Ark, the Herald-Mail Angels Sing

Normally, I like rain.

Whether steady or torrid, gentle or thunderous, the anger of the gods somehow comforts me. It stimulates the earth and encourages harvest; it chills the air; and it makes the already tenuous IQ of the average motorist drop at a rapid, potentially fatal pace, another reminder why I've never learned to maneuver a vehicle.

When it causes my bedroom ceiling to leak, however...well, then rain and I have some problems.

Throw in the "wet wood" smell that's currently permeating my sleeping quarters, and I think it's safe to say I'll be conking on the couch tonight.

Take Me to the Pilots

I spent several days in Seattle in the summer of 2006. In that short time I found it to be almost paradisaical with the uncharacteristically sun-drenched skies and temperate climate, walk-friendly neighborhoods, comprehensive public transportation, and headspinning culinary options. It was a big city that had a perfect arrangement of small comforts.

My boyfriend was with me as well, and if anything he fell harder. It was not a case of wish fulfillment, as all we initially expected of the place where coffee goes to be born was: rain, record stores, rain, java, java, Starbucks. (Contrast this with our carefully crafted mythology of Montreal as some fantastic French-toasted artistic haven, only to visit and find out it's really the Canadian version of Philadelphia.) Suddenly, seemingly everything and one connected to Seattle took on a fresh gleam of divine ineffability. As we were both already sports fans, it was only natural then that one of us--in this case, Patrick--would develop a despairing fondness for the teams from the Emerald City. For awhile there, it seemed like a hopeful flirtation; Ichiro breaking records for the Mariners, the Seahawks briefly showing up for Super Bowl XL, and well even the Sonics had to be some entertainment. Sometimes. Occasionally.

It speaks volumes to the affection one can feel for a city, and its denizens, when the mere threat of moving a team that's been playing there for 40 years arises. The whole situation seems unfair, especially when your mind blocks out harsh fiscal realities and considers the (equal?) importance of tradition and loyalty. When you throw in duplicitous team owners, well...

The revelation of "bad faith efforts" by Seattle Sonics ownership is not a new story, exactly, nor is it really a revelation. There was always a foul cloud misting over the efforts to locate a new arena for the team; they seemed as genuine and promising as the investigative tactics of Orenthal James Simpson. But regardless of how predictable the nomadic yen of avaricious maybe-fans with more expendable cash than most people will accumulate in a lifetime is, it still reeks. 40 years means nothing when the money pit of Oklahoma City calls! The brilliance of relocating a storied NBA franchise to a market insane over college football and squat-hell all else cannot be understated! I mean, not even Gary Bettman did that! Truly, David Stern is always one shit-step ahead of his li'l protege.

There exists the possibility that after the current lease has expired, and yeehawin-er pastures have been set out for, Seattle could still host an arena for pro hoops and hockey. Numerous parties have expressed interest, and many potential locales have been offered up. There are only two true consensus: the great expenditures of time and money any project will require; and the overall worthiness of the cause.

At the very least...bring the Metros back!

NBA Seattle Sonics

Tuesday Comes After Mundane

Yesterday, I learned many things. More than usual.

--The average wait in the emergency room waiting area at the Washington County Hospital is 4-5 hours unless you have chest pains.

--My chronic costochondritis is actually a byproduct of a greater syndrome: fibromyalgia, a non progressive musculoskeletal disorder that has no certain cause or certain cure. Many in the medical community still view it as a psychosomatic disorder rooted in anxiety and/or depression, instead of an ailment with organic causes. Reducing stress and time spent sitting at a desk can help quell the aches, as can certain medications (2008 supposedly will see the introduction of two new products meant to ease the pains of fibromyalgia).

--People who bring their mothers in for heart problems have no qualms about going out to McDonalds afterward.

--Hillary Clinton didn't get the "quit, bitch, changes are afoot!" memo that so many folk are circulating these days. I like how her campaign is erroneously viewed as having been steamrolled by the runaway Obamanator yet she won Pennsylvania despite having expended much less bucks. A nomination win by Barack Obama may still be inevitable, but I'm getting that sinking feeling regardless of who the Democrats throw out there, John McCain will be Commander in Chief. Do I want that? No. Does the Democratic Party have a seemingly ravenous addiction to cutting itself off at the knees? Yes.

--Referees in the NHL suck this playoff season. If Gary Bettman can do one thing superlative before he leaves, and by superlative I of course mean "thing which atones for giving Phoenix a franchise", it can be to conduct an intense review of his sports officiating crews and maybe even make major overhauls in personnel. The best postseason in sports does not crave the likes of Don Koharski playing God in Game 7 situations.

--Speaking of which, the people who turned on to the Washington Capitals on their improbable run to the division championship should stay on board. They will only improve.

--There will be an ATP in New York this year. Whoa. I'll be blogging more on this the closer it gets (and when the lineup is finalized) but needless to say, I'm going.

Hillary Clinton Barack Obama NHL

This One's For Gump Worsley!

Suddenly, I'm not so sure I'd be happy if the Montreal Canadiens won the Stanley Cup.

A game 7 win against your longtime rival, your Original Six brethren, in the first round. Let it settle.

The Habs were pushed to the brink of elimination by a Boston Bruins squad that is essentially Zdeno Chara surrounded by AHL players. Virtually every interested party, from bloggers pro and less so, to print journalists, to talking heads to forum dwellers, practically every freaking one of them gave Boston no shot against the top point-getters in the East.

