imitates, I Love Money is a shameless rip-off of MTV’s Road Rule/ Real World Gauntlet series, and this lack of innovation leads to a narrow loss this round.

Characters: I Love Money

1. Mr. Boston- Originally from I Love New York, Mr. Boston proves that the people Martin Lawrence and Katt Williams base their “white guy” voice on actually does exist. Mr. Boston, with his odd affinity for g-string underwear, desire to get into near fatal altercations with some of the other housemates, and vocal eloquence of Gilbert Gottfried proves that no matter how bad your erectile dysfunction or addiction to crystal meth, you are in fact better than somebody. His expulsion from I Love Money so early in the season lead to at least one of my roommates to stop watching immediately. Favorite moment: Although this is from I Love New York, it remains one of my favorite groups of images.

2. Chance- Also from the first season of I Love New York, Chance is the yin to Mr. Boston’s yang, or as he would probably put it, ‘wang.’ Chance is the lead singer, muscle, spiritual advisor, caterer, key grip, body oil applicator, and general carpenter of the Stallionaires, the finest R & B/ comedy troupe to come out of a mid-summer basic-cable match-making show whose only contribution to society was the discovery of at least fourteen different venereal diseases. Chance, along with his ‘alliance’ of Real and Whiteboy, is impossible not to watch. Whether it be his tireless shit-talking to people, refusal to take off his head band, or very innocent love of horses (hence the group name), Chance has the ability to be the catalyst in the middle of an awkward situation, as well as be the spitter of Eugene O’ Neill-esque word-play to properly comment on past transgressions. While he may be gone for now, I have the feeling Chance of Love would be a hit of epic proportions. Favorite moment: Not from I Love Money, but a diss rap about Tango, the man who stole New York’s love in the first I Love New York.

3. Midget Mac- If Mr. Boston is sort of funny for the focus of an episode, and Chance would be great for a season of his own show, Midget Mac should be given his own sort of medium- some sort of holographic device so that he could be crawl around you at all times and spurt his impossible to decipher Northern-People-Probably-Think-This-Is-How-Southern-People-Talk accent. Midget Mac, who is in fact a midget with a heart of gold and a liver of a 80 pound mammal, is without doubt the best creation of Reality television⁸. In his one episode appearance on I Love Money, Midget Mac got hammered, refused to participate in the episode’s challenge because he “ain’t wearing no panties,” terrified every air-head white girl there with his Budget BET Leprechaun movie look, and told another contestant “I got more money than you and your motherfucking kid.” I’m pretty sure this is why Edison envisioned the moving image. Favorite moment: Midget Mac clips are somewhat rare because of his usually quick exit from the shows he appears on, but this is pretty classic (listen particularly to the background voices).

From G’s to Gents- The most noticeable problem with From G’s To Gents is that most of the characters come across the exact same. It is obvious they all fit MTV’s (a company owned by global, multi-billion dollar company) definition of “g,” but as a consequence, the extent of the crap-talking is pretty basic. Nonetheless, I found three:

1. Stan- Stan is an ex-stripper and possible gigolo, who felt compelled to come to the show because he was trying to better himself and stop objec…. uh fuck it, he even said “I just want to make $100,000 without having to take my clothes off.” This does sound all well and good, until a tirade discussing how he has a Hummer, Lexus, and a house all paid for due to his exquisite man-whoring skills makes the questioning audience member wonder about Stan’s intentions. This is about as varied as From G’s to Gents gets.

2. Creepa- While most of these guys on the show do give the appearance of somebody you wouldn’t really want to see on a dark street corner in the city, at first I actually felt a little uncomfortable looking Creepa in his eyes on TV. He just gives me this sort of paranoid sensation that he could just look at me from inside the television and say something like “Nick, I’m going to get you, and I’m going to kiss you before I strangle you. Love, Creepa,” as if he were some blind person’s representation of a ghetto Freddy Kruger. Creepa, whose occupation is “goon,” or “paid to intimidate,” comes across as your stereotypical South Florida thug. From his gumball-machine grill to his eclipse viewers which he so urbanly refers to as “hater blockers,” the more I see of Creepa, the more I am starting to think he is actually fresh out of Julliard, watched a season of Oz, and figured this was as good a way as any to get into the business. Nonetheless, his choking technique was outstanding.

3. T Jones- If I were to actually hang out with any of these brainiacs, one would not have to look much further than T Jones. First, that is also the nickname of Thomas Jones, a personal favorite football player. Secondly, he is fat, goofy, and laid-back, so I wouldn’t be afraid of him abruptly trying to rip me off or kick my ass (thank you Cee). Thirdly, he has worked at every major fast food restaurant in Greater Detroit- not exactly common ground between us, but you know that man has seen some events unfold in front of his eyes while closing up White Castle. Fourthly, he is unemployed, which I too have been at points in time. Fifthly, he loves alcohol almost to a fault, which sounds exactly like me. And, finally, I’d hope that after he wins the contest (my prediction) that me and him could go to the gas station and buy 20,000 $5 scratch-off lottery tickets. First you get the money, then you get the “Five Ways to Win,” and then, and only then, do you get the women.

All things considered, the variety offered on I Love Money is simply too great.

Let’s Fight! Unsurprisingly, both of these shows share a producer, and much of the humor is derived from the editing process, so it comes down to a question of what I like more: a television show that embarrasses people on MTV or VH1. While G’s to Gents is a show worth every second of your attention, the parts that try to emphasize making these men into “gentlemen” are just too much. Sure, a gentleman needs to know how to make wise economic decisions and how to talk properly to the fairer sex- but if the point of this show is to make them a success, let’s first focus on getting the grills off their teeth, teaching them how to speak properly, and then maybe pursuing some GEDs, naval enlistments, or for the savvy, ECPI classes. I don’t know much about success, but that seems to a more solid plan of attack then assume you will find the right person to hustle at the right time. I Love Money, however, is relentless on showing what the desperate will do for some green- and it works, especially considering the contestants were the ones spouting about “alliances” since day one (newsflash: only one person can win- take a note from Royal Tenenbaum). I Love Money wins because it does not have a forced, inflated view of what it is, although don’t tell Creepa- that dude would wear my backbone as a necktie.

1 Clueless as to how this lead to Stalin killing millions of people

2 In other words, I want this to be more meaningful than it really is

3 And God knows Audrina is attractive- look up the nude photos on your own watch, I’m at work

4 This is a club in Richmond where a lot of these American treasures come and “perform” or whatever you want to call it. Essentially they get paid about $500 a night to go be ridiculed by people who think they are so lame that they bought a ticket to see them

5 Who, I think, is the only Oscar winner to be in both Stealth and Booty Call

6 Not real name, Sorry

7 Sorry, no ‘er’ in the word

8 I acknowledge that isn’t too great of a feat- all he had to do was beat out “You’re Fired,” the time Vern Troyer got bombed on Surreal Life, and when Sebastian Bach beat the crap out of Evan Sheffield

Versus Number Eight

The Onion’s “A.V. Club” is my vote for best light criticism on the internet, a lofty perch amongst a thick market¹. For the movie nerd, one of the most intriguing features the AV Club offers is “The New Cult Canon,” an article that usually gives due illumination to an older film that deserves it. While some of these retrospects can be misguided in topic², the reviewers usually do an excellent job of pointing out flaws, random points, and absurdities with a vigor that should be applauded (these articles make my articles look like the fortunes from a cookie in length). More refreshing is simply seeing a force out there sticking up for bona-fide film classics like Wet Hot American Summer or Sexy Beast, films most of us would not find unless given a suggestion or really, really stoned and bored at Blockbuster. For the month of July, in honor of the month that spells over-night camp for many unappreciative tikes across the country, the theme of all the “The New Cult Canon” articles revolve around ‘camp’ movies.

When I hear the word ‘camp,’ one person comes to mind: John Waters. For those not familiar with the pencil-thin mustached auteur from Baltimore, you are probably familiar with some of his films, which vary from social commentary with Hairspray (the original film, not that thing with Travolta embarrassing the flawless legacy of the powerful Xenu) to darker comedy cult classics like Serial Mom. His association with the word has little do with his niche film-making, it actually has to deal with the character he played in the “Homer’s Phobia” episode of The Simpsons. In the episode Waters plays (novelty alert) John, proprietor of Cockamamie’s, an antiques collectibles shop in the mall where one can find things such as 50’s laser guns and other items whose lack of quality gave them an “ironic” value. Surprisingly rational Homer, stunned by all the revenue generated by sub-standard junk, questions John:

John: But this is the Rex Mars Atomic Discombobulator. Don't you just

love the graphics on this box?

Homer: No. How can you love a box, or a toy or graphics? You're a grown

man.

John: It's camp!

[Homer stares nonplussed]

The tragically ludicrous? The ludicrously tragic?

Homer: Oh, yeah. Like when a clown dies.

So, you just read that paragraph and lines of dialogue for a simple definition which I could have just as easily described as “gay dude from Simpsons thinks ‘camp’ means intentionally stupid,” but shitty thing for you is that I rarely use the delete button.

With a firm definition of ‘camp’ in hand, I bring you:

Versus Number Eight: Showgirls versus Blue Velvet

Now, before you start assuming that I will pick Showgirls automatically as a way of poking a hole in the mass perception that Blue Velvet is a masterpiece and Showgirls has scenes like this in it, let me assure you, Blue Velvet is a considerably better film- perhaps the best film of the 1980’s³. That being said, both films are absolutely fucking ridiculous- which seems like a good enough reason to me for them to weigh them against one another.

Story: If you ever want to know why I think Jiminy Glick Goes to Hollywood is an unsung comedy classic, it mostly deals with Martin Short’s handling of David Lynch, the director/writer of Blue Velvet, one of the strangest people to grace the planet since Rasputin, although his responsible-for-death count is only about a quarter of the size. Blue Velvet revolves around Jeffrey, a relatively innocent, Heineken-swigging college student who comes home to care for his ill father in their smaller suburban neighborhood. After finding an ear (yep, an ear) in an idyllic yard⁴, Jeffrey finds himself neck deep in a world of kidnapping, corruption, rape, sado-masochism, murder, and Dennis Hopper huffing some unnamed gas that must remind him of off-time on the set of Easy Rider. Realizing that my plot synopsis is vague, I will say that hinting at any other plot points will ruin the movie. That being said, the end’s over-the-top cynicism of “everything turning out alright” can only be interpreted as a pointed belly-laugh at a dumbed down Studio system’s narrative structure. The film as a whole is like a noir-film on acid yet at the same time its setting retains a logic that makes it much comprehensible than some of Lynch’s other works (ahem). This film is Lynch’s masterpiece, but describing it does it little justice (“Hit Me! Hit Me!” loses some of its resonance when blogged about as opposed to when heard screamed by a dead-inside damsel)- just see it- you may not like it, but you won’t forget it.