And those bastids almost pulled it off.

If history teaches us anything, it's that Boston can't beat Montreal when it really matters and Montreal hockey fans will riot over anything. Are you familiar with the Rocket Richard riot? Help us all if Guy Charbonneau gets a parking ticket anytime soon.


Montreal Canadiens NHL

"I Can't Believe That Fatso Wouldn't Shake My Friggin' Hand"

Potentially racist, certainly an asshole...yet Sean Avery is still the best interview in hockey.

The worst interview in music? I'd like to nominate The Game, after this week's insightful Q & A posted on allhiphop.com. This guy has two young children. When I make the case for intelligence among hip hop artists, I am clearly not talking about Jayceon Taylor. Then again, this is a man who once had a butterfly tattooed on his face.

Also, I feel compelled to tell you that no asterisk was ever placed by Roger Maris' homerun record. Dunno why I felt the urge to throw that in here, but hey. It's the weekend.

AllHipHop.com: Who you got in the election? Who you going for?

The Game: Man, I’m goin’ for the n***a man. Obama. Man I don’t give a f**k what he talkin’ bout I ain’t heard Obama say nothin’. I just know that n***a black and he about to win this s**t. Hillary need to fall back man. I’m going for Obama man, that n***a could say I’m going to kill every n***a in the hood when I get in there – I’m going for Obama man. That’s it. Gotta see a Black man, man I’m biased man. I’m biased.

AllHipHop.com: So you have no other reason than that?

The Game: No, I’m following the n****s. Goin’ in.

AllHipHop.com: Alright, but you know you got kids now you –

The Game: N***er. N***ers, following the n***ers, man, to the underground railroad ‘til we find the light we goin’ all the way to the White House man, gotta see that. If you Black and you don’t vote for Obama you just need to find a revolver spin that b***h and pop ‘til your noodles’ on the f***in side of the bed man. That’s just a no brainer man. That’s so big man! A Black dude running [for president] – where the f**k did Obama come from man? You sure he ain’t Osama’s nephew or son? Like Obama just out of nowhere - just Obama. We’ve been knowing about Colin Powell, Condoleeza Rice, Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton all of a sudden, n***a, like a year ago [a] light skinned n***a lookin’ like Tiger Woods’ brother just runnin’ for president and I don’t know man it’s a conspiracy. [Laughs]

AllHipHop.com: He’s not really from the Civil Rights Movement which is part of why we didn’t know about him – he’s not like a Jesse or Al from seeing them from back in the day.

The Game: So you’re sayin’ he ain’t like a real n***a? Because I don’t think Obama would like you sayin’ he ain’t a real n***a.

AllHipHop.com: No, he did his thing back in the Democratic Convention a couple of years ago that’s when everybody heard of him nationally.

The Game: I want to see his high school pictures and s**t if they exist you see that n***a playin’ with some little n****s when he was little.

AllHipHop.com: He was nice on the basketball court.

The Game: You seen like a picture of him doing a lay-up?

AllHipHop.com: I’ve seen it on YouTube.

The Game: But today though, these day and times?

AllHipHop.com: Not recently.

The Game: You ain’t seen no back in the day he was in high school hoopin’.

AllHipHop.com: I’ve seen him play ball back in the day, not recently.

The Game: Ohh, alright so he is an official n***a. So he ain’t just come from Iraq, thinkin’ they tryin’ to sneak a terrorist up in the White House man, but yeah he look Black to me so I’m votin’ for him, man.

NHL
The Game Barack Obama Sean Avery

The Complete Peanuts...Almost

With volume 9 of The Complete Peanuts soon to hit bookshelves, the last thing I'd expect to see is news that the first printing will be marred by a rather bewildering blunder: the May 1st, 1967 strip is printed twice, and the May 3rd strip does not appear at all. This error will be corrected in subsequent printings (and volume 10 will include the missing panels as well) but what an odd oversight by Fantagraphics, especially when it concerns the title that gave the company immeasurable clout.

Snoopy Peanuts Fantagraphics

New Documentary Buries Record Store, Or Not

Is the independent record store truly dead? Over 3000 of them have closed shop in America over the past decade, bumped off most brutishly by mp3 technology. The tactile intimacy of walking into a record store, perusing the selections, and plunking down cash seems to have lost its charm for many. A new documentary, I Need That Record!, examines this sweeping purge--and the repercussions both immediate and remote--using found footage and interviews with musicians and retail owners.

The trailer is already up on Youtube, and in addition to ratcheting up my anticipation level several percentage points, it also posits the quintessential artistic absolute: 80% of all your favorite musicians, writers, filmmakers, painters, etc. will be insufferable pricks when removed from the role by which you have come to find them worthy of your time. I mean, isn't Glenn Branca a raging accumulation of smegma when he's not orchestrating thirty guitars to play the same chord for seven minutes? Do not the sounds of the vast ocean spring forth from his gaping yawp? Am I really saying anything that people don't already know here? Hearing him yabber in first the Sonic Youth doc Silver Rockets and Kool Things and now with this quick clip from I Need That Record, I am left with the nagging feeling that Branca is the type genius who interviews himself when alone, then plays back his answers and analyzes everything from his tone of voice to his pauses, and maybe even the content of his words if he still has the time, then redoes the whole thing until it comes out to his satisfaction.

Glenn Branca record stores