On the other end of the spectrum, you have Showgirls, a film whose story is so simple one must feel it is playing off the aforementioned Hollywood clichés. Our story begins with Nomi Malone a.k.a Elizabeth Berkely a.k.a. Jessie Spano⁵, a down-on-her-luck girl whose ultimate dream is to become a dancer- a certainly achievable, if difficult wish to fulfill for a girl of her bountiful assets⁶ and always-handy switchblade.⁷ Instead of going the route of classical dancing and perhaps going to a Moscow, New York, Paris, or even Los Angeles, Malone decides the best place to pursue an art form defined by grace and eloquence is…. the same place you can have a steak dinner for a dollar and get an STD quicker than you can say the three letters⁸. Shockingly, there are few opportunities for the classically-trained dancer around the neon-lit strip, so Nomi in an attempt to subsist to the best of her ability, decides to go work for the local strip club, awesomely named “Cheetah’s.” Through various connections, Nomi befriends Molly, a seamstress lesbian who takes in Nomi for the occasional when-she’s-asleep-I-might-as-well-smell-her-panties. Somehow, Molly gets Nomi an audition for Stardust, an erotica-show that the movie insists would be a hit in Vegas but what really looks like the stage-version of the pornos that used to be televised on Cinemax in the early 1990s. Nomi quickly battles with Cristal Connors, the HBIC of the production, which eventually leads to Cristal being pushed down stairs by an ultra- jealous Nomi. Long story short, Nomi rises to fame (surprise!), realizes its not all its cracked to be (surprise!), and decides to move to greener pastures (surprise!), in this case L.A. to pursue an acting career, because, you know, Southern California has never been considered anything but the zenith of respectability. The original script, written by Joe Eszterhas (Basic Instinct), was a $2 million piece of shit or brilliance, depending on to whom you are talking. Oh, and there is a rape scene in it that is twice as sickening as Clockwork Orange, surprisingly a no show in memorable horrifying movie moments.

Characters (only 3 a piece)

Blue Velvet

- Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan)- Deep, interesting character. In the first fifteen minutes one think he is nothing more than a bland concerned son and yuppie, until one realizes the obsession with which he pursues that which he is searching. His disgust with the grotesque underworld quickly becomes a perverse attraction, seen by his willingness to perform some unsavory love acts. While a moving scene of self-reflection shows that Jeffrey is not one of the seedy customers that inhabit Blue Velvet’s world, the movie’s conclusion shows he is not about above it either.

- Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini)- Characters like this are why David Lynch will always have a job in the film industry but never will be as financially successful as the Brett Ratners⁹. The wife/ mother of a kidnapped husband/ son, Rossellini’s character could easily by a doctorate dissertation in psychology in of herself. Her obsession with pain, sex, and loneliness makes her completely collapse on herself like a celestial body. The femme fatale of the film, she plays the role helplessly as opposed to seductively, a trait that clearly separates her from the more classic noir dames, whose confidence amongst chaos always felt, well, fictional.

- Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper)- One of the best thought out, terrifyingly executed, nefarious, vindictive, vulnerable characters in film history, this was the role that saved Hopper’s career from years of excess. Frank Booth’s vernacular makes Jules from Pulp Fiction seem prude by comparison. His recklessness with violence as well as his completely joyless attitude towards sex seem to convey a vision from Lynch’s America which is focused on hate and destruction, not surprising considering many left-leaning filmmakers during this time viewed Reagan as some sort of Hell-beast with the blood of Soviets and minorities pouring through his gills. Simply Put: “Fucking PBR!”

Showgirls

- James Smith (Glenn Plummer)- The one man that believes that Nomi is more than a stripper, but rather has the skills to be a dignified dancer. Until you see this “dignified dance,”¹⁰ which made the smooth moves of You Got Served look like the awkward white kids at Cotillion- the dance is literally her thrusting her pelvis in his face for about two minutes. Then the viewer finds out that James isn’t just all choreography and good intentions- in fact, he uses the “dignified dance” line to all the strippers! He even gets one pregnant, and disappears from the movie. This is the genius/ stupidity of this film- his character is entertaining and morally corrupt, but is not consequential at all to the overall film. Like much of the film, he could have been edited out and no one would have been the wiser.

- Zack Carey (Kyle MacLachlan)- Ah, MacLachlan, you show up again. If his character in Blue Velvet is about the typical American’s secret obsession with the darkness inherent in our nature, his character in Showgirls is about being a coke-blowing asshole yuppie who is the man. Zack is the entertainment manager of Stardust and dater to every hot piece of quasi- lesbian ass to come through his casino. His character, and this is the sign of every great villain, just looks like a dick- like he’d sell you and three like you to a Burmanese¹¹ gorilla squad for Thanksgiving. He also has the three traits of every great movie villain (even though he’s not really a villain per se, he’s just a dick): he’s not loyal, he does cocaine, and he is implicit in a rape. The only thing that would have made him better is if after Nomi spat in his face he yelled “Yeah, well you’ll never work in this town again; and by the way, I wasn’t wearing a condom!”

- Nomi Malone- What can you say. I guess I might as well admit that I think that there is a genius to Showgirls, although it often fights itself to get out onto the screen. That being said, this character is evidently a metaphor for imbecility and naivety of the American dream. She reminds me of a bit on a David Cross album¹² where he describes all of these millions of people in L.A., all of whom think they are the next Brad Pitt, Steven Spielberg, or Madonna, and the absurdity of thinking they even have a chance. Throughout the course of the movie, she is naked for about 15 percent of it, and as dumb as a fucking Extra reporter for one hundred percent. First move, she thinks she will automatically get picked up in Vegas because of her statuesque body and talent. Update: anybody that goes to Vegas has a breast augmentation at least, and when your real discernible talent is being able to imitate intimacy¹³, you are not exactly alone in your status in Sin City. Stupidity number two: pushes down Cristil in front of at least 200 people, and yet somehow gets away with it. Three: Breaks up Cristil and her boyfriend, but fully suspects for him to be faithful to her, even though he is a known womanizer and drug addict. Four: when head dancer of Stardust, a position that presumably would pay in the millions, she continues to live in a trailer. Five: she treats her stripper boss/ pimp and obese stripper friend as though family. At least when she does cocaine she has a little excuse as to why she is an idiot- but Freud argued it brought out one’s real emotions, so perhaps she really is as dumb as a rock’s dump. Berkley was paid $100,000 for the film (1/20 of the screen-writer), and when she asked for a $2,500 interview fee for the DVD, the producers declined.

Conclusion: So, why compare these two films when one is considered a modern classic and the other one is known for the amount of Razzie wins it got? Because I think both films are saying the same thing. Clearly, Blue Velvet is about the underbelly of American society that we try to turn a blind eye (or ear- high five!) to, and yet we are so intrigued by. If I’m talking to a group of coworkers or friends at lunch, everything unsavory be damned- drugs, prostitues, violence, etc. But, I would be lying if I were to say I’ve never been in a strip club, never shot a gun, never done drugs- and I am not the exception on this. Blue Velvet, at its basest, investigates this duality and how we as people somehow weave such much marvelous yarns to fool others. When I commented earlier about the overly perfect ending, it is because at the end of the film, no body seems effected at all by the events- Dorothy, who had been a sex slave and abused for who knows how long, is seen with a radiance of a woman in the “after” shot of feminine product commercial. Jeffrey and his girlfriend profess their love even though both had been exposed to some of the world’s ugliest realities. It’s an ending Lynch nails- because while everybody seems so content with their now “resolved” lives, there are clearly consequences coming from these actions- its like Lynch saying to Hollywood “look, you wanted this nice ending where the bad guys die and the nice guy ‘wins,’ I’m just going to film it suggesting that there is no feeling of finality that can be completely sincere- the past is always with us.” And this is where I see the similarities to Showgirls. Showgirls goes the more obvious route to hit this soul of darkness, merely by setting the film in a city whose nickname implies its OK to go ape-shit in a desert of immorality. It’s a place where the oppressed urges of Blue Velvet come to the forefront (Jeffrey could easily be Zack in ten years), but with lack of morality comes lack of understanding, and that is certainly one trait all the characters in Showgirls exhibit beautifully- arrogant ignorance. In the end, I think both filmmakers are alluding to the fact that these people are not only crushing their hopeless lives, they are also slowly chipping away at the moral fabric of America. Then again, that is a foundation typically criticized now because it is based in Judeo- Christian values which did a pretty good job of ostracizing plenty groups of people in the past. One of these camp films would do John Waters’ definitions proud- Showgirls is ludicrously tragic and tragically ludicrous but at an arm’s length way where we simply regard these things as so outrageous that they are under the breath funny; much like the laser guns from the 50s are funny because they show our love towards violence and our wild ideas about what the coming space age would be. Blue Velvet is just as ludicrous but does it in more of a subdued way reflective of the setting (suburbia versus burlesque dancing clubs of Vegas). Blue Velvet is clearly the better film, but both are certainly genius in their own right. Oh, and if you are counting, anytime there is a violent rape scene in a movie, its typically anti- American (and, hate to say it, awesome).

1 If you don’t believe my statement that the world of internet criticism is bloated, check out metacritic.com and see how many reputable entities there are, not to mention the bored-as-piss work drones like myself that try to add to this repetitive (“Wow! You thought No Country For Old Men was good too?”) journalistic genre

2 I still think Boondocks Saints was a pretty fucking terrible flick

3 Excluding, of course, the entirety of Van Damme’s films during this period, Back to the Future, Full Metal Jacket, and Raging Bull

4 Symbolism! Alright!

5 a.k.a. this movie would have been substantially more succesful if dreamy Tiffany Amber- Thiessen decided to show off her cans for this steamy showcase

6 Hi Yo!

7 Where does she hide that thing?

8 Vegas

9 Oh, I get it! Black people really like music, and their car stereos, so seemingly innocuous Asian people better not touch that man’s radio!

10 Sorry for the lack of clips for Showgirls, but youtube is usually pretty calm about the nudity, which the movie has a lot of

11 Sorry, been on a Rambo kick recently

12 Where he, surprisingly, wasn’t mentioning some sort of necrophilia

13 Which she is awesome at- I always thought Tori from Saved would be the rough one

Versus Number Seven

Concert Showdown: Les Savy Fav versus Rush

Background: Few things get my genetically weak heart pumping like the ambiance of a concert, and summer is feasting time. Assumingly to cater to those thankless, condescending college heathens¹, the performance side of the music industry really starts cranking during those class-free months of quickly warming bottom-shelf beer, baseball filled Sportcenters, and shit manual labor jobs². Because America is run on the sweet, sweet science of capitalism, when something is demanded, it is often supplied, which leads to a flux of shows throughout the summer. While I have had the opportunity to see several impressive acts these last few months³, Les Savy Fav and Rush, the last two bands I have seen, stack up to one another in some interesting ways.

Music: Musically, both of these bands have a competency that is rarely paralleled in their respective genres. Rush is a force unlike any other in popular music. A three-piece prog-rock tour de force, Rush has remained in the American musical landscape by releasing the occasional hit single (“Tom Sawyer,” “Fly By Night”) but more importantly by maintaining and embracing an unique image and ethic, as well as sustaining a rigorous touring schedule that has rewarded them with rabid fans the world over. While much is discussed over the inimitable voice of Geddy Lee, the virtuosic instrumentalism of Lee (bass), Alex Lifeson (guitar- very underrated player), and Neal Peart (drums) proves to be a considerably more potent presence- it is as meticulous as it is dazzling. The band possesses some characteristics, particularly their obsessions with science fiction⁴ and anti-rock-star image, that make a majority of music journalists treat them as a pointless niche band because clearly their time is better spent editing cover articles about Sting’s (hilarious) spiritual beliefs. The bands experimentations in song structure and nearly flawless technique give the songs a longevity that most- I’d argue Moving Pictures is a better album than anything released by the Police.

Les Savy Fav come from a very different place. Originally formed in the mid-90s by a group of Rhode Island School of Design⁵ students, the hard-to-define rock group records in bunches, tours in bunches, and rests in bunches. I was first exposed to Tim Harrington and co. later last year with the release of their third(ish) main release Let’s Stay Friends, having read its countless rave reviews and being intrigued by this lead singer who supposedly made Wayne Coyne look like James Blunt. The album is excellent, a bizarre combination of Weezer, Black Flag, Television, youtube, alcohol, and (judging my Harrington LOTS of) oreos that never goes for the Van Halen exit but is not so 'indie' as to not contemplate such a thing. “Rage in the Plague Age,” a propulsive anthem about Medieval Times, exile, and partying exemplifies all of the bands strengths, from a half way point that completely changes the rhythm of the song to Harrington’s desperate “Didn’t You?” howl at the end. “The Equestrian,” “What Would Wolves Do,” and “Getty Lee” are all at this elite level of song writing and musicianship, not to mention the band’s countless B-sides and singles, released sporadically over their roughly decade and a half existence. Les Savy Fav are a great example of a band being able to be influenced by other music without merely copying them. With the band currently at the height of its popularity, it will be interesting to see if LSF take this momentum and take the next big step, or go back their respective ways. I know for what I am hoping. Round Winner: Draw- Comparing the two is pointless.

Performance: Performance- one of the most underrated parts of a concert. I say that because most people are satisfied merely hearing any version of a song they like as long as they are crushing $10 drafts and looking at attractive/terrifying people during the process. I think the best example of this is a band like Widespread Panic, a band nationally recognized for its endless touring schedule as opposed to any particular song or album⁶. People treat these concerts more as social functions than performances, because in my experience seeing the band (5 times- I know, I’m a rook) Widespread isn’t going to do anything to upset anybody- they’re going to pick from their thirty to fifty go to songs and rock. While the crowd does vary from the young woman who is tripping over her leg hair whilst taking rippers in front of her infant to the faded-tat-wearing parking lot warrior, the majority of these crowds were/are/going to be Greek types who just want to get a belly full of mind altering substances. Rush’s performance is similar but more intense. The tip-top light show⁷, the screens that would go from screens of the forest during “The Trees,” to showing South Park characters do a hilarious introduction to “Tom Sawyer,” and particularly the audio-visual mind-fuck of seeing such loud, powerful music come from three squirrelly looking Canadian guys all add to the performance. Neal Peart’s roughly ten minute drum solo about 2/3s of the show through once again lead to a loud thump at the concert as people were passing out due to over-stimulation. Besides that, the band was very by the books- they played some new songs from their fan favorite Snakes and Arrows, some aforementioned hits, and some album tracks like “YYZ” for both Rush and Guitar Hero fan boys alike. I compare watching a Rush concert to watching a show like House- it may not be as mentally stimulating or socially conscious as The Wire, but it’s a solid idea executed almost flawlessly. Simply put, you don’t have to reinvent the wheel to enjoy a car-ride.

A Les Savy Fav concert is like trying to play Jinga with your mouth- its fun, hard to approach, and utterly ridiculous. While waiting for the group to come on, some innocuous tuning and strumming was getting the audience interested until who do I feel brush my right shoulder than Tim Harrington himself. It would only get weirder- the entirety of the show consisted of him walking, crawling, and [add joyous, infantile movement here]ing all around the crowd, kissing people, changing outfits, and otherwise adding to a greater sense of anarchy. Adding to this was a(nother) huge goofy looking bastard running around the crowd and screaming and trying to rile up the crowd, a guy who minus the sweaty nipple marks and seeming complete lack of self-discipline sort of looked like a Jehova Witness in terms of dress. If this sounds like a mess, I described it accurately. The amazing thing, though, was that the band, who plays very timing-based quick, angular music, did not miss a beat- even amongst this carnage that was going on that seemed like a mix between Dali and a port-a-potty, the band maintained composure, never breaking “I’m an indie rocker” demeanor unless to laugh at Harrington stripping down to his very skimpy red athletic (?) shorts. But as charged and creative as Harrington’s manic seizure was at times, he messed up pretty badly on one thing- he rarely, if ever, sings. The band plays a loud brand of music that is strengthened by a commanding lead singer- Harrington preferred to roll around in the mud and spit water over people over attempting to sing the song⁸. His diatribes in between songs were hilarious if puzzling, where Harrington would talk about the need to swallow people hole or some other wacky shit- I was sober and could not really translate what-in-the-fuck-this-dude-is-saying but felt it did add to the show as a whole. So, as a straight forward rock n’ roll show, Rush dominates, but if you are more in the mood for an avant-garde kiss-off to rock n’ roll convention, Les Savy Fav might be more your thing.

The Fans: So, there you are at work, thinking “why in the hell does he call it ‘versus’ if he merely is going to say either side wins if dah-dah-dah? I like my blogs with bulletproof arguments!” First off, simmer down now, as I’m getting to the victor. Now, when comparing two things that have so much in common and whose differences are merely arguments in taste, it is in the small things where victory and defeat are realized. In this case, that small thing is the fans. The fans at the Rush show were exactly how the fans at a Rush show should be: long-haired, tons of acne, Rush t-shirts⁹, drinking beers, and a cloud so thick of stick-icky smoke that one step into a common area is a life-long pass to failed drug tests. The fans knew the music and were enthusiastic about it- there was loud applause after the first few song recognition notes of every tune, which would directly lead to excitement from fans, like myself, who may not be too familiar with some of Rush’s “deeper cuts.” They would laugh at Lee’s jokes, participate when they knew it was appropriate, and keep the energy continuous for a two and a half hour show. Simply put: what you wanted in a Rush crowd.

The Les Savy Fav crowd was both boring and condescending by comparison. While I have no doubt most of the people who were fighting tooth-and-nail for leg space were highly anticipating LSF, at the same time, they literally fought all that way just to stand and try to look like they didn’t want to be there. Its an odd circle, these indie rock shows. I like the genre because most radio-friendly genres try to sell you, or rather, make you buy into another culture- if you listen to Toby Keith you better fucking have some jeans and some Confederate apparel, or if you listen to Chris Brown, you better have a tramp stamp, or at least the top of your underwear showing. It’s the obsession over image which can be sickening, and ideally, is what brings people to music where there isn’t necessarily a message or product to be bought. It is about enjoying yourself and the music in anyway you so see fit, but without taking away any enjoyment from your fellow concertgoers. If you go into a rap concert dressed like you are about to go yachting or going to Ozzfest looking like you are about to weekend at Ibiza, you will be criticized if not beaten, badly. These tight little groups of fans feel intimidated by an outside source even listening to their beloved albums, and as a consequence either think you are there to ridicule or don’t have the mental capacity to capture the subtleties of Lil’ Wayne’s wordplay. That is exactly the thing I am trying to avoid when I go to a lesser known group, particularly a group where a majority of the show is the lead singer openly making a fool of himself. But no, indie rock crowds don’t like to dance, they don’t like to sing along, they don’t want to applaud- they just want to be there in humorously ‘chic’ clothing¹⁰, bitch about what songs are not getting played, and, of course, stay long enough to tell fellow music listeners I saw _____ in ______ on ______. For those of us who were howling along too loudly, sweating a bit too much, or simply deriving too much pleasure from the show, you were gawked at and mumbled about by 100 pound kids (half of weight is tattoo ink) who don't understand the concept of how a lively audience at times can in fact lead to a state of synergy that leads to everybody involved having a better time. Now, as I’ve seen from numerous shows, not the least of which the Flaming Lips, Wilco, and Battles, this is not automatic from an 'underground music' crowd. When a popular indie rock band is playing well with an attentive, fun crowd (like those three bands) there is nothing better- the people love the music for all the same reason, but aren’t so jaded by what they are doing is “cool” or “buzzworthy” that they can’t enjoy the concert- the fucking reason they bought the ticket in the first place. Les Savy Fav, you put on a great show and I plan to see you the next time you are in my area, but until that point Rush wins this North Carolina concert throw down.

1 I should know- I was/ am one.

2 Aren’t those, for like, poor people?

3 Who in the hell would of thought They Might Be Giants would put on such a great show?

4 They did make an album entirely about the year 2112

5 Yes, this is the same college the gay brother from Wedding Crashers wanted to attend

6 I have hundreds of friends who would love to disagree with me on this point, but I think my ability to see the band with more objectivity is obvious when you see the amount of bootlegs and recordings people acquire from WSP. I refuse to call them the Dead for the new millennium because of their lack of a unique catalog, but I still applaud WSP’s fans, who are some of the most rabid out there.

7 Always been curious as to who designs/ runs these things

8 And if he did sing he sounded like Haley Joel Osment

9 Rush is one of the few bands I can think of where it is completely legitimate to wear one of their t-shirts to one of their concerts. The other two are Kanye West and the Police, because both of those guys are such egotistical dicks that their performance is probably strengthened by seeing consumer idolatry in the audience.

10 Who in the fuck thought tight jeans, an ironic t-shirt, and designer shoes would be such a fashion trend/ plague?

Versus Number Six

Broken hand versus Broken Foot

Background: The last time I decided to donate a little self-deprecating brainfart into the blogosphere, I spoke of an injury that I had incurred while promising that I would be thinking constantly about articles while the slow process of healing continued. I lied- I had thought of some ideas but most were time sensitive¹ and others were essentially humorless. It became pretty clear that my myopic approach to writing is not served well by disciplined preparation. But, much like a frustrated six year old at the County Fair, the important thing is getting back on that horse. I was going to take a blow-torch to your inner-workings and do the inevitable “McCain versus Obama” piece, but I’m trying to enjoy writing again, not opine about two assholes who are trying to out-manipulate the public into voting for them. The longer I stayed on this roller coaster of alternating ideas of uber-serious and completely wacky articles it became clear to me that I needed to take a deep breath and just get back to the basics.

So, I punched a wall². After finally returning home after a weekend of broken hands and even brokener promises by post-harmonious British bands, I came back to Charlotte and flirted with the idea of going to the hospital. This would not happen for three weeks. At first, my logic was relatively sound- the swelling was going down, it wasn’t really hurting, and my movement, while impaired, seemed like something better healed naturally rather than, you know, by a person with extensive medical knowledge. So, deciding that I was in fact smarter than medicine, I ran to my local Rite-Aid and bought three items: a 15 pound bag of ice, a roll of athletic tape, and a bottle of 250 200 mg Advil. My daily routine dealt closely with all three of these items; a routine that would not be hindered by consuming laughable amounts of alcohol or constant pleadings from my friends to seek clearly (in retrospect) needed medical advice. After polishing off the Advil in about thirteen days, I started to realize that maybe the reason my hand wasn’t bothering me too much was because I was developing the most pussy addiction of them all- a desire to eat over-the-counter pain pills at the rate of about fifteen a day. Throw in the fact that my movement had not improved at all, and it was obvious this wasn’t just a jammed knuckle as I had hoped.

Waiting in a UrgentCare waiting room for two hours sucks. Waiting in an UrgentCare waiting room for two hours on a Saturday sucks. Waiting in an UrgentCare waiting room for two hours on an early Saturday morning with the only three sense-related things you are interpreting are the brightness of the lights hurting your thinly opened hungover eyes, the sound of an abrasive boyfriend telling his girlfriend to ‘shut up’ over his cellphone, and the smell of old tuna-salad waving off the older couple sitting next to you- now, that is hell. Compared to that, having a questionably trained tiny Asian woman bend my hands in ways uncommon for brutish Western males was a cake walk. After getting my X-Ray done (her response was unforgettable: “Have you not been in a great deal of pain these last three weeks?”), it was determined I had what they call a ‘boxer’s fracture.’³ From there, I was fitted for a hard cast for a month, then a softer splint type deal for another couple of weeks. There is much more to be said, but first the broken hand must meet its opponent, broken foot.

I’ve broken major bones in my feet on at least three occasions and have to say that those injuries aren’t as cool as people make them out to be. Probably the most comical of these injuries was when I was a first year in college and participating in what could only be called a Box-Wine-Stand (think Keg Stand but where you aren’t actually putting your hands on the ground- they are just funneling you crap-wine while you are swinging upside down, much like a vampire), because, you know, I was cool because I drank a lot and stuff, and there is no better way to feel the coolest than to drink the most in the most unnecessary fashion. Later that evening, it was my task to get some of those trying to get me dead-drunk cigarettes for all of their hard-work. Walking to our local convenience store, I tripped on a curb and feel down. Not thinking anything of it, I stood up once again- my foot gave way and I feel on my ass, leading one of my friends to be generous enough to essentially pick me up and drop me off at the bottom of a stair-well to be found by the unlucky bastard who would have to drive me to the hospital. Long story short, I was in a boot for about three months.

Let’s Fight!- Injuries are like rainy-days to our bodies- they ruin your plans, but if treated correctly they do give you a pretty seal-proof reason to not move a muscle. Having both a broken hand and broken foot are exercises in adaptation, pain management, and appropriately-timed exposure, so the hotter chick at the bar sees you in your wounded state⁴. Both injuries impair you for the obvious reasons, but find themselves to be extremely annoying for the little problem that likes to poke its head out at you and surprise you. When I had a broken foot, for instance, these problems were bred in the fact that I really was not supposed to move my feet at all. Now, to save you the obvious joke, I know this sounds ideal for my physical productivity levels- but just doing the most mundane of tasks- like walking 200 feet to get my gun cleaner- would just weigh me down. My broken hand would prove to be equally menacing, as I had gotten my hard cast on in the beginning of June, which is typically the busiest part of my profession’s year, not to mention the Southeastern climate in which I live guaranteed that my hand smelled as bad as Pinky’s nutsack.

I’ve often found myself in conversations with the type of questions like “if you could lose one sense what would it be,”⁵ and that is the way I intend on approaching “would you rather have a broken hand or broken foot?” The biggest issue with having a broken foot is movement, and if you’re like me, ‘issue’ is the right word there, not ‘problem.’ Having a broken foot gives you the best excuse known license (besides paralysis) to literally sit on your ass and do nothing. I think I played about 50 hours of Tony Hawk during those eight weeks, and I stick by the fact I have yet to meet somebody that can beat me in Tony Hawk 4 for PS2⁶ (even though this guy would clearly fuck me up). I wasn’t going to class anyways, but did well in the semester because my professors knew I wasn’t physically able to make it- sympathy rests right next to jealousy as kings of ways of making people help you. Besides that, I caught up on a few seasons of 24, illegally downloaded enough music to guarantee me a place in RIAA’s circle of hell, and drank.

Broken hand, not quite so plushy. The first big thing one realizes with a broken hand is that he or she is now unable to greet people in a natural, fluid way. Instead of the polite, firm handshake, you’ve got to explain to your public about how you are hurt, why you are hurt, etc. While this would occasionally lead to girls coming up and initiating contact, most were long gone after my first mention of how I did it.⁷ While this is merely another reason to drink more while out and about, it becomes a significant issue at the office. I decided to hop on the ol’ band-wagon and go for the Celtics this year in the playoffs; to show my support I got a Celtic green cast which at the time thought could maybe get me a free beer or something when out watching Boston’s playoff run. Problem was: its kind of hard not to bring up a bright green cast. So, out of my office of roughly 150 people, I told the story about 300 times. I told about ten percent of those who I work with the real story; with the rest, I had to use my imagination as well as a code of etiquette not yet known to me at the time. For instance, if a co-worker around your age who you like asks about it, you go ahead and tell him or her your silly little story- you get shit for it once a week, and when your wittle bitty hand recuperates it is just a prickly reminder of why you shouldn’t have any friends. But, what if a PA in her mid 40s wants to know? I went to the well often with the “uh, I was rough-housing with some friends” which went over well with many who weren’t really interested to begin with. But then you get people in the similar age group who still yearn for those days of being young, getting in fights, doing drugs, and having the world in front of you. While neither of these types are problems individually, when word starts going around about the injury, you will get caught in a lie- there is simply no avoiding it. This completely ignores the fact that the injury itself still sucks, and the story in which the injury occurred is still embarrassing to talk about. With a broken foot, one could pick an injury of an almost infinite “excuse pool,” keep a pant leg over the cast, and play it down. Not the case with a broken hand.

Having a broken hand also sucks because of one’s inability to do the things we take for granted. Next time you are about to turn on your car, do it all with your left hand. Blows, huh? This sheer awkwardness applies to brushing your teeth, smoking a cigarette, writing a note, typing, *a**i** off, and pretty much any other daily activity you would do automatically with your right hand. The one plus of a broken hand: people will not try to face your wrath because having a cast on your hand is like having a lightweight brick- this wasn’t too bad, due to the generous timing of the Incredible Hulk’s release, and it’s a much more complementary to be nicknamed after Bruce Banner’s alter ego than Shrek. Winner: Broken Hand⁸

1 A seven-page article about Celtics versus Lakers comes to mind. Pretty glad this did not come to fruition, as judging by the millions of strongly opinionated, masturbamental (that’s a word that is a cross between ‘mastubatory’ and ‘sentimental’) articles that loomed as a result of the continuation of a fine rivalry, my short experience playing NBA on Nintendo seemed irrelevant.

2 Go to my second article is you want the whole story- pretty tired of retelling it

3 An injury all of my friends thought was hilarious because the closest I’ve ever come to a boxing injury is when I was trying to do a nitrous pinger near the conclusion of Rocky IV

4 Amount of ass received due to my broken hand= 0

5 Answer: taste- that way you can win wheelbarrows full of money by betting friends you won’t eat various excrement(s), fluids, etc.

6 And my friends wonder how I get so much pussy…

7 A pointer- when you break a bone in your body doing something stupid, you might as well do the cool thing and make up a ludicrously awesome story about how you did it. “Drunk with friend” does not cut it. My personal favorite was after I had had the cast on for eight weeks and starting telling people that I had broken every bone in a child molester’s body, but felt bad so I decided to break to my own hand, as a form of penance.

8 Shit, having a broken foot is almost complementary to my